by Josh Lanyon
They had been wrong. Both he and Hans had guessed wrong. Vermeer had used the composition of The Astronomer and The Geographer rather than that of The Love Letter or A Maid Asleep. Instead, he had framed the painting so that the viewer seemed to be standing right outside the half-door, gazing into the room at a particular and very private moment.
Belatedly, Jason remembered the skeleton—remembered why that skeleton was only too relevant, and remembered why it was highly unlikely to be a medical skeleton.
He turned reluctantly from the painting.
“Throw your piece out and come up with your hands out.”
Sandford’s voice boomed overhead.
Jason instinctively jumped for the deep shadows along the near wall. He knew from trying to look down from above, that even if Sandford turned on the lights, he would not be able to see him from that angle.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” Sandford said.
“I could say the same to you,” Jason called back. He moved quickly along the wall, grabbed an antique six-foot art pole, and jabbed it at the foot holding the door up.
The trapdoor slammed down with a loud bang.
Quilletta’s voice murmured dismay from overhead.
“You’re not getting out of there,” Sandford yelled. “I don’t know what good you think that does.”
He opened fire at the trapdoor. Light from above pierced through the bullet holes.
Quilletta began screaming. Jason yelled, “Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you know what’s down here?”
“You’re down there!”
“Those paintings are worth millions,” Quilletta cried. “You can’t start shooting in there.”
“I’m not going to jail for a bunch of paintings,” Sandford said. “I should never have agreed to help you the first time. It never ends. Every goddamned time I turn around, there’s a new one to get rid of.”
Quilletta was talking through her sobs, but Jason couldn’t make out what she was saying.
Sandford shot twice more. A bullet ricocheted off the floor and hit the wall a foot or two from Jason. A second bullet knocked a painting off the wall. Quilletta started screaming again, and Sandford told her to shut up.
Jason began to swear. He did not want to die, but he could not just stand here and let this treasure trove of priceless art be destroyed. He racked his brain, but there was nothing like bullets flying to ruin your concentration.
His best bet was to hold them off as long as possible. Three lots or not, her neighbors were surely going to hear all the screaming and shooting. And J.J. had to be close to arrival.
“Come out of there, or I’ll fill that fucking room with bullets.” Sandford added in afterthought, “I just want to talk to you.”
Jason gave a shaky laugh. Sure. Just a friendly chat.
When he didn’t respond, Sandford began firing through the splintered Swiss cheese of the trapdoor again.
Sandford stopped firing. “Fine. That’s the way you want it? How about this? We’ll lock you in and set the shed on fire.”
“Wait,” Jason shouted. “Wait. I’m coming up.”
“Throw your piece out first. Then lock your hands behind your head and climb out slowly.” Sandford added, “Quilletta is going to open the door, so you’re only going to shoot her. And if you shoot her, I’ll plug you anyway.”
Quilletta protested. Sandford snarled, “Open the goddamned door. He’s not going to shoot you.”
Jason took a couple of calming breaths. Sandford wasn’t going to shoot him the minute he raised his head up. This wasn’t Whac-A-Mole. He’d want to know what Jason knew, right? And who else knew it.
Although the chief did not seem overly weighed down in the logic department.
Quilletta fumbled with the door, and it slowly rose a few inches.
“Throw your gun out,” Sandford commanded.
Jason put his Glock on safety, tossed it out. He heard it thump down, heard the ugly scrape as it was kicked aside.
“Come on up.”
Jason’s mouth was dry as a wool blanket. His heart was stuttering against his collarbone.
“I’m coming up,” he said, and tugged up the left leg of his jeans.
Quilletta pulled the trapdoor open and jumped to the side. Sandford stood directly in front of the opening. He leveled his weapon, smiling. Jason started slowly up the stairs. The light was unexpectedly bright. He winced, stumbled, and went down on his left leg, drawing his backup Glock from his ankle holster and springing up like a jack-in-the-box, shoving his pistol in Sandford’s astonished face.
“Twitch and I’ll kill you,” Jason gasped. “And if that Vermeer has a hole in it, I’ll kill you anyway.”
Sandford jammed his weapon in Jason’s chest, and felt the resistance of Kevlar. Jason shook his head. Been there, done that, and he was so mad he didn’t care anyway.
He saw Sandford’s eyes flicker as he recognized the truth.
“Drop your weapon,” Martinez shouted from the doorway of the shed. “Do it now.” She filled the doorway in perfect firing stance, despite the fact that she seemed to be wearing a short cotton nightie with a WordGirl pattern over her jeans and boots.
“He’s not kidding,” J.J. leaned through the open window, leveling his Glock. “Take it from me. He has no sense of humor when it comes to art.”
* * * * *
“You’re not staying for the party?” J.J. asked.
“Nope.”
“You’re flying back this afternoon?” J.J. said.
“Yep.”
“I mean, the party is kind of in our honor.”
Sort of. Martinez’s presence the evening before had given the Bozeman RA right to claim credit in the recovery of what local papers were hailing as “the stunning recovery of a record-breaking haul of art and treasures looted by the Nazis.” But mostly the party—thrown by Special Agent Travis Petty—was to celebrate the drawing to a (what would surely be) successful conclusion of the Deerlodge Destroyer case. In other words, two celebrations for the price of one bar tab.
