The Monuments Men Murders: The Art of Murder 4 Read online

  Having made a point of insisting he was best qualified to pursue the investigation based on being fully versed in every aspect of the case—true, for the record—there was no way he could later claim he hadn’t realized his personal connection.

  He hated being in this position. The knowledge that he was risking a job he loved and a career he was proud of was an almost physical weight on his mind. He just didn’t see a way around it.

  “I appreciate the advice.”

  “No, you don’t. But I’m right.”

  J.J. was still talking about the shooting. Still processing it. And he was right. There was nothing to be gained by reliving those terrifying seconds. They had not been shot. They had done their job and taken the necessary steps to protect civilians and property.

  J.J. was the one who had to live with the consequences of that action, so if a night out with a fellow agent in a faraway RA was going to take his mind off it for a while, more power to him.

  When they parted ways at their hotel, Jason said, “Have a good night.”

  J.J. answered, “Stay out of trouble.”

  * * * * *

  “I still find it hard to believe the shooting had nothing to do with the treasure,” de Haan said.

  They were having dinner at the Club Tavern and Grill, a surprisingly cozy sports bar and restaurant offering an all-American menu and an outstanding selection of beers and booze.

  Still wound up from the day’s action, Jason had realized he didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t want to spend the evening imagining Sam out with his task force—or more precisely, imagining Sam rubbing elbows with the handsome and admiring Travis Petty. He’d phoned de Haan, and de Haan had picked him up from his hotel.

  “I know, but that does seem to be the case,” Jason said. “Brody Stevens was mad at his ex-girlfriend and thought shooting up her parents’ home and business would teach her a lesson.”

  “You Americans and your guns.”

  Jason sighed. Like most law-enforcement officers, he was not happy with every dumbass in the country having access to a personal arsenal, but this was not a conversation he wanted to have here and now.

  De Haan put his Bozone Amber down. “When I saw that truck coming toward us, I felt certain…”

  De Haan didn’t finish it, and Jason eyed him curiously. “You believed there was some connection to Captain Thompson’s trove of stolen art?”

  “There is a lot of money involved,” de Haan said. “People have killed for much less.”

  “Yes.” That was certainly true. Two of the rediscovered paintings—d’Antonio’s The Siege of Veii and Nolde’s Poppies and Roses—would easily fetch a million dollars apiece. Jason said, “If the Vermeer really exists, well, if you figure The Concert, the Vermeer stolen in the Gardner Museum heist, would fetch over ten million if it ever reappeared and went up for auction. Gentleman would probably be worth…”

  “Inestimable,” de Haan murmured, and Jason couldn’t argue.

  He did say, as much to remind himself as de Haan, “The odds of Thompson’s stolen painting actually being a Vermeer are pretty slim.”

  De Haan quoted, “‘Untitled. Man washing his hands in a see-through room with sculptures and art.’”

  Yes. That description was startlingly close to the listing in the Dissius catalog.

  And yet, as the poets said, so far away.

  “I wonder why it was untitled,” Jason mused.

  De Haan chuckled. “I think you are secretly an art historian, Jason.”

  “It’s no secret,” Jason said. “I have a master’s in Art History.”

  “Ah! I see. But that explains your conscience about seeing these works returned to their rightful owners.”

  “Everyone on the ACT has that same conscience,” Jason felt obliged to point out.

  De Haan shrugged, unconvinced. “As for the painting, it only appears in the Dissius catalog, and that is twenty years after Vermeer’s death. It would have likely come from the collection of his patron Pieter van Ruijven.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe it was one of his last works,” Jason said. “Maybe that’s why it was untitled. It might even be unfinished.”

  “Titles were not Vermeer’s strength,” de Haan pointed out.

  “True.” Jason was silent as their meals arrived. “California” steak sandwich for de Haan and steak salad for him. It took effort to eat healthy on the road. These days it took effort to eat at all. When the waitress left with the promise of condiments and another round of drinks, Jason asked, “Have you ever imagined what the painting would look like?”

  De Haan’s face brightened. This kind of discussion was meat and drink to art historians. “Something like The Love Letter, I think. Vermeer experimented with the perspectival room at least twice, but The Love Letter was his best effort.”

