I should be on Catalina Island right about now, kicking back with the sibs and enjoying our annual beach get-away. So I thought today's blog might as well be a snippet from the current work in progress THE MONET MURDERS.
I'm hoping to have the book out at the end of February, but that's a bit tricky for a number of reasons. On the other hand, postponing until March is a bit tricky too because that's when FAIR CHANCE comes out.
So we'll work out the details later. Here's the very (very) unedited rough draft of the first chapter. It may or may not already be listed for preorders on Amazon. It's certainly listed everywhere else.
And yes, it's a full-length novel. 68Kish.
Chapter One
“Emerson Harley
understood that the threat was not simply to the greatest cultural and artistic
achievements of all time, the fascist forces of World War Two threatened
civilization itself.”
The speeches had
started when his cell phone began to vibrate.
Jason had arrived
late and was standing near the back of the sizeable audience crowding into the wide
entrance hall of the California History Museum of Beverly Hills, but even so he
felt the disapproval radiating from that chunk of prime real estate at the
front of the room, the holdings currently occupied by the West family--his
family. How the hell they could possibly know he was even present, let alone
failing to live up to famille expectation was a mystery, but after thirty-three
years he was used to it.
Surreptitiously,
he pulled his cell out for a quick look at the caller, and felt a leap of
pleasure. Sam.
Even so, he nearly
shelved the call. Not that he didn’t look forward to talking to Sam--God knows,
it was a rare enough occurrence these days--but the dedication of a museum wing
to your grandfather did kind of take precedence. Should, anyway.
Some instinct made
him click accept. He smiled in apology, edging his way through the crowd of black
ties and evening dresses, stepping into the Ancient Americas room with its collection
of pre-Columbian art and ceramics.
“Hey.” Jason kept
his voice down. Even so that “hey” seemed to whisper up and down the row of stony
Olmec faces. It would be hard, maybe impossible, to put a collection together
like this now days. Not only were artifacts of enormous cultural significance
disappearing into private collections at a breathtaking rate, Native American
activists often--and maybe rightly--blocked the excavation and analysis of
human remains and artifacts as desecration of sacred space.
“Hey,” Sam said
crisply. “You’re about to get called out to a crime scene. Homicide.”
“Okay.” This was a
little weird. How would Sam Kennedy, chief of one of the Behavioral Analysis
Units at Quantico, know that? And
why would he bother to inform Jason?
“I can’t talk.” Sam was still brusque, still
speaking quietly, as though afraid of being overheard. That in itself was
interesting. Not like Sam had ever given a damn about what anyone thought about
anything. “I just wanted you to have a head’s up. I’m on scene as well.”
Jason’s heart gave
another of those disconcerting jumps. Finally. Same corner of the crime
fighting universe at the same time. It had been…what? Massachusetts
had been June and it was now February. Eight months. Almost a year. It felt
like a year.
“Got it.” Jason
was equally curt. Because he did get it. Sam was in a different league now.
When they’d met, Sam had been under a cloud, his career on the line. Now his
reputation was restored and his standing was pretty much unassailable. Jason,
by contrast, was a lowly field agent with the Art Crimes Team. And though the
Bureau did not have an official non-frat policy, discretion was part of the job
description. Right there with Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.
His phone alerted
him to another incoming call, but Sam spoke before he could.
“See you here.”
Sam disconnected.
Jason automatically
clicked the incoming call. “West.”
A cool, cultured
voice said, “Agent West, this is ADC
Ritchie.”
After an
astonished beat, he said politely, “Ma’am?” Like a phone call from the
Assistant Director in Charge was a usual thing.
“I’m sorry to call
you out on this very special evening, but we have a situation that could
benefit from your particular expertise. ”
Jason said
blankly, “Of course.”
This kind of
call--not that he had so many of this kind of call--typically came from Special
Agent in Charge George Potts, his immediate boss at the very large and very
powerful Los Angeles field office.
“We have a dead
foreign national on--or, more exactly, under--Santa
Monica pier. It turns out he’s a buyer for the Nacht
Galerie in Berlin. Gil Hickok at
LAPD is requesting our support. Also…” ADC
Ritchie’s tone changed indefinably. “BAU
Chief Sam Kennedy seems to feel your participation in this investigation would
be particularly helpful.”
Translation: the ADC
was as bewildered as Jason. Why the hell would the BAU
be involved in the investigation into the homicide of a German national--let
alone requisition manpower from the local field office’s Art Crimes Team?
Except…Detective Gil
Hickok didn’t just head LAPD’s Art Theft Detail. He was basically the art cop
for most of Southern California and had been for the
last twenty years. Smaller forces like Santa Monica PD didn’t keep their own
art experts on the payroll, they relied on LAPD’s resources. LAPD’s two man Art
Theft Detail was the only such full-time municipal law enforcement unit in the United
States. If Gil was requesting Jason’s
assistance there was a good reason--beyond the fact that a murdered buyer from
one of Germany’s leading art galleries would naturally be of interest to Jason.
