by Josh Lanyon
“Hans?”
The line went dead.
Jason pressed Redial.
The call rang and rang and then went to messages.
What the hell had that been about?
A mistake obviously. Maybe de Haan had butt-dialed him?
Jason yawned, considered making coffee—shuddered—and went back to scouring the Internet.
He found one more still earlier three-dimensional reconstruction by Stam, which was at least closer thematically to Vermeer’s usual work, along with a short video on the making of the viewing cabinet. In Stam’s words, this first attempt was: “The dreamed painting, entirely in the spirit of Vermeer, without a trace of a 20th century personality.”
Uh, sure.
No question, A Gentleman Washing His Hands had fired creative imaginations for centuries.
Partly that was due to the small body of exquisite work Vermeer had left behind. There were various theories on why Vermeer had produced so few paintings during his short lifetime. He had worked slowly, painstakingly, and despite Schütz’s argument, a convincing case could be made as to his possible use of a camera obscura, which would have slowed the process even more. He preferred to use very expensive pigments but was not wealthy, so probably had trouble obtaining the materials he required. And being unable to support his wife and eleven children with his painting, he had a day job as an art dealer and innkeeper. He was also kept busy as head of the Guild of Saint Luke, a local trade association for paintings.
Though moderately successful during his lifetime, Vermeer died deeply in debt, and for nearly two centuries following his passing, was virtually forgotten. It wasn’t until the 19th century that his work had been rediscovered and the insatiable demand began.
If the Nazis had stumbled across that Vermeer in a private collection, they would have known exactly what they had. Whole organizations were devoted to looting and stealing the world’s cultural treasures. Much of the treasure of Engelshofen Castle had been earmarked for Hitler’s own Führermuseum.
From that perspective, it made sense that if the painting existed, it would have been found at Engelshofen.
When his cell phone buzzed beneath his head, it was after one. Jason jumped, pressed Accept, and Sam said, “I know you said to call, but it’s late and we’re both beat, so if you want to go back to sleep…”
Jason swallowed his disappointment. “Yeah, of course. If that’s what you prefer.”
“What I’d prefer is for you to open your door so we can go back to sleep together.”
Jason jumped up, threw open the door, and Sam, heavy-eyed and hair mussed, stepped inside.
Jason hugged him. “Hi. Why didn’t you just knock?”
“I didn’t want to wake your neighbors. You’re a heavy sleeper, West.” Sam kissed him—and then kissed him again. “I could hear you snoring all the way out in the hall.” He was undressing as they walked.
Jason kissed him back, leading him toward the bed strewn with his laptop, notes, and book. He scrambled to clear the mattress, pulled back the comforter, and Sam, by that point wearing only a pair of navy-blue briefs, crashed down.
Jason turned out the overhead light, turned out the bedside lamp, and crawled into bed beside Sam.
Sam wrapped his arm around him, pulled him snug, buried his face in Jason’s hair, and promptly went to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
He woke to the sound of sex.
Loud and energetic sex.
His first horrified thought was that Russell and Martinez were doing it.
In the hotel walls.
Or maybe on the window ledge.
Somewhere nearby. The noise was muffled but uncomfortably close. And it went on and on.
Jesus, would they please just hurry it up?
He stiffened in astonishment at the distinct and sudden sound of flapping wings.
Straight sex really was different.
He raised his head, blinking.
“What’s up?” Sam mumbled, eyes still closed.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hm?”
They were silent for a moment. Jason wasn’t sure if Sam hadn’t drifted back to sleep.
Sam said finally, sleepily, “Pigeons,” and heaved onto his front, half burying his face in his pillow.
“Pigeons? Seriously?”
The hotel’s sex-crazed pigeons continued to go at it like…er, pigeons, it turned out, all the while making those distractingly human sounds.
“It sounds like they’re…” He trailed off as the bird—one of the birds?—seemed to reach a full-throated crescendo. “For God’s sake. Tell me that doesn’t sound like somebody in the next room has a-a prostitute with him!”
Sam’s shoulders began to jerk. He made a smothered woofing sound in the pillows.
Jason threw him a distracted look. “I mean, I’ve never known California pigeons to act like that.”
Sam started to wheeze like Muttley the cartoon dog. He rolled onto his side and pulled Jason over.
“You’ve led a sheltered life, West.”
“Not so much.”
“I don’t know what’s funnier. Your outrage at avian sex or that you immediately leap to the idea a man would have to resort to a prostitute—”
Jason started laughing. “I’m not outraged—”
“I see. Then you do consider dial-a-hooker to be standard operating practice?”
He didn’t laugh often and rarely hard, so it was a pleasure—Jason was smiling—watching Sam’s eyes crinkle and that little peek of teeth.
“No. Well, whatever. But I mean, listen to that,” Jason insisted. By now he was just trying to win another laugh out of Sam. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw a bunch of feathers blow out of the air vents.”
Sam laughed again. “I wish we had more time. I’d like to ruffle your feathers, West.”
“Mmm.” That would be nice. No lie.
