The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“Cream. Two sugars.”

“I’m not sure why I asked. I don’t have anything but milk and coffee.”

Shipka laughed. “That’s okay. Milk is fine.”

Jason poured the coffee, splashed in a little milk, and handed the steaming mug to Shipka.

Shipka took it, smiling. “Last night was great,” he said.

Jason’s face warmed, but that was guilt, not embarrassment. “Yeah. It was,” he admitted. And why wouldn’t it be, since he’d basically lain there and let Shipka do all the work. And a very nice performance it had been. Shipka deserved a better audience. Honesty compelled him to try to clarify his position. “I don’t usually—”

“Good,” Shipka said.

No, not good. Not good if Shipka thought last night had been about anything more than being in the right place at the right time.

“What are your plans for the day?” Jason asked.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to talk to Barnaby before you. I’m going to have another crack at the neighbors. The Patricks were away the last time I visited.”

Jason’s brows drew together. “The Patricks?”

“I’ve been able to verify they were on the island that weekend.”

“Okay, but why are you interviewing any of the neighbors?” The penny dropped. “You think Havemeyer came here?”

Shipka looked surprised. “Of course. I thought you understood that. It didn’t happen in New York. It didn’t happen at the gallery. The police searched the gallery. That’s the one thing they did do.”

“I don’t see any ‘of course’ about it. The last time anyone saw Havemeyer, he was standing on his front doorstep in New York City. How do you get him from there to here?”

“I think he either went back to the party at the gallery or Shepherd came looking for him.”

“Neither scenario explains how he ended up over three hundred miles away on an island in the St. Lawrence river. That’s almost a six-hour drive. Are you suggesting—”

“It was a Friday night. What do people do on Friday nights?”

“Work,” Jason replied. “Sleep.”

Shipka grinned. “We have to change that, West. But no, most people, and for sure people like the Durrands, go out of town for the weekend. And back then ‘out of town’ for the Durrands meant this island. They spent a lot of time here. It was the perfect place to party, and they had a lot of parties. Lots of drugs and sex and skinny-dipping.”

Jason managed not to choke on his coffee at that casual “we.” He said more crisply than ever, “Do you actually have some evidence Havemeyer came to the island, or is this just more speculation?”

“It’s a logical deduction. Do I have proof Shepherd brought Havemeyer here? Not yet. But I do have evidence of a precedent.”

“Go on.” Jason remembered he’d zapped the blueberry muffins to warm them. He opened the microwave and set the steaming plate on the counter.

Shipka brightened. “And breakfast too.” He picked up one of the mini muffins, peeled the paper, and popped it into his apparently asbestos-lined mouth. Through a spray of blue crumbs, he said, “Eleven months before Havemeyer disappeared, Shepherd was charged with kidnapping and raping a young man who he allegedly lured to the New York gallery with the promise of sex and drugs.” He washed the muffin down with a gulp of coffee. “Now that’s a matter of record. Not legal record, because the charges were dismissed and the whole thing was hushed up, but you can find it if you know where to look—and I know you do.”

“The charges were dismissed?” They had to have been more than dismissed because none of this had come up in Jason’s delving into the Durrands’ background. This was more like erasure. Jason shook his head. “Then you’ve got nothing.”

“We’ve got precedent. The first victim was hushed up. Bought off. The next guy wasn’t so lucky.”

“There is no precedent without proof.”

“The hell!”

Jason tried again. “Do you have any hard evidence that this alleged victim was paid to go away?”

“No. If I had hard evidence, I’d have written the story, not come to you for help. Why are you in such a hurry to sweep all my work on this case under the rug?”