by Josh Lanyon
He kept his expression impassive. “I think the job keeps him pretty busy.”
“Sure,” she said. “And times have changed.”
Okay. She knew. He relaxed a little. “Yes. True.” When Sam had joined the FBI, there was no question of an agent being out. Back then the closet was everyone’s default. Certainly, everyone in law enforcement.
Ruby added in a thoughtful tone, “Not counting Ethan, of course.”
Boom! And there it was. Jason said nothing.
Behind the laundry-room door, the dogs had settled down to muttering scurrilous things about the company Ruby was keeping.
Ruby scrutinized him. “I guess he told you about Ethan.”
“Some.”
Despite his curiosity, he was pretty sure Sam would not be okay with the direction this chat was going. At the same time, he did not want to offend Sam’s mother.
“I’m not surprised. He doesn’t talk about personal things. Even when he was a little shaver.”
“No. Well.” Repartee. We haz it! To direct the conversation into safer channels, Jason asked, “What was Sam like as a kid?”
“Shorter.” Ruby gave a curt laugh at Jason’s expression. She sounded like Sam in that instant. “Single-minded.”
“Was he a good student?”
“Oh, sure. Always got As. Didn’t even have to try, I don’t think.”
“What was he interested in?”
“Oh, a lot of things, I guess. He liked to read. He was always kind of a know-it-all.”
She said it with pride, though, and Jason grinned. Ruby grinned back.
“Some things never change,” she added.
“It doesn’t help that he’s usually right.”
She cocked her head, considering him. “I guess it’s lucky you think so.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that.”
She laughed. “No. I wouldn’t advise telling him that.”
He nodded at the newspaper and said at random, “So you’re getting a new magic club?”
“I guess so. They’re having some kind of conference here for magicians next weekend. It’s going to be good for business. Were you injured in the line of duty?”
“Not exactly. It turns out fast food really is bad for your health.” She chuckled, but he thought he knew what she must be thinking. “Sam’s job keeps him pretty much out of the line of fire nowadays.”
“Oh, Sam.” She seemed further amused. “Sam can look out for himself.”
Which was surely true. Suddenly Jason couldn’t think of anything to say. He drank his coffee and ate a second cinnamon roll.
“I think we’ll get some rain tonight.” Ruby was gazing out the window.
Jason murmured politely.
“Ethan was an artist,” she said suddenly, turning her gaze on him once more.
“Was he?” The idea had never occurred to him, and he was surprised to find he didn’t like it. Which was irrational. What the hell did it matter what Ethan had been or hadn’t been?
“Pretty good too,” Ruby said. “You look through that door, you can see one of his hanging over the fireplace.”
Jason’s heart sank. He did not want to discuss Ethan. He did not want to see Ethan’s art. He did not want Ethan to be any more real than he already was. But Ruby was obviously waiting for him to admire Ethan’s work—or maybe just acknowledge Ethan’s part in Sam’s past—so he obligingly turned his gaze to the door leading into the living room, and then rose, limping into the living room and over to the fireplace, studying a large oil painting of pine trees, rocky outcrops, and moonlight.
Ruby had followed him into the other room.
“Where is this?” he asked, because he had to say something. “Somewhere around here?”
“Vedauwoo. It’s a campground off Interstate 80.”
Jason hmmed. He really didn’t have much to say, and after a moment of silence, Ruby added, “’Course, I’m not an expert.”
“No, but you’re right. He was talented.”
That was the truth. There was genuine talent there. Raw talent. Not genius. This kid had not been a prodigy like Lucius Lux, Jason’s wayward protégé. He’d had some training, clearly, but he wasn’t a craftsman at the peak of his skill. No telling what he would have ultimately become with time and experience.
Jason peered at the signature in the lower right-hand corner. EO.
“What was Ethan’s last name?”
“Ogilvie. His father still lives in Cheyenne. He’s the only one left.”
One of these days he was going to bite the bullet and do some looking into what had actually happened to Ethan. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.