Jason’s interest was
now fully engaged and he was eager to get on site--and that had zero to do with
the fact that Sam would be there.
He impatiently heard
out Ritchie, who really had little to add beyond the initial information, and
said, “I’m on my way.”
Clicking off, he stepped
into the arched doorway, scanning the crowd. All eyes were fastened on the
short, stout man behind the lectern positioned at the front of the new hall, trying
to cope with the piercing bursts of mic feedback punctuating his speech.
“In March 1945
Harley was named Deputy Chief of the MFAA Section under British Monuments Man
Lt. Col. Geoffrey Webb. Stationed at SHAEF headquarters at Versailles
and later in Frankfurt, Harley and Webb
coordinated the operations of Monuments Men in the field as well as managing
submitted field reports and planning future MFAA operations. Harley traveled
extensively and at great personal peril across the American Zone of Occupation
in pursuit of looted works of art and cultural objects.”
Correction. Not
all eyes were fastened on museum curator Edward Howie. Jason’s sister Sophie
was watching for him.
Sophie, tall, dark
and elegant in a dark green Vera Wang halter gown, was married to Republican
Congressman Clark Vincent, also in attendance. Clark
tried to be in attendance anywhere the press might be. Sophie was the middle
kid, but if she suffered from middle child syndrome it had manifested itself in
rigorous overachievement and a general bossiness of anyone in her realm. She
had seven years on Jason and considered him her pet project.
Jason held his
phone up and shook his head, his expression that blend of apology and resolve
all LEO perfected for such occasions. There were always a lot of such
occasions. That was another part of the job description.
Sophie, who
moonlighted as the family enforcer, expressed her displeasure through her
eyebrows. She paid a lot of money for those brows and they served her well.
Right now they were looking Joan Crawfordish.
Jason tried to
work a little more abject into his silent apology--he was, in fact, sincerely
sorry to miss the dedication, but if anyone would have understood it was Grandpa
Harley--and Sophie shook her head in disapproval and disappointment. But there
was also resignation, and Jason took that as permission for take off.
He jetted.
* * * * *
It took a fucking
forever to find a place to park.
That was something
they didn’t ever show on TV or the movies: the detective having to park a mile
away and hike to his crime scene. But that happened.
Especially when
you were last man on the scene.
Santa
Monica on a Saturday night--even in February--was a
busy place. The 100 year old landmark pier was bustling with fun seekers,
street vendors and performance artists--even a few fishermen. As Jason reached
the bottom of Colorado Avenue
he could see the glittering multi-colored Ferris wheel churning leisurely through
the heavy purple and pewter clouds. Little cars whizzed up and down the twinkling
yellow loops of the rollercoaster.
The Pier deck was
filled and the lower lots barricaded by black and whites, their blue and red
LED lights flashing in the night like sinister amusement park rides. Jason had
to park south of the pier and hike back along the mostly empty beach. Up ahead
he could see uniformed officers and crime scene technicians moving around beneath
the crooked black silhouette of the pier. Small clutches of people stood short
distances from each other, watching.
He reached the
crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze, flashed his tin and got a few
surprised looks from the unis, but that probably had more to do with his formal
dress--he hadn’t had a chance to do more than grab his backup piece and replace
his tux with his vest--than the Bureau being on the scene.
“The party’s over
there,” an officer informed him, holding up the yellow and black ribbon.
“Can’t wait for
the buffet,” Jason muttered, ducking under the tape. His shoes sunk into the
soft, pale sand.
The neon lights of
the pier and the glittering solar panels of the Ferris wheel lit the way across
the beach. From the arcade overhead drifted the sound of shouts--happy shouts--music
and games. He could hear the jaunty tunes of the carousel and the screams of
people riding the rollercoaster. And beneath the pier he could see the flicker
of flashlight beams and the flash of cameras.
This time of year
the tide would be surging back in around eleven thirty, so the forensics team
would have to move fast.
As he drew nearer
he became self-consciously aware of a tall blond figure in a blue windbreak
with gold FBI letters across his wide back.
And he somehow knew--though
Sam was not looking his way, had his back to Jason--that Sam was aware he was
on approach.
How did that work?
Extrasexually perception?
Anyway, it made a
nice distraction from what was coming. Not that Jason was squeamish, but no one
liked homicide scenes. It was the part that came after--the puzzle, the
challenge, the race to stop the unsub from striking again--that he liked. Even welcomed.
He reached the small
circle silently observing the forensic specialists at work. Gil Hickok
acknowledged him first.
He said, “Here’s
West,” and Sam turned.