  “He tried earlier with A Maid Asleep,” Jason agreed. “But the use of the pictorial device is not as striking.”

  “Doorkijkje.”

  “Doorkijkje,” Jason repeated, “is used a lot in Dutch painting of the period.”

  “It is, yes. You know what is not used in the genre painting of the era? What theme or image does not show up in a single Dutch painting? A gentleman washing his hands.”

  “Is that true? I had no idea.”

  “It’s true. This painting is unusual for many reasons. Do you know it sold for 95 guilders at the auction? One of the highest-priced works of the auction.”

  “Yes. That I did know.”

  For a moment they sat in silence, both smiling a little at the idea.

  De Haan seemed to come back to reality. He gave his head a little shake, once again reminding Jason of a stork—this time, a stork waking from a pleasant daydream. “I fear that Quilletta McCoy will not appear tomorrow.”

  On Tuesday they had a meeting scheduled for eleven in the morning with Captain Thompson’s niece at her lawyer’s office.

  “I think she’ll show,” Jason said. “I think that’s the reason we’re meeting at her lawyer’s.”

  “She has not kept her word so far.”

  That was unfortunately true. When the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum had got wind that the van Eyck had come on the market, the curator had attempted to strike a deal with the Thompsons. The Thompsons—or at least Quilletta—had ostensibly considered the museum’s offer but ultimately decided to go with a higher bid from a private collector. Nothing personal. Just business. Except it was personal to the museum. Very personal. And so, a civil lawsuit had been filed and the FBI had been contacted.

  That was when Jason learned that the family insisted they had a legal right to the art and artifacts brought home by Captain Thompson because he had been given permission to do so by the Deputy Chief of the MFAA. A man who happened to be very well known to Jason because he was the man who had taught Jason to swim, to fly-fish, to shoot, to shave, to tie a bow tie, and, most importantly, to appreciate art, history, and even civilization itself. No one had influenced and shaped Jason’s life more than his Grandpa Harley.

  He said now, “I know. I got the impression after speaking with Thompson today that they truly believed they couldn’t be sued by a foreign entity. Now that the US government is involved and the FBI is knocking on their door, I think we’ll see movement. We’re not dealing with hardened criminals.”

  “If she fails to show up tomorrow, I’ll go to her home and insist she speak to me.”

  “I strongly recommend you don’t do that.”

  “I will not let these thieves get away with their crimes.”

  “I understand how you feel. I do. Please believe me, it’ll go more smoothly tomorrow if you allow me to do the talking,” Jason said.

  De Haan scowled. He picked up his beer and sipped, his expression stubborn.

  Jason said, “You have to remember Thompson’s niece and nephew may not have known the history of these paintings and other items. It’s more than plausible that they grew up seeing these things in their uncle’s home, and be
lieved they’d inherited family heirlooms.”

  De Haan began to object, and Jason said, “It’s not going to hurt to give them the benefit of the doubt, right?”

  “That remains to be seen. You can’t stop me from trying to speak to her.”

  “No, I can’t,” Jason said. “But you don’t have any authority to do so.”

  “It doesn’t seem that you do either,” de Haan retorted.

  “I can’t force her to answer my questions, no. But I do have means of putting legal pressure on both her and her brother. I don’t want to go that route if we don’t have to because there’s always the danger that if they think they’re trapped, they’ll destroy the remaining works—assuming they have possession of them.”

  De Haan’s hand shook. He set his mug down.

  “Plus, anything you learn is liable to be ruled inadmissible in court, which will further complicate my efforts.”

  “They tried to sell the van Eyck altar piece even while pretending to negotiate with the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum,” de Haan reminded him. “They can’t be trusted.”

  “I’m not forgetting. And I’m not saying we take what they say as gospel. Just keep in mind that their willingness to sell these items shows they don’t have any emotional attachment to them.”

  De Haan considered. His shoulders slumped. “I understand.”

  “I understand too,” Jason said. “You’ve been working this case a long time.”

  “Nearly twenty years. Since I was a grad student hired by the museum board of directors to research what had become of these lost and stolen pieces.”

  “Even longer than I thought.” It put into perspective Jason’s efforts to nail Fletcher-Durrand.