However, having gone this far, he might as well go ahead and ask. “Was Ethan’s killer ever brought to justice?”
“No. Never.”
He nodded, again at a loss for the right thing to say. I’m sorry? He was certainly sorry about all of it. Disturbing to think that without Ethan’s death—murder—he and Sam would never have met. Sam had only gone into the FBI because Ethan had been murdered.
He couldn’t quite get a handle on Ruby or on Ruby and Sam’s relationship. Why had Ruby brought up Ethan to him? She had to know Sam would not appreciate his personal life being discussed behind his back. Was there some message she was trying to convey? Was she simply prone to gossip? She didn’t appear to have any neighbors as far as Jason could tell. Maybe she was hungry for conversation—and it wouldn’t be surprising if Sam was her favorite subject.
He knew Sam did not travel back to Wyoming very often. That must be hard on Ruby.
He said briskly, “Well, thank you for the rolls and the coffee. I should probably get back and make some phone calls.”
She nodded, accompanying him to the back door. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you, I will.”
He went carefully down the steps and started across the barren, windblown yard. Before he was more than a few feet away from the house, he could hear the dogs throwing themselves at the porch door.
Chapter Seven
Special Agent Shane Donovan was Jason’s Northern California counterpart and the only other Art Crime Team member on the West Coast. Though they didn’t regularly work together, they were in the habit of brainstorming their cases and bouncing ideas off each other. Jason’s assigned partner, J.J. Russell, was a first-office agent, just starting his third year on the job. Russell and he were not what one would call simpatico. Russell felt his abilities were being wasted paired with someone who spent so much of his time online checking art databases and national registers, meeting with museum curators, and haunting auction houses and art galleries. If there was a bright side to being placed on sick leave, it was not having to listen to Russell bitch about the pointlessness of Jason’s mission for the next two weeks.
It took a couple of tries to reach Shane that morning. When Jason finally managed to get through, Shane was friendly but not encouraging.
“Hey, what’s this about? You’re supposed to be on sick leave, West.”
“I know. I am. But I’m kind of worried about Ursula Martin.” The one case where Jason and Shane did coordinate their efforts was Fletcher-Durrand. Partly because the Durrands had a home in NorCal, though they spent little time there. Partly because the potential scope of the case was so vast.
“What about her?” Shane asked.
“I’m afraid F-D might try to intimidate her.” If by some crazy chance the Durrands were behind the assault on him, Jason feared anything was possible—including going after a witness and potential claimant.
“I don’t know why they’d bother,” Shane said ruefully. “She’s not talking.”
“All the same,” Jason said. “I’d feel better if you touched base with her.” Martin lived in Bodega Bay, which made it more than reasonable to hand this off to Shane rather than J.J.
“You sure you want to nudge her? Last time we spoke, she was intimating harassment.”
“No, I’m
not sure,” Jason admitted. “But like I said, I’m concerned. I’d rather risk irritating her than have her come to harm.”
Shane’s sigh was resigned. “Okay. I’ll do a welfare check. See what her mood is these days.”
“Thanks.”
“And,” Shane added, “that’s the last I want to hear about Fletcher-Durrand until you’re back from sick leave. I got plenty of forgery, fraud, and felonies in my own backyard to keep me busy, thank you very much.”
They chatted a couple of minutes more, then Jason disconnected and phoned Russell at the LA office.
Russell was even less thrilled to hear from Jason than Shane had been. With sour satisfaction he delivered the news that Fletcher-Durrand was hinting about suing Jason and the Bureau for everything from trespassing to harassment following the events on Camden Island two months earlier.
“What total bullshit!” Jason exclaimed.
“Also, all of our current cases have been pulled by the Stafford County Sheriff’s Office.”
He’d known that was coming. “Right,” Jason said. “I don’t think they’re going to find the answer in our caseload, but they’ve got to look, I guess.”
