The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2) - Page 4
Jason said, “For the sake of argument, why would Kerk be wandering around the beach carrying a priceless painting? And if this was a robbery gone bad, why would the unsub have then left a priceless painting at the scene?”
“Maybe robbery wasn’t the motive. Maybe the perp had no idea this was a priceless painting.”
“That still doesn’t explain why Kerk would be casually carrying around a valuable piece of art.”
Norquiss retorted, “What makes no sense is that the perp would bother to stage the scene when this whole area is going to be underwater in about an hour.”
She had a point. The oily black tide was already starting to swirl around the pilings. The marine air was redolent with salty decay.
“Maybe your perp isn’t familiar with the tides—”
“All right, never mind all that,” Sam cut in impatiently. “You don’t believe that Kerk purchased this work?” The question for Jason was clearly rhetorical. Sam already knew the answer.
“No way.” Jason glanced at Hick.
“Hell no,” Hick said. “That’s not a mistake even a rookie buyer would make. Sorry, guys,” he added to Norquiss and Diaz. “However this piece figures in, there’s no way an experienced art dealer purchased a forgery of this quality.”
A forgery that seemed to suggest—predict—the crime that had only occurred a few hours earlier that evening.
Having been shut up once, Jason kept the thought to himself. It wasn’t like Sam would have overlooked that point.
Norquiss and Diaz exchanged frustrated looks. “Then what do we have here?” Norquiss asked. “What are we looking at?”
Sam’s deep voice was somber as he answered her. “Best guess? The calling card of a serial killer.”
Chapter Two
The Hotel Casa del Mar had started life as a ritzy and exclusive beach club for the rich and famous in the 1920s. It was now open to all and sundry—although with rooms starting at half a grand per night, not really. Donald Kerk must have been pretty good at his job.
Or maybe he was independently wealthy.
Or just really, really liked staying on the beach.
Kerk had booked one of the Palm Terrace rooms. Elegantly furnished in shades of cream, blue, and gold intended to suggest surf and sand. Amenities included a private patio just a few steps from the pool deck, a four-poster bed with Italian-designed bed linen, a personal reading library, an Italian marble bathroom with hydrothermal tub, and complimentary access to the Audi Q7 SUV house car.
Kerk had not been driving the house car, though. He had been walking on the beach when he had been struck down.
Just enjoying the ocean view, or had he gone out to meet someone? That was the question. One of the questions.
“Want to give me a hint what we’re looking for?” Jason asked.
From the other side of the dividing wall, Sam answered. “We’ll know it if we find it.”
Riiight. Well, so far Jason could find nothing that suggested Kerk was anything but what he seemed: an affluent businessman mixing work with a little pleasure. No sign of other paintings in the style of the canvas on the beach. No sign of any paintings at all. Which made sense. Any purchases Kerk made on this trip would almost certainly have been shipped home.
From the hall outside, he could hear Hickok on his cell phone. The words serial killer had a way of carrying.
Jason, still wearing the latex gloves Sam had loaned him, opened the hand-painted armoire containing Kerk’s travel wardrobe and dragged out Kerk’s empty suitcase. He unlatched the lid and checked the pockets as well as the bottom and top of the case.
Nothing. Not even dirty clothes. In fact, Kerk’s freshly laundered underwear were sitting wrapped in tissue in a fancy hotel laundry service basket on the immaculate bed.
He made a mental note and began to go methodically through each and every item in the armoire. A couple of expensively tailored suits, a couple of dress shirts with garish prints in red and mustard. A pair of well-made shoes. That was about it.
Clearly Kerk hadn’t planned on staying long or doing much that didn’t involve suits and ties.
Jason checked pockets, hems, soles, heels. Nothing out of the ordinary. No drugs, no contraband, no weapons, no explosives, no counterfeit money or stolen art.
He slid the final hanger across the wooden bar. So much for that. Kerk’s clothing carried a hint of his personal scent, but Jason was mostly aware of Sam’s aftershave. Sandalwood and musk. He had smelled it on the beach too, despite the sea breeze. Sam was a little bit of a hygiene fanatic, which Jason had found amusing until Sam had explained in one of those late night phone calls that he had trouble getting the scent of death out of his head sometimes.
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