The Monuments Men Murders: The Art of Murder 4

by Josh Lanyon

  Sam rose. Jason rose as well, ready for…well, Jesus, were they going to punch it out? He had no idea. He had never seen Sam this angry, had never imagined that level of anger could be directed at himself. In a faraway corner of his brain, he wondered if he was dreaming.

  This can’t be happening.

  But they did not come to blows. They did not get within touching distance.

  Sam said in that strangely flat voice, “Take your file and get out of my room,” and then went into the bathroom.

  Jason stood unmoving; then he dressed with shaking hands, grabbed the folder, and left Sam’s hotel room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What if de Haan spotted a Nazi war criminal living in Bozwin?” J.J. asked.

  “Hm?”

  It was about ten o’clock on Thursday morning, and Jason and J.J. were in their temporary office at the Bozwin RA. J.J. was bringing Jason up to date on the results of his inquiries the day before.

  “That’s a pretty powerful motive. And it’s possible when you see how many of these old geezers are still hanging out at the VFW.”

  Jason nodded. He was scrolling quickly through his email, looking for something, anything, from Karan or George or even Sam.

  There was nothing.

  He was not sure if he was relieved or not. He had no idea what Sam would do next—if anything. He was still shell-shocked from Sam’s reaction earlier that morning. He had known Sam would not be pleased, yes, had expected Sam to advise him to recuse himself at once. He had not expected…that.

  And maybe it was naive, but he felt betrayed. If anyone ought to understand about shades of gray, he’d have figured it was BAU Chief Sam Kennedy. Also, if anyone ought to understand about occasionally ignoring protocol, you’d think it was that same asshole, BAU Chief Sam Kennedy. For God’s sake. How about Wyoming? How about New York? How about Massachusetts? How about was there any fucking place on the planet Sam had not flouted rules and regulations when he felt he could get faster and better results by doing so?

  And yet, maybe Jason should have expected it, because despite his tendency to operate in a legal twilight when it seemed imperative to him, Sam could be very black and white about other people bending rules. And once you got on his bad side? Well, it wasn’t that Sam was vengeful or spiteful. Not remotely. You were just dead to him.

  In fairness, Sam had worked hard to position himself where it was difficult for his enemies—and he had his share—to attack him. Jason had inadvertently endangered that unassailable position, and therefore, Sam’s mission, and Sam had a sense of mission like no one Jason had ever known.

  No, scratch that. The only other person Jason had known with such a sense of mission was his grandfather. Now there was irony.

  J.J. said, “Are you still planning to reinterview Roberts?”

  At the same time, Sam was pragmatic, a realist about people. Wasn’t there a decent chance that once he’d cooled down enough to view the situation objectively, he would see that Jason had not intended to make him complicit in any wrongdoing?

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions, West. He could almost hear Sam whispering it in his ear.

  “West?”

  Jason looked up. “What’s that?”

  “Are you going to have another try at Edgar Roberts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I can take him if you want—”

  “No. I’ll talk to him. I need you to get what information you can about de Haan’s murder from Sandford’s office. No way is anyone over there going to talk to me now.”

  “Right.” J.J.’s gaze was curious. “It is weird Sandford didn’t want to question you.”

  “It sure as hell is. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Almost for good.”

  J.J. made a pained expression. He had been skeptical when Jason had told him he believed Sandford had considered shooting him the previous day.

  “You don’t believe me,” Jason said. “But something was going on there, and I don’t think it’s only that he doesn’t like Uncle Sam traipsing through his backyard and throwing our weight around. Maybe he’s in Thompson’s will.”

  “Maybe he’s worried about us discovering his Nazi grandfather.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I don’t remember seeing any bequests to Sandford in the will. I’ll take another look. Are you headed back to the newspaper morgue?”

  Jason nodded, shrugging into his suit jacket. He picked up the rental’s keys.

  J.J. started to turn to his laptop and then stopped. “Oh. I finally spoke to Larry Johnson.”

  “Who?”

  “Quilletta’s first husband.”

  “The Winter Squash King?”

  J.J. grinned. “No. That was husband number two. Larry is the one who ran off with his high-school sweetheart. He’s living in Arizona now.”

  “What does he have to say for himself?”

  “He thinks his daughter is married to a dangerous felon and we should do something about that.”

  Jason shook his head in resignation. “I wonder what it is he thinks we can do.”

  “And he says he does not remember Roy ever showing any treasures of any kind to anyone. Particularly him.”

  “Great.”

  “I think he’s lying. He sounded like someone who had been practicing in front of a mirror.”

  “Why would he lie to protect his ex-wife?”

  “Maybe he still loves her. Who knows? He didn’t have anything bad to say about her. For what it’s worth.”

  It was disappointing. Jason had been hoping one of the ex-husbands would provide a chink in the wall of solidarity the Thompsons’ friends and neighbors had put up around them. So far, they had been unable to find anyone who would admit to Roy Thompson showing them anything that remotely fit the description of treasure.

