The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder, #2)

by Josh Lanyon

“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.”

“Hold it right there,” Jason ordered, leveling his weapon as he kept pace with the suspect. Unfortunately, you could not shoot someone for spying on you, or fleeing from you, or even appearing on the scene at the very moment you were getting dumped by your sort-of-boyfriend.

George Potts was about Sam Kennedy’s age, but they could have been two different species. Or two different geographic features. Whereas Kennedy was like Mont Blanc—all high altitude, treacherous routes, and severe weather changes—George was like…a bunny slope.

“Yes. Well. Yes.” Shipka threw an uneasy look over his shoulder. “Look, West, can I come in or not?” Jason hesitated. This was a breach of protocol, and he was not comfortable with it. Especially after the card from Kyser. One stalker per customer.

The industrial-sized deputy led Jason down a couple of narrow hallways lined with bulletin boards and wanted posters to an office where his coat, wallet, cell phone, and holstered weapon were returned to him. A side door opened, and he was facing Sam Kennedy. Kennedy was dressed as though he’d come straight from a search-and-rescue op. Jeans, a white cable knit sweater, and his blue and gold FBI jacket. But casual dress or no, he looked like the guy in charge. Of everything. Everywhere.

“Right.” Kennedy hesitated. “I’ll say good night now.” That was a tactful way of letting Jason know that feelings or no feelings, they would not be sharing a bed. Just in case Jason hadn’t already got the message delivered by baseball bat?

Kennedy said, “I’m too old for this. I think I put my back out,” but he was laughing too—softly—and the sound went straight to Jason’s heart. He’d never heard Kennedy laugh quite like that. He sounded…happy. “Nobody’s too old for this.” “Christ.” Kennedy rested his hand against Jason’s face as though he could see him in the dark. “I’ve wanted this—you—since I saw you walking across the beach in Santa Monica.” Jason heard his smile. “In a goddamned tux, of all things.” “I’ve wanted you since we said goodbye that morning at Kingsfield.” “Yeah. Me too.” Kennedy touched Jason’s left nipple with his hot, wet tongue, and Jason gasped and jumped. His head hit the headboard with a thump. “Ow. Déjà vu.” “I remember,” Kennedy murmured. “I remember everything about that night. About you.”