Even in the dark
where he was more shadow than flesh and bone, Sam Kennedy made an imposing
figure. It was something that went beyond his height or the width of his
shoulders or that imperious, not-quite-handsome profile. Sheer force of
personality. That was probably a lot of it.
“Agent West.” It
was strange to hear Sam in person again after all those months of phone calls.
His voice was deep and held a suggestion of his Wyoming
boyhood. His expression was unreadable in the flickering light, but then Sam’s
expression was usually unreadable, day or night.
Jason nodded
hello. They might have been meeting for the first time. Well, no, because the
first time they’d met, they’d disliked each other at first sight. So compared
to that, this was downright cozy.
Hickok took in his
black tie and patent leather kicks, drawling, “You didn’t have to dress up.
It’s a casual wear homicide.”
He was in his late
fifties. Portly, genial, and perpetually grizzled. He wore a rumpled raincoat,
rain or shine, smelled like pipe tobacco, and collected corny jokes, which he
delighted in sharing with bewildered suspects during interrogations. They’d worked
together several times over the past year. Jason liked him.
“You can never be
overdressed or overeducated,” he quoted.
“Says the
overdressed, overeducated guy.” Hickok chuckled and shook hands with him.
Sam did not shake
hands. Jason met his eyes, but again it was too dark to interpret that gleam. Hopefully
there was nothing in his own expression either. He prided himself on his
professionalism, and there was no greater test of professionalism than being
able to keep your love life out of your work life.
Not that he and
Sam were in love. It was hard to define what they were--and getting harder by
the minute.
Hickok pointed out
the homicide detectives who had caught the case. Diaz and Norquiss were already
busy interviewing the clusters of potential witnesses, so Jason really was last
to arrive.
“What have we
got?” he asked. The real question was what am I doing here? But
presumably that would be explained. His gaze went automatically to the victim.
The combination of harsh lamp light and deep shade created a chiaroscuro effect
around the sprawled figure.
He was about
forty. Caucasian. A large man. Not fat, but soft. Doughy. His hair was blond
and chin length, his eyes blue and protuberant. His mouth was slack with
surprise. The combination of dramatic lighting and that particular expression were
reminiscent of some of Goya’s works. People in Goya’s paintings so often wore
that same look of shock as horrific events overtook them.
He wore jeans,
tennis shoes and a sweatshirt that read I Heart Santa Monica.
There was a darker
shadow beneath the victim’s head, but it wasn’t a lot of blood. He bore no
obvious signs of having been shot or stabbed or strangled or bludgeoned.
But then if it was
a simple case of homicide, Sam wouldn’t be here. Even though he traveled more
than typical BAU chiefs--or agents--even he
didn’t turn up at common crime scenes.
“Do you know him?”
Sam asked.
“Me?” Jason glanced
at him. “No.”
“You’ve never
dealt with him in a professional context?”
“I’ve never dealt
with him in any context. Who is he?”
Hickok said,
“Donald Kerk. According to his passport he has dual American-German
citizenship. He was the art buyer for Nacht Galerie in Berlin.”
The Nacht Galerie was
known for its collection of street culture: paintings by hip young artists on
the cusp of real fame, and avant garde photography. They specialized in light
installation and graphic design. Not Jason’s area of expertise. Or interest.
“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. Her partner was big and burly with an impressive scar down
the left side of his face.
“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. Hickok chuckled. “Now, now, kiddies. I invited the Bureau in.”
“Why?”
Norquiss demanded. “This is nothing that we’re not fully equipped to handle.”
Sam said, “There
are indications Kerk’s homicide is connected to a case already under BAU
investigation.”
“Oh for--!” 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 Hickok who answered. “I want to get
your opinion of something.”
The something turned out to be
a 6x8 inch oil painting on canvas board.
“It was propped
against the right side of the body,” Hickok informed him.
“Like a museum
exhibit label?” 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 and careful
and strongly horizontal representation of the sky and sea so typical of the
artist’s early efforts? The ocean and a shoreline that was probably supposed to
be Sainte-Adresse, although it might as easily have been 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
small, bloody form.
“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.”
Hickok 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 said.
She sounded defensive. Maybe she was a regular at garage sales. Had she really
thought they’d discovered a genuine Monet at the crime scene?
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
tide was already starting to swirl around the pilings.
“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 Hickok.
“Hell no,” Hickok
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. I’m going to go out
on a limb here and say Kerk did not introduce the painting to the crime scene.”
It wasn’t really
much of a limb if the painting had been propped next to the body, but having
been shut up once, Jason kept the thought to himself.
Norquiss and Diaz
exchanged frustrated looks. “Then what do we have here?” Norquiss asked. “What
are we looking at?”
Sam said, “Best
guess? The calling card of a serial killer.”