  “Maybe there was an accomplice,” J.J. said. “Maybe the accomplice got the lion’s share of the treasure.”

  “Maybe. Don’t forget to call Bozwin PD and see what they’ll give you on de Haan’s homicide.”

  J.J. looked heavenward. “What would I do without you telling me how to do my job, West?”

  “I’ll tell you when I think of it.” Jason winked and closed the door to the office.

  * * * * *

  Yesterday I was left alone and went down to the tunnels, which remain our art-collection depot. I spent the whole day looking at really amazing pictures. They are stacked up like books against the wall, and the frames are often heavy, but the glories are undiminished. Painting is so wonderful. Few people can know the rewards of such glorious workmanship and heavenly color. We are doing important work here, and I am proud to be part of it.

  Jason’s heart jumped and skipped its way down every line of the letter dated July 1945 and published two months later in the Bozwin Daily Chronicle.

  There was no mention of Emerson Harley by name. Thank God for small mercies. Not that it would be impossible for someone to find out which member of the MFAA had been stationed at Engelshofen Castle.

  His phone rang, and Karan Kapszukiewicz’s name flashed up.

  Jason’s heart dropped through the trapdoor of his stomach. He waited for a moment, watching the little speaker emblem pulse. What was the point of putting this off? He was out of time. He pressed Accept.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Jason,” Karan said. “Any update on the de Haan homicide?”

  She sounded her normal crisp but cordial self. Jason responded cautiously, “Nothing so far. J.J. is following up with Bozwin PD. I should tell you the police chief is pretty unhappy with our presence on his turf.”

  “Is that Amos Sandford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a stack of messages on my desk from him.”

  “I bet.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t like us nosing around, he’d better hurry up and solve our complainant’s homicide.” She paused. “Look, Jason.” Karan’s tone changed, and he braced for the worst. “I und
erstand there’s some concern over the wrongful-death suit filed by the parents of the young man killed in Monday’s shootout.”

  With everything else going on, Jason had practically forgotten about the lawsuit filed by Brody Stevens’s family.

  “Yes,” he said automatically.

  “This is not official. You did not hear it from me. However, I have it on good authority that the SIRG is going to deem the use of lethal force demonstrated by both you and Agent Russell valid.”

  “That’s…a relief.”

  It was. But he had never doubted it. By now he had been over the shooting dozens of times in his mind, and he still did not see that he and J.J. had had any other choice. He felt horrible about the Stevens kid, but he would have felt worse if they’d let him shoot an innocent bystander.

  “You know how this works, so maybe you can explain it to your partner. If this does go to trial, you’ll be represented by the DOJ. There is no cause for panic, so could you please tell Agent Russell to stop phoning and emailing everyone in his company address book?”

  Jason winced. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Getting cleared by the SIRG is one thing. If Russell is having trouble coming to terms with his actions, you could remind him that counseling is available. In fact, whether he’s having trouble or not, that would be my recommendation if he were on my team.”

  “I’ve suggested it to him.”

  “I see. If you have concerns, you should broach them with George Potts. You’re relying on Russell to watch your back. That’s not something you want to make a mistake about.”

  “No. Right. I understand.”

  She said briskly, getting ready to end the call, “Right. Anything new to report?”

  Sam had not told her. Jason absorbed the truth with a feeling of disbelief. And yet…had he really thought Sam would?

  “No,” he said slowly. “Nothing new yet.”

  “All right. Keep me apprised.”

  Karan rang off. Jason stared at his phone, then returned to the archives.

  Two hours later, in a letter dated September 1945, he finally found what he had been looking for—and dreading.

  For the last few weeks since Deputy Chief Harley left, there has been nothing but tedious work and horrible Germans. There is absolutely no one to talk to in this gloomy intellectual misfit.

  So that was that. Thompson didn’t have to come right out and say Emerson Harley had acted as his accomplice. Others would make that connection.

  If they found this.

  For one terrible, heart-thudding moment he considered ripping out the page.

  But no. It was not in him to destroy a historical document. Not even an old newspaper. Hell, it was not even in him to hide it. The fact that the idea had even crossed his mind was shocking enough.

  Besides, what good would it do? At best, he could delay the discovery that his grandfather had been the officer in charge of the art-collection depot while Thompson was there.

  The truth will out.

  That was both the good news and the bad.

  Truth was also supposed to set you free, so something to look forward to, right?

  If he did truly believe his grandfather was innocent—and he did—why would he try to suppress the facts?

  For the first time since he had spotted Emerson Harley’s name in de Haan’s report, Jason asked himself what his grandfather would have wanted. What would he have done in Jason’s position?

  And the answer was so obvious, it felt like a slap upside the head—something Jason’s grandfather had never delivered in real life.

  Emerson Harley had never ducked a fight in his life. He would have challenged any and all allegations directly, dragging them out into the light and knocking them down, one by one. And if he knew the moral compromises Jason was making to “defend” his honor, he’d have been appalled.