Jason said, “You’ll have to do the honors for both our…honors.”
He was on his way to the airport—only stopping by the Bozeman RA to make sure he hadn’t left anything—any thing that was still his to take—and to say his farewells.
“You’re not going to explain to me what’s actually going on?”
“You know what’s going on. Quilletta Thompson killed her second husband eight years ago in a fit of rage before he could run off with a girl he’d met online. Her uncle Roy and then-boyfriend Police Chief Amos Sandford helped her cover it up and hide the body.”
Not like they hadn’t been over it a million times last night with Bozeman PD, the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Office, SAC Phillips, and finally a bleary-eyed conference call at dawn with the top brass from the SLC Field Office.
“Which de Haan stumbled over.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, de Haan tried to do the same thing I did last night—and also tripped the silent alarm. Quilletta trotted down there with her great-uncle’s trusty marble bookend and bashed him over the head when he was climbing out of the basement.”
Which turned out to be a lot more effective than the screaming and shooting engaged in by Chief Sandford. Granted, by then Sandford had been at his breaking point.
Welcome to the club.
“That part I know,” J.J. said. “And Chief Sandford had to help her again by moving the body because if the first crime was ever discovered, his involvement would be known and he’d be ruined.”
“That’s pretty much it.” And Jason was pretty much tired of the whole stupid, sordid scenario.
“It never was about the art?”
“No.”
“Why the hell didn’t she just admit she had the rest of the treasure? She could have cut a deal then and there. If she hadn’t lied, de Haan would never have started poking around—and then you wouldn’t have started poking around…”
“Greed, I guess. She thought she could hang on to her secrets and millions of dollars’ worth of art as well. Anyway.”
Jason closed the desk drawer. He was just stalling. Delaying the moment he had to say goodbye to Sam.
Maybe J.J. read his thoughts because he said, “I still don’t get why you’re in such a panic to leave. And why is Salt Lake’s ACT taking possession of the art we found? Why are we suddenly off this case? Why are you and Kennedy not speaking to each other?”
“We’re speaking to each other. I’m about to go tell him goodbye. As for the rest of it, don’t look a surprise three-day weekend in the mouth. You don’t have to be in LA until Tuesday, so take advantage of that.”
J.J. scowled. “You know, you’re not fooling me, West. You spent nearly two hours on the phone with George this morning and then another three hours with Kapszukiewicz.”
Jason couldn’t think of an answer.
“They’re not going to—no way are they going to can you after you found a goddamned Vermeer. Not to mention all those other paintings.” J.J. added uncertainly, “Are they?”
“I don’t know,” Jason admitted. “I hope not.”
He had never heard Karan raise her voice before, but he’d heard it plenty this morning. And George… George had even used the word disappointed; twice.
It hurt. A lot.
He hadn’t meant to say even that much. J.J. looked horrified. “Jesus Christ. Are you kidding? You’re not kidding?”
“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Jason lied. “And since I have to be in Washington on Monday morning—”
“Uh, it’s a shorter flight from here than L.A. You wouldn’t have to miss the party. Free booze and BBQ on a wraparound deck overlooking the Gallatin River.”
Yeah. Hosted bar notwithstanding, about the only thing Jason could picture enjoying less was being shot to death in Roy Thompson’s underground museum-slash-tomb.
“I’m reeeeeally not in a party mood,” he said.
J.J. studied him, said after a moment, “I told you he was an asshole. Many times I warned you.”
“Seriously. Don’t.”
J.J. shrugged. “See you…Tuesday?”
Jason nodded, his smile wry. “Bright and early.”
If only to clear out his desk.
Jason rapped on the doorframe of Sam’s temporary office.
Sam, standing by the window and gazing out at the parking lot, glanced over, and Jason saw something like surprise flash through his eyes.
“I just came to say goodbye,” Jason said.
Sam nodded. He left the window, walking toward Jason—but then stopped beside his desk. “You’re not staying for the party?”
“No. I need to get back.”
Sam didn’t say anything.
Jason hesitated. What the hell was there left to say, really?
But…if a thing was worth having, it was worth fighting for. Right? And while this was starting to feel hopeless, they had come so far.
Or was that his imagination too?
He stepped into the office, closed the door.
“I just wanted to say…” He drew in a sharp breath, let it out slowly, evenly. “I’m sorry I turned out not to be who you thought I was. I’m sorry you think I can’t be trusted.”
“I wish it were that simple.” Sam was frowning bleakly into some distance Jason couldn’t see, his right index finger absently, nervously tapping the manila folder beneath his hand in a soundless tattoo.
“Why isn’t it that simple?” Jason asked. “Jesus Christ, Sam. Did it ever occur to you this isn’t about you?”
Emotion flashed across Sam’s face. Doubt. Affront. Confusion.
Three expressions he’d rarely—ever?—seen on Kennedy’s face.
Jason said, “I get that I put you in an awkward position. I get that you disapprove of my actions. Does it really not make any difference that I didn’t attempt to cover up the facts of the case? That I did everything I could to keep my investigation fair and unbiased? That I conducted myself as I would have in any other case?”