As though reading his thoughts, Sam said, “This is nice. I like waking up to you.”
Jason assented. “We should do it more often.”
“We should.” Sam merely sounded regretful now, like they both knew there was no chance of that. And, of course, they did both know that.
For a minute or so they held each other, breathing in quiet unison, not speaking, not moving. Then Sam exhaled, raised his head, and peered at the clock.
He growled.
“Time?” Jason asked.
“We’re late.” He dropped a kiss on Jason’s forehead, sat up, and retrieved his clothes.
Jason sat up too, then walked into the bathroom. He turned on his toothbrush, listening for Sam’s answer as he called, “What have you got planned for tonight?”
“Nothing so far.” That could change, of course, and Sam added, “I’ll let you know.” Now dressed—mostly—he stepped into the bathroom, and Jason turned off his toothbrush.
Sam kissed him. “Minty fresh.” He wiped a bit of foam from his lip and said, “Be careful out there.”
“You know me.”
“I do, so be careful, West.”
“Back at you, Kennedy.”
Jason stared at his reflection, listening for the sound of the closing door, and then sighed.
* * * * *
Once again, he beat J.J. down to breakfast. While he drank his coffee, he tried phoning de Haan.
No reply.
This time he couldn’t even leave a message. Instead, he got the dreaded the customer you are trying to reach is unavailable.
It seemed a little odd. Was de Haan angry about something? He didn’t seem like a guy who would hesitate to speak his mind, if that was the case. He had not been happy with Jason the day before, but they had still been on speaking terms.
At this point, de Haan needed them more than they needed him. So again, odd.
J.J. arrived a minute later, grabbed a coffee and a Cinnabon, and said, “Head ’em up and move ’em out, West.”
“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you,” Jason sa
id, but he was talking to his partner’s back.
They passed Travis Petty on his way into the hotel. Petty, looking handsome as hell in a navy suit with a rose-colored—Jesus, rose-colored?—tie nodded gravely in greeting.
“Hey,” Jason said.
“Hey,” Petty returned in that same expressionless voice.
“I don’t like that guy’s tie,” J.J. said as they got in the rental car.
Jason laughed and started the engine.
On the short ride to the office, J.J. said, “I know it’s none of my business, but Mari was telling me last night that Kennedy and Petty used to be pretty cozy.”
It probably wasn’t J.J.’s business, and he probably shouldn’t listen to this, but Jason said, “Mari? Is that Martinez?”
“Yeah. For Marianna.” J.J. paused to take a bite of Cinnabon. “Their whatever-it-was was widely enough known that you and Kennedy are now the main topic of office gossip.”
“Clearly.”
J.J. shrugged that off. “Petty is their golden boy. He was almost named Supervisory Agent over James Salazar, which, given Salazar’s seniority…”
If he and J.J. had reached the point where J.J. was sharing office gossip, their partnership had come a long way. Jason didn’t like hearing any of this, let alone discussing it, but he said neutrally, “I appreciate your looking out for me. Sam told me about Petty the night he arrived.”
“Did he?” J.J. sounded both relieved and a little surprised.
Jason nodded. He searched around for a change of subject. “How’s it going with Martinez?”
J.J. threw him an odd look. Why?
It occurred to Jason that he had never actually initiated a personal conversation with J.J. In fact, he’d tried to avoid any such conversations. J.J. was a pretty vocal guy about his likes and dislikes—most of which they did not share—and Jason preferred his own thoughts most of the time. But, well, there was no denying this trip had made a difference in their work relationship, maybe even moved it forward a square or two on the gameboard.
J.J. said gloomily, “She doesn’t want to move.”
“You asked her? Already?”
“Of course not. Not directly. But we were talking in generalities last night. Her mom is disabled and her dad is quite a bit older—late seventies. She’s got brothers and sisters, a lot of brothers and sisters, but they’ve all got their own families, so a lot of the responsibility for the parents has fallen on Mari.”
“Right.”
“Plus, she likes Montana.” J.J. sounded disbelieving.
Jason admitted, “Sam likes Montana.”
They were both silent.
“I mean, it is beautiful,” Jason said. You couldn’t argue that with those towering mountain ranges and breathtaking blue skies bearing down on them.
J.J. made a skeptical sound.
They glanced at each other and shared reluctant, pained smiles.
More bad news waited for them at the Resident Agency.
“Brody Stevens’s parents are filing a wrongful-death suit,” SAC Phillips announced after bringing them into her office.
“How the hell do they figure that?” Jason asked.
J.J. was stone silent.
“Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just informing you of the newest developments. No one from this team was involved in the incident. This does not actually concern the Bozwin RA.”
“That’s an unusual perspective,” Jason said.
She gave him a cool, unfriendly look. Yep, she definitely did not like him.
“Jesus Christ,” J.J. said. “Where does this leave us? I’m the guy who shot the kid.”
“A lot depends on the SIRG’s findings.” She grimly regarded his stunned expression, then relented. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Agent Russell. There are plenty of witnesses to corroborate your version of events. Even Stevens’s cousin initially backed up your account. He’s since recanted, but…” She shrugged. “That said, the sooner you two finish your investigation and get the hell out of Dodge, the easier life will be for all of us.”