  I don’t need you to defend my good name. My good name is my defense. That’s what Emerson Harley would have said.

  And he’d have been right.

  His cell phone rang, the moment of epiphany ended like a burst bubble, and Jason answered automatically.

  J.J. said, “To start with, it turns out I was right. Thompson was gay. I told you so.”

  “Uh, yes. You did.”

  “But that’s not why he couldn’t get his old teaching job back after the war. Nobody knew about it back then.”

  “Why couldn’t he get his job back?” Jason asked.

  “Because he’d received a dishonorable discharge in December 1945. He was court-martialed and fined $600 for the theft of valuable silverware and gold-decorated china from the villa of the Marquise of St. Carlos in Biarritz, France.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s good work. Yours, I mean.”

  “I thought so,” J.J. said with his usual modesty. “What do you think the family is trying to hide? The fact that he was gay, or the fact that he was a known thief?”

  “Both? I’m not sure. I’m not sure those are the only things they’re trying to hide.”

  “Well, the treasures, of course, but it looks like Thompson had less time to steal things from Engelshofen Castle than we realized.”

  “Yes.” And more time to steal things elsewhere.

  “Maybe it was just the two paintings and the altar piece. I sure can’t come up with anyone who admits to seeing any of the other items.”

  “Did you find someone who had seen the two paintings and the altar piece?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d say that doesn’t prove anything.” Jason considered. “Who do we have left to talk to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What about the first husband?”

  “We had this conversation this morning, West. He said he never saw any treasures.”

  Had they discussed this? Jesus.

  “Right. How long were they married?”

  “Three years. What does that have to do with it?”

  Pretty much nothing. At this point Jason was just bumping into walls. Detective Roomba looking for an opening, any opening.

  “What about the second husband?”

  J.J. sighed. Pointedly. “He split up with the girlfriend. I haven’t been able to locate him yet.”

  Had they had this conversation too?

  “Did you actually talk to the girlfriend?”

  “Hell yes, I talked to the girlfriend. She’s suing him for eight years of back child support. You know, this is not my first investigation.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m just…distracted.”

  “I noticed. You should try getting some sleep once in a while. When are you coming back to the office?”

  Jason thought about all those binders of all those newspapers. What was it he imagined was still left to find? A public declaration that MFAA Deputy Chief Emerson Harley had not taken part in the theft of national treasures under his protection?

  He was not going to find that magic seal of approval.

  And the truth was, he didn’t need it. He never had.

  He said, “Now.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “So here’s what we know,” J.J. said. “De Haan was not killed in his room. He was killed at an unknown location and his body dumped in his motel room.”

  “Why?” Jason said. “That’s the second question. Why was no effort made to hide the body?”

  J.J. glanced at the clock over the empty bookcase. “Okay. What’s the first question?”

  “Why was he killed at all?”

  J.J. shook his head. “What’s the answer?”

  “To the second question? They didn’t want us looking for him. They didn’t want us poking around, getting search warrants—”

  “They?” J.J. asked cautiously.

  “They.”

  J.J. clearly decided to let that go. He moved on through his notes. “Estimated time of death maybe around midnight. The temperature of the room complicates things.
Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Weapon unknown, but something heavy and smooth, and edged. An iron? Not a brick. Not a rock. Here’s something interesting. Factory reset was used to delete everything on his phone.”

  “The data can still be retrieved. His phone records can still be accessed.”

  “In theory, yes. But who’s going to do that? Not Bozwin PD, I’ll tell you right now.”

  “What are they calling it?”

  “Robbery homicide.”

  “That makes no sense. Was he even robbed?”

  “According to…” J.J. looked at his notes. “Detective Wallace, yes. De Haan’s wallet and passport are missing.” J.J. glanced again at the clock. He said wearily, “Look, West, I know you think there’s something hinky going on, but it’s not our case.”

  “It’s part of our case. I guarantee it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not even sure our case is still our case. We’ve been trying for three days to find someone, anyone, who can verify Roy Thompson ever had more than that altar piece and those two paintings in his possession. Even if you’re right, even if de Haan was right, how do we move forward without proof?”

  “I’m telling you, they killed him. And I want to know why.”

  “They again. You mean the Thompsons? All of them?”

  “The Thompsons and Sandford.”

  “Okay, wait. Now it’s the Thompsons and Sandford?” J.J. shook his head. “No offense, but you’re starting to sound a little…”

  He didn’t bother to fill in the blank.

  Jason said, “Just…look at it objectively for a moment. I mean, come on. De Haan is randomly killed by some stranger who conveniently returns his body to his motel room? Who the hell does that?”

  “Okay, fine, but why the hell would the Thompsons and Sandford do that? It doesn’t make any sense from that perspective either.” J.J. added, “And people—even private investigators from other countries—do get randomly killed. It doesn’t always make sense.”

  Jason snapped, “It’s too much of a coincidence!”