Sam said dryly, “By conducting yourself as you would in any other case, you mean by gambling your life and taking unnecessary risks?”
“Wow. That’s…pretty unfair. And that’s not what we’re talking about.”
“No,” Sam agreed. “But since we’re on the subject of last night, why the hell didn’t you let me know what you were planning?”
Were they on the subject of last night? It seemed they were. Jason was going to have whiplash at this rate.
“It was more impulse than plan.”
Sam rephrased, “Why didn’t you call me when you knew what you were going to do?”
Really? Did Sam really not understand this? Could he possibly be this oblivious? This emotionally out-of-touch? He was so good at reading other people, at analyzing what made people tick. He had to know what he was doing.
“Sam, I’ll never ask you for help again as long as I live. I’d die first.” Jason wasn’t angry. He said it matter-of-factly.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. He smiled without humor, and said, “That’s a little dramatic.”
Was it? Because Jason meant it. He wasn’t going to forget that he had turned to Sam for help—and Sam had turned on him.
“Well, hey, not the first time you’ve told me that.”
He waited, but Sam simply continued to stand there frowning at him.
That wasn’t normal, right? It wasn’t just him; this was not the way most people would behave in this situation.
Not that Jason had previous experience with this situation.
When it was clear Sam was not going to add anything, Jason shrugged. “Okay. Well, that was it. That was my whole speech. I don’t know what more I can say. It doesn’t seem to matter.”
Nothing.
Emotion squeezed Jason’s heart so hard, he thought it would simply stop beating.
He said—and his voice shook, but he forced himself to talk past it, “I love you, and I think you do love me. As much as you’re capable. But there’s something…cold about you. That you can turn this off and on at will. I’m not saying I’m great at relationships either, but I do know you don’t get to take breaks from loving someone. And the fact that you do, that you can just…turn me off. Shut me out. That it always has to be your rules or nothing. I can’t do it anymore.” He let out a long, shuddery breath. “Even if I wanted to. I can’t. I just can’t take it.”
Some emotion flashed through Sam’s eyes. Another expression Jason had never seen. Fear? No way. And yet… Sam hesitated, opened his mouth—and someone knocked on the door. His face tightened with frustration. He pressed his lips together tightly.
Jason glanced out the sidelight and spotted Petty with a stack of folders. Because of course. Of course, it would be goddamned Special Agent Travis Petty waiting eagerly in the wings. Well, good luck, asshole. He plastered a determined smile on his face, opened the door.
Petty offered a quick, apologetic grin. “Hey. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Hey, nothing to interrupt,” Jason returned.
He stepped past Petty and kept walking.
Chapter Nineteen
The sound of doves cooing beneath the pergola on the side of the house reminded Jason of Montana’s pornographic pigeons and the last morning he and Sam had been together. Really together.
Don’t.
Don’t start down that road.
Because right now he was okay. He was happy to be home. Grateful for peace and quiet and…normalcy. He had speed-read through Roy Thompson’s letters on the flight back from Bozeman, and he was feeling…at peace.
As he had hoped—and feared—his grandfather’s name did pop up in Thompson’s correspondence. At first Thompson had been proud of being assigned to help protect the treasure of Engelshofen Castle. He had liked working with Emerson Harley, whom he considered an equal in intellect and sophistication. But Deputy Chief Harley had reprimanded him twice on—according to Thompson—trivial b
ut unspecified matters.
After that Thompson’s tone had changed.
Jason could guess, but was never going to know for sure why Thompson had tried to implicate Emerson Harley in his thefts—and Jason had not been able to find any hard physical evidence that his grandfather had not been complicit—but he was okay with allowing people to draw their own conclusions.
People would believe what they wanted to believe. Because that’s how people were.
If he had to do it all over again… Well, he had made mistakes, big ones. Given the chance, he would try to learn from them and not repeat them.
He was not sure he would be given the chance. Not as far as his job went. Not as far as anything went.
But then, as far as “anything” went, he wasn’t the only one who had made mistakes.
If he was not terminated on Monday, he was going to ask George for a little time off.
Time to pause and reflect, sure, but mostly time to fly to Amsterdam and speak with de Haan’s Anna. He wanted her to know how important Hans’s help had been—if anyone deserved credit for restoring that Vermeer to the world, it was him—and he wanted her to know how much Hans had wanted to keep his promise to her.
He dumped the contents of his luggage in the washing machine, wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge, studying the fresh cartons of eggs and milk, the loaf of bread—his sister Charlotte doing what big sisters did.
Not that he was hungry, but one of his resolutions on the flight home had been to make a disciplined effort to opt for healthy choices. Eat more. Drink less. That would be a good start.
Someone tapped sharply on the glass window of the kitchen door, and he jumped—remembering instantly that Jeremy Kyser might not really be dead, that he must not let his guard down.
Heart in mouth, he went to look out the window.
Sam frowned in at him.
They stared at each other through the glass, and for the first time Jason could remember, he was not glad to see Sam Kennedy on his doorstep.
For Sam to show up this fast, he had to have left the office within a few hours of Jason.