“I’ll tell you what I told ADC Ritchie. With the exception of Fletcher-Durrand, I can’t see how taking you out would help any subject in any of our current investigations. And it wouldn’t even help F-D.”
“I agree.”
“Fletcher-Durrand wants to crush you through the courts.”
“They can try.”
“And if Eric Greenleaf wanted anyone out of the way, it would be me.”
“Probably, yeah.”
J.J. said, “I told Ritchie it’s Kennedy’s case files they should be looking at.”
“What?”
“The BAU is where they need to focus their attention. Think about it. Think about Kennedy. There’s a guy a lot of dangerous people would like to hurt. What better way to hurt him than take out his only friend in the world?”
Not an angle Jason had considered, and given the kind of perps who populated Kennedy’s case files, it was a little bit of a kick in the guts. He said lightly, “Only friend is a bit much.”
“Yeah? Well, in my opinion, eliminating you would be a big distraction for Kennedy. Maybe somebody needs a big distraction.”
There was a certain crazy logic to it, emphasis on crazy.
Jason said reluctantly, “It seems kind of Criminal Minds to me.”
“Sure,” J.J. said. “But psychopaths watch TV too.”
“I got a key made for you. In case.” Sam was pulling goodies out of paper sacks like a magician producing bouquets. Chili con carne! Beets! Potatoes! Cream! All out of a hat!
“Thanks.” Jason picked up the silver key lying on the white tile counter.
It had been nearly noon by the time Sam returned from town. As well as several bags of groceries, he’d picked up a couple of sweatshirts and a flannel shirt for Jason. That was classic Sam. He was not a guy for candy hearts and valentines, but he knew Jason had only packed for a weekend, so Sam bought him things he felt would make Jason’s stay easier, more comfortable. Like vodka and Lays potato chips and wool socks and fleecy sweatshirts.
And Sam was right. Wyoming in April was cold. The sky was almost purple-blue, and the edges of sunlight had a sharp, icy glitter.
“Magic City of the Plains?” Jason yanked off the price tag and pulled the black sweatshirt with the buffalo graphic over his head. The right fit too. Sam was nothing if not observant.
“Supposedly the town sprang up so fast after the railroad was built that it seemed like magic.” Sam drew a bottle of Canadian Club from the brown paper sack of groceries. It looked like he anticipated being stuck together for two weeks would drive them both to drink.
“What exactly are we eating?” Jason unloaded a sack that contained limes, lemons, and a lot of chicken. “Or are we starting a new religion?”
The sound Sam made sounded indulgent. “You want breakfast or lunch?”
“Lunch? I had coffee and breakfast rolls with your mom.”
Sam’s smile was wry. “That must have expanded your horizons.”
Jason didn’t quite get it. He shrugged.
Sam seemed to come to a decision. “Pan-seared steak and roasted beets, then.”
That sounded pretty awful, but Sam was a more than decent cook when he had to be. It had initially surprised Jason how conscientious Sam was about trying to eat right—not easy given theirs was not a job with regular meal breaks. It was all part of fighting the tide of time. Sam worked hard to stay in top physical shape, and a good part of that battle was nutrition.
Now he turned on the sink taps, dropped the beets under the flow of water, and pulled a chef’s knife out of the drawer next to the sink.
“What can I do to help?” Jason asked.
Sam said absently, “Stay out of the way.”
In cooking as in everything else? Jason snorted, and Sam maybe heard his words through Jason’s ears. He glanced up from chopping the tops off the beets, and said, “How’s the ankle?”
“It’s holding up.”
“Yeah? Well, good, because I brought you a present.”
“Another present?”
“How would you like to consult with the Cheyenne RA on a stolen art collection?”
The Cheyenne Resident Agency was one of Denver’s nine satellite offices. Like a lot of satellite offices in these days of severely reduced federal budgets, they had to try to cover five counties with a skeleton staff, so it was reasonable they might need help with something specialized like art theft.
“What kind of stolen art collection?”