  “Yes. Almost half my lifetime. In fact, this search has been my life.” He brooded for a moment. “Are you married, Jason?”

  “No.”

  “But you have someone in your life?”

  Jason smiled a little, thinking of Sam. “Yes.”

  “I have someone too. Her name is Anna. We’ve been together for five years.”

  Happily, de Haan seemed to have moved on from his idea of waylaying Quilletta McCoy with a surprise interrogation. “What does Anna do?”

  “She teaches architecture at the Amsterdam School of Arts. What she would like to do is have a child. I promised her that when this case was concluded, we would do so.”

  “That’s great. And it won’t be too much longer now,” Jason said. “Or at least your role is coming to an end.” He felt compelled to warn, “The case could hang up in the courts.”

  “For years,” agreed de Haan. “Almost certainly that is what will happen if we can’t force the Thompsons to the bargains table.”

  “Bargains table is right. But we’ve still got a few cards up our sleeves,” Jason reassured him.

  De Haan seemed doubtful.

  When they finished their meal, de Haan insisted on paying for dinner. “You saved my life today. It is the least I can do.”

  “That’s my job,” Jason said. “But it was also my pleasure.”

  De Haan said stubbornly, “This is my pleasure.”

  “Well, okay. Thank you.”

  They walked out into the summery evening—still light at nine thirty—and de Haan drove Jason back to his hotel and dropped him off.

  Jason was hoping Sam’s dinner would be winding up soon. He ordered a drink in the Dry Fly Saloon, the bar located in the hotel lobby, and was just finishing his third Kamikaze—they served them in cocktail glasses there—when Sam strolled in a little after eleven.

  For a moment, Jason just enjoyed watching Sam unaware he was being observed.

  Granted, in a way that was always Sam because Sam had zero concern in anyone observing or not observing him.

  He was a big man. Big personality and big physical presence. Tall, shoulders like a warship, and long, muscular, runner’s legs. He looked good in a suit and even better naked, although at forty-six, a little bit of softness, roundness, wouldn’t have been unexpected. But nope, there was not one ounce of superfluous flesh on Sam Kennedy’s body. He ran every day, rain or shine, boxed, lifted weights, and worked out regularly. He watched his diet, did not smoke, and only drank to excess on weekends—which he rarely took, so that was moot.

  Maybe he was a little fanatical in the personal-upkeep department. That went with being a little fanatical about his mission. Mission being what most people referred to as a job.

  Which Jason couldn’t object to since his family and friends referred to him as a workaholic. In fact, that shared work…ethic? was probably one of the reasons they were able to maintain their long-distance relationship—if you wanted to call these long gaps of not seeing each other maintenance.

  Anyway, it seemed to Jason that these days Sam was a little more…maybe not relaxed. But more at ease? He even smiled at the girl behind the reception desk. Okay, he didn’t actually smile, but he did curve his cheek briefly.

  Happy.

  Was that the word? Was happy even in Sam’s vocabulary? Not that he ever seemed unhappy. The whole concept of happiness seemed too flimsy to stand up to the stainless-steel edges of Sam’s psyche.

  But yeah, if Sam were a mere mortal, Jason would have to say he did seem happier these days.

  Jason’s mouth quirked at the thought, he was still watching Sam, and Sam glanced over, spotted him—and smiled.

  An actual smile this time. It lit his eyes, softened his face.

  Jason’s heart did a little flip.

  Sam came across to him.

  “Hi. Have you been waiting long?”

  Jason shrugged. “Not really. How was dinner?”

  “Prolonged.” Sam studied him. “Did you want another drink?”

  Jason considered. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  Jason’s smile widened. “Me neither.”

  Chapter Five

  “Any word on our mutual friend?” Jason asked in the elevator as Sam loosened his tie.

  If Sam had news, Jason would have heard it by now, but he still had to ask.

  “No.” Sam was terse because he didn’t like having to admit failure. Even when the failure wasn’t his.

  Dr. Jeremy Kyser had disappeared, ostensibly after attending a conference in Toronto in April. Jason believed there was some question as to whether Kyser had ever been at the conference. He was convinced Kyser had sent a double in his place so that he could travel to Los Angeles. A