“I’m heading down to the newspaper morgue,” Jason told J.J. when they were back in their own office.
J.J. didn’t answer.
Jason glanced at him. “Russell?”
J.J. threw him a distracted look. “What?”
“I’ll be down at the Bozwin Daily Chronicle if you need me—” He broke off as J.J. grabbed his phone and started tapping the keypad.
“I’m calling my lawyer. Which is what you should be doing.”
“Right. Well, when you finish phoning your lawyer—”
J.J.’s head jerked up. He glared at Jason. “Do you not get it, West? Our careers are over. I shot a kid. I killed a kid.”
Jason closed the office door. “I was there. You also saved lives. Maybe mine included. He was armed with an assault weapon.”
“He was a kid.”
Jason was silent. Was J.J. really fearing for his career, or was this something else? Or was it both? Jason had a feeling it was all of the above. Whatever it was, and cold-blooded though it might be, they—he—didn’t have time to deal with it. The clock was ticking—and this clock was attached to a time bomb.
“Do you think there’s something you should have—could have—done differently? You couldn’t talk to him. We’re not trained to shoot the guns out of people’s hands. I can’t see that we had any other choice.”
“It’s not we, West. You didn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s the luck of the draw. Literally, the luck of the draw. It could just as easily have been me.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t.” J.J. put his phone down, put his head in his hands. “Why did he have to be a fucking kid?”
“I don’t know.” Jason sighed and pulled out the chair facing J.J.’s. “I wish it hadn’t gone down the way it did. But I’m not sorry that we’re alive.”
J.J. groaned. “When I saw how fucking young he was…” He squeezed his head tighter. “I almost threw up.”
“I know.” He had been shocked to see how young Duane Jones was, but that had braced him for the worst when he’d looked at Brody Stevens’s body. “And I know this doesn’t make it better, but it’s because of your actions that more people weren’t injured or killed.” He reached over and gave J.J.’s shoulder a hard, comforting squeeze. Straight out of the Sam Kennedy playbook.
J.J. sat up, dragged the heels of his hands against the corners of his eyes. “Yeah.” He gave Jason a quick, awkward look. “If you’re going to spend the day going through microfilm or whatever, you ought to get going.”
“Right.” He hesitated.
“Will you go?” J.J. said impatiently.
“Going.”
“Hey, West—”
Jason glanced back.
J.J. grimaced.
Jason rolled his eyes and opened the door—and nearly walked into Sam.
Sam was looking dapper—if grim—in his second favorite suit, a gray sharkskin.
“Can I talk to you a minute?” he said.
His expression, his tone… Not good. Jason’s nerves yanked tight. He made sure his voice sounded calm when he replied, “Of course.”
Did this have to do with the lawsuit? Or was it something else? Could Sam have—had he possibly found out that Emerson Harley was a suspect in Jason’s stolen art case?
Sam turned and led the way down the hall to an empty office. Well, not empty, because his phone and briefcase lay on the desk. That was Sam’s version of making himself at home.
Jason stepped inside the office, and Sam closed the door.
Jason’s unease mounted. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Sam let out a long, quiet breath. “I just got word from the RCMP. It looks like—” He stopped and corrected himself. “There is a strong possibility that Dr. Jeremy Kyser is dead.”
Chapter Twelve
The relief was instantaneous and almost overwhelming.
Thank God. Thank God.
Thank God.
For a moment he couldn’t think beyond that sense of freedom, of deliverance. Jason’s knees felt weak, he almost dropped into the chair before the desk, but then he absorbed the expression—the lack of expression—on Sam’s face, took in the measuring way Sam was watching him.
Sam, who understood better than anyone how much strain Jason was under—and who had probably formed a clinical opinion on how much more Jason could take.
Jason matched his tone to Sam’s unemotional timbre. “You don’t think it’s true.”
Sam said at once, “I don’t know if it’s true. The recovered body is too damaged to identify without DNA testing, and DNA testing is going to take a while.”
Jason nodded automatically. “What happened? How was he found?”
“He appears to have been renting a boat under an assumed name in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.”
“He was still in Canada.” Jason was trying to process.
“Apparently so.”
“What happened?”
“The investigation is ongoing. The boat was discovered on fire yesterday evening. A badly burned body was located in the main cabin, along with a partially charred passport, wallet, and other items identifying the victim as Jeremy Kyser.”
“It’s too convenient,” Jason said.
Apparently, this was the deduction Sam wanted from him because he seemed to relax slightly.
“Maybe.”
“He’s covering his tracks.”
“It’s possible. Kyser has incentive to disappear, and a death which results in a body that can’t easily be identified is, as you say, pretty convenient.”
“What happens next?”
He’s coming for me.
The paralyzing thought flew into Jason’s brain. He managed not to say it aloud.
“Because of the special circumstances, they’ll try to expedite the DNA testing, and then we’ll see where we are.” Sam said carefully, “It’s not bad news.”