“I didn’t get the full details. Art and antiques relating to magic and magicians.”
Jason’s interest quickened. “You’re kidding. Really?”
“I’m not a kidder, West. You know that. Cheyenne’s got one rookie agent trying to work this thing while the rest of the team’s aiding local authorities searching for the unsub who robbed a federal bank last Wednesday.”
Despite the not-a-kidder comment, there was the faintest gleam of amusement in Sam’s gaze. “I take it you like the idea.”
“I do like the idea. A lot.”
“Okay, I thought you would. But you’re still officially on sick leave. This is strictly consulting on another RA’s case.”
“I do that all the time. I’m happy to do that.”
“You don’t have to be quite that happy.” Sam sounded rueful.
“Yeah, but you’re going to be working on your book. What am I supposed to do? I can’t nap for two weeks. I should be on limited duty, not sick leave.”
“Don’t push it. This is off the books. Nothing has been cleared through the Administrative Services Division.”
Jason grimaced. “Got it.”
Sam returned to preparing their lunch. He peeled, halved, and cut up the beets, dumped them on a baking sheet, drizzled them with olive oil, and shoved them in the oven. He heated more oil in a heavy iron frying pan and deposited the steaks on the shimmering surface.
Jason pulled a chair out from the table by the window and sat down, propping his sprained ankle on the chair opposite. He said, “I talked to J.J. Russell this morning—and before you say it, no, I didn’t mention where I was.”
“The thought never occurred to me.” Sam, mixing tarragon, shallots, and garlic into a small bowl of butter, paused to lick some of the mixture from the edge of his thumb. Jason was momentarily distracted by the memory of Sam’s tongue at other times and in other places.
He collected his thoughts and said, “Apparently Fletcher-Durrand plans to sue me for everything that happened on Camden Island two months ago. Me and the Bureau.”
Sam’s brows shot up. “Excellent.”
“Uh, not the word my SSA or my SAC or the Assistant Director in Charge are using, unfortunately.”
“No? But it’s always excellent when the subjects of your investigation trot out the lawyers. It means you’re
getting to them.”
Jason grinned and shook his head. He wasn’t smiling when he said, “Russell had a theory. I don’t know if you’ve considered it.”
Sam was no fan of Russell’s. “Let’s hear it.”
Now that he had to put it in words, Jason felt awkward. “Is it possible someone you’re investigating might try to distract you by getting rid of me?”
Sam’s attention returned to the ingredients in the small glass bowl. “It’s not impossible.”
“You’d considered that?”
“Yes. I’m considering all possibilities.”
“Is it likely?”
“Very few people outside the Bureau are aware of our relationship. No, I don’t think it’s likely. But like I said, every avenue is being explored.”
I don’t think most people inside the Bureau are aware of our relationship. But Jason did not say that.
Sam turned the steaks in the pan. He pulled the roasting beets out of the oven. No, he did not need Jason’s help. He had it under control. Of course. He always had everything under control.
“Want to go to a magic club this Friday?” Jason asked. “There’s a new place opening up in Cheyenne.”
“A magic club?” Sam looked taken aback. So taken aback, Jason found it funny.
“Why? Don’t you like magic?”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“Now that’s disappointing.” But Jason was teasing.
“Next you’re going to tell me you collect energy drinks and dead batteries.”
Jason laughed. “Didn’t you ever try to learn any magic tricks when you were a kid? Sleight of hand? Invisible writing? Pulling coins out of littler kids’ ears?”
“Are you telling me you did?”
“Sure.” Jason pretended to preen. “I’m pretty good at card tricks. And at getting out of handcuffs.”
“I’ve seen that last one for myself.” Sam’s tone was dry, but he was smiling quizzically. “Card tricks, huh? You’re full of surprises, West.”
“You don’t know any card tricks?” Jason raised an eyebrow as though card tricks were some naughty talent—in fact, he had used card tricks as come-ons in his day.
“The only card trick I know is always winning at poker.”
