The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

He was hoping for the swift demise of those house plants—he was not an exotic orchids kind of guy—and in any case, he didn’t like the idea of anyone, even his sister, wandering through his home when he wasn’t there. Working for the Bureau made everyone a little paranoid, and Jason was no exception.

“No need. I’m hoping I can get out of here tomorrow—assuming I ever get off the phone and accomplish what I came here to do.”

“Okay, point taken.” Charlotte sounded like she was humoring a small and cranky child. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“I appreciate that.”

“No, you don’t, but that’s what sisters are for. Let me know as soon as you get back, will you?”

That final request, he understood. His loved ones were jumpy about his safety after he’d nearly been

shot to death when an undercover operation went disastrously wrong. They had never been happy about his decision to join the Bureau, and his close call had done nothing to change their minds.

“Will do,” he said neutrally, and disconnected.

It didn’t take long to change into a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt for the interview he hoped he’d be having within the hour. He had originally anticipated this interview taking place in the Fletcher-Durrand New York gallery, but the navy blazer he’d brought wasn’t warm enough for a hike through the wintery woods. He opted for his FBI jacket, and hoped he wouldn’t tip Durrand off from a mile away.

In fact, that was another thing that annoyed him about how the Bureau was portrayed in film and TV. Wardrobe. Apparently, Hollywood had never heard of polo shirts and chinos. Let alone jeans when they made sense—which today they did. Hollywood FBI agents wore suits and ties regardless of weather. And even if the men were right, the women always dressed like classy hookers or college students.

He checked his weapon, rechecked his weapon, and set off through the woods.

Thanks to the helpful and garrulous Bram, he knew where he was headed, and the brisk cedar-scented cold air revived his energy and determination. Unfortunately, the long silent walk also gave him too much time to think about things that had nothing to do with the job.

At least, he didn’t believe they had anything to do with the job. But adding to his general disquiet was the growing certainty that Kennedy had deliberately staged things the way he had to minimize how much fallout he had to deal with from Jason. He had profiled Jason from the first, and he continued to profile him. He knew that by framing their breakup—if you could call it that—in a professional context, Jason’s behavior was automatically constrained.

Whether it came down to the difference in their ages or job titles or just their very different personalities, Kennedy knew that Jason would cue off him. That it would be all but impossible for Jason to do other than follow his lead on this.

Not that Jason had wanted a big scene, but a little emotional honesty would have been nice. Would have helped him understand. He deeply resented feeling that he had been manipulated. Not in the relationship itself—although, maybe—but in how Kennedy had decided to terminate things.

He had waited to do it in person, so point. But he had also held off doing it—and when he had got around to doing it, he’d done it in such a way that he might as well have cut Jason loose over the phone. It had been that impersonal. Certainly it had felt that impersonal to Jason.

And because Sam—Kennedy—had delayed, Jason also could not help feeling that he’d strung him along.

Okay, in fairness, a little long-distance flirtation and a few late-night conversations that verged on confessional weren’t much of a string. No real lines had been crossed. But.

But all the same he was pissed off.

And yes, hurt.

“Grow the hell up,” Jason muttered. He brushed by a juniper bush, startling several small, winged somethings, which circled overhead, twittering, and disappeared into the network of bare branch oak and birch trees.

Bats.

Perfect. Just what the day had been missing.

Anyway, it wasn’t childish to care about someone, to be open emotionally to…possibility. Jason wasn’t in the wrong for that. For starting to feel something for Sam. Back in June, Sam had indicated a willingness to pursue…something. Once he’d changed his mind, the right thing to do would have been to let Jason know ASAP. So that Jason didn’t continue to— Well, it was painful and stupid to even think about.

But I like talking to you.

Yeah, that was the truth. Sam did like talking to him. There weren’t a lot of people in Sam’s universe he could talk to as openly and easily as he’d talked to Jason when they were both unguarded and off the clock. Sam didn’t have a lot of friends. It was possible he didn’t have any friends beyond Jason. Jason couldn’t remember any mention of friends in all those phone calls. In fact, although the word “solitary” seemed to suggest an emotional vulnerability Sam didn’t possess, he was in a lot of ways a solitary guy. Or at least in any other person, Sam’s isolation would have seemed lonely.

But one thing Jason had figured out over the past eight months: alone was the way Sam liked it. Alone was his default.

The wild oaks and birches gave way to ornamental trees, including a ten-foot wall of winter-bare lilacs. Beyond the straw-colored stretch of muddy lawn, Jason spotted the house.

After the sight of the Greenleafs’ crumbling clock tower and the news of Indian burial grounds, he was ready for anything, but the house was a perfectly ordinary three-story mansion. Reinforced concrete and brick veneer with lots of detail lifted from 13th Century Gothic architecture, including a slate mansard roof and rows of French windows.

He crossed the long expanse of mushy yellow-gray grass, wondering if his approach was being observed by someone standing at those elegant windows. Even so, not a lot of room to run on an island.