Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“No. He’d been recently injured in the line of duty and had retired on a disability pension. Which is how he came to be running a gift shop and motel.”

“I bet he still had plenty of friends on the force. Cops are as chatty as everyone else when they’re among friends.”

Kennedy leaned forward and started the engine. “Let’s talk it over at dinner. I want to make some phone calls.”

* * * * *

Travel was a big part of the job. Jason was used to it, though he did not particularly enjoy it. The hotel was small and clean, and the adjacent restaurant had a bar, so he had no complaints with Kennedy’s choice.

He took a shower and then stretched out on the bed to do a little of his own reconnaissance. The only thing he was able to find out by browsing the FBI’s intranet personnel pages was that Kennedy was originally from Wyoming and he had a Masters in Criminal Psychology. He had a number of commendations, which Jason already knew. Kennedy did not share trivial info such as hobbies, marital status, or professional affiliations. He did not take part in any of the employee forums. His unsmiling profile photo was several years old, but Kennedy looked virtually the same, just a little sharper, harder around the edges.

“Wyoming,” Jason said. Which probably explained the occasional hint of a drawl in Kennedy’s voice. Also the Lone Ranger attitude.

Kennedy must have had a number of calls to make because it was after eight when he phoned and told Jason to meet him downstairs.

Kennedy had already been seated and was studying the wall décor—vintage advertising recommending cocaine tooth drops, canned milk, and Hudson automobiles—with an ironic eye as Jason walked in.

“How’d your phone calls go?” Jason picked up the menu. The food was old-school coffee shop. Soups, hot and cold sandwiches, and a few classics like pot roast and meat loaf.

“Productive.” Kennedy added, “The food’s decent. I’ve stayed here before.”

Jason glanced up from his menu. “It sounds like you’re on the road a lot. I thought that wasn’t standard procedure for the Behavioral Analysis Units.”

“It’s not.” That sounded like a full stop, but Kennedy lowered his menu. Cast Jason a direct look. “I’m a skin-in-the-game kind of guy.”

Jason nodded. He could see that. Kennedy was not someone to stand on the sidelines. He would not be content with reading over other people’s reports, but being on the scene must make it harder to stay completely impersonal, which was one of the keys to successful behavioral analysis. On the other hand, remaining completely impersonal was the challenge for all law enforcement.

The waitress arrived, and Kennedy ordered a whisky sour and the grilled salmon. Jason ordered the fried chicken salad and a kamikaze.

“Kamikaze?” Kennedy asked as the waitress moved off. “Planning on drowning your troubles tonight?”

“I had a rough day.”

He was sort of joking, sort of not, but the level look Kennedy directed at him made Jason feel self-conscious.

He was disconcerted when Kennedy said, “I know you did. That was good work this afternoon.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Kennedy smiled faintly. He was still studying Jason with that steady blue regard that was just a little…unsettling. Yes, it was unsettling to have Kennedy’s complete and unwavering attention.

Jesus, his eyes were blue.

Happily their drinks arrived, and Jason was able to break free of the tractor beam.

“Why the Art Crime Team?” Kennedy asked.

It took Jason a second to collect his thoughts. “Because I had a Masters in Art History and I realized I didn’t want to teach. I wanted action and adventure.” He grinned with self-mockery. “I wanted to be Indiana Jones.”

“I thought Indiana Jones was an archeologist?”

“By then it was too late to change my major.”

Kennedy snorted. “So you decided to join the FBI.”

“Hey, people come to the FBI from all kinds of professional and academic backgrounds. It’s not just law enforcement or military.”

“I know.”

“Did you know the original FBI agents were all accountants and bookkeepers?”

“Yes. Everyone who’s made it through the academy knows that.” Kennedy gave Jason another of those concentrated stares. “You’re the youngest member of the Art Crimes Team. Agents have to have at least five years field experience to be considered for ACT. You had three when you were assigned.”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe I have connections.”

Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

Once again it was almost impossible to drag his gaze away from Kennedy’s. Why did he feel like Kennedy was probing for more than just the obvious answer?

Jason replied, “I earned my position on the team.”

“Hm.” Kennedy said with a hint of mockery, “People certainly seem to hold high hopes for you.”

“And I have every intention of living up to those expectations.”

Kennedy raised his brows but did not comment. Instead he beckoned to the waitress for another round.

Their meals came before the drinks, which was probably a good thing, though Jason realized he should have ordered more than salad. It was hard to eat right on the road. Too many skipped meals or eating late at night or ransacking vending machines because that was all that was handy. So he ate salads for dinner when he could, but he usually wasn’t drinking more than a beer or two.

Kennedy lived out of his suitcase though, and he sure as hell seemed fit, so whatever he was doing seemed to be paying off.

“Something wrong?” Kennedy asked.

“Why?”

“You’re scowling at me.”

“Er, no. I was just thinking.”

“I could tell from the look of pain.” Kennedy grinned. Jason had been treated to that very white, dangerous flash of teeth before. It still made him blink. “So what do you like best about ACT?”

Jason digested the fact that Kennedy was joking with him. He was bothering to make normal conversation with him. In fact, he was actually showing an interest in Jason. Interest in Jason personally. It was flattering. Hell, it was liable to go to his head. Or maybe that was the second kamikaze.

“Like best? Well, I like the feeling I’m doing something that might have long-term, lasting ramifications. There’s a lot of misconceptions about what we do. We don’t only recover stolen art or lecture museums on how to protect their collections. Not that that wouldn’t be important enough. You solve a murder, and there’s another murder tomorrow. You save the Mona Lisa, and you’ve saved something that will move and inspire and delight generations of people.”

“You don’t think it’s important to solve homicides?” Kennedy said.

“Of course I think it’s important. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that…people keep killing other people. That’s the worst of humanity. Art is the other side of the coin. It represents the best of humanity. And what I’m here for is to try and protect that…legacy. Our cultural heritage. And by our , I mean everybody. Our global cultural heritage. I mean the world. Art is the world. It’s history. It’s culture. It’s spirituality. It’s…everything that sets us apart from animals.”

“It’s the other side of the coin,” Kennedy quoted gravely.

Jason mentally replayed the last fifty-eight seconds of their conversation and winced. “I think two kamikazes on an empty stomach was not such a great idea. Did I just imply I believe what I do is somehow more important than human life? Because that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, I couldn’t do what you do. I would…lose hope.”

Kennedy’s brows drew together. He said after a moment, “I meant what I said a little while ago. You did good work today.”