“He still has his passport?”
“And his wallet, containing his hotel room key, so robbery doesn’t appear to have been a motive. Mr. Kerk wound up his visit to our fair city with what looks like an ice pick to the base of his skull.”
Yeowch.
“That’s not going to do much for tourism.” Jason was looking at Sam. Waiting for Sam to explain what made this a matter for FBI involvement, let alone for the ACT.
Sam started to speak but paused as they were joined by Detectives Diaz and Norquiss.
Norquiss was a statuesque redhead in a black pantsuit. Her partner was big and burly, with an impressive scar down the left side of his face. He wore jeans and a corduroy blazer that was starting to strain at the shoulders.
“Oh goody. More feebs.” Norquiss looked Jason up and down. “To what do we owe this honor?”
Diaz said, “You could have waited till the wedding was over, Agent.”
Jason sighed, and Hick chuckled. “Now, now, kiddies. I invited the Bureau in.”
“Why?” Norquiss demanded. “This is nothing we’re not fully equipped to handle on our own.”
Sam said, “There are indications Kerk’s homicide is connected to a case already under BAU investigation.”
“Oh, for fu—!” Diaz cut the rest of it short. He exchanged looks with Norquiss, who folded her arms in a not-too-subtle display of resistance. In most cases, local law enforcement had to invite the Bureau into an investigation, but there were exceptions to the rule. This appeared to be one of them.
“Connected how?” Jason asked.
It was Hick who answered. “Here, West. I want to get your opinion of something.”
The something turned out to be a 6x8 inch oil painting on canvas board.
“This was propped against the right side of the body,” Hick informed him.
“Like a museum exhibit label?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Hick sounded surprised at this suggestion.
Jason reached for his gloves. Of course, he wasn’t wearing gloves. Hadn’t expected to be called out to a crime scene that night.
“Use mine.” Sam peeled off his own latex gloves and handed them to Jason.
Jason pulled on the still warm plastic—an act which felt strangely intimate—and took the canvas board from Hickok, who flicked on his flashlight to better illume the painted surface.
He recognized the creative intent at once. How could he miss it? Those distinct brushstrokes. The careful and strongly horizontal representation of the sky and sea that were so typical of the artist’s early efforts. The ocean and shoreline were probably supposed to represent Sainte-Adresse, although they might as easily have been Santa Catalina. Wherever it was supposed to be—and despite the distinctive signature in the lower right-hand corner—it was a lousy effort and a lousy forgery.
Not even taking into account the macabre and incongruous central figure of the corpse floating in the surf. He felt a prickling at the nape of his neck at the image of that indistinct but clearly bloodied form. Maybe the location was generic. The focus of the work—a murder scene—was not.
“It’s sure as hell not Monet,” Jason said.
“It’s his style,” Norquiss said.
“I think Monet would beg to differ.”
“Maybe it’s an early work,” Diaz suggested.
“No. It’s not even a good imitation,” Jason said. “This is not genius in the making. It’s fully formed ineptitude.”
Hick laughed. “What did I tell you?” he asked Sam.
“You can’t know for sure without running tests. I don’t think it’s so terrible.” Norquiss sounded defensive. Maybe she was a regular at garage sales. Had she really thought they’d discovered a genuine Monet at the crime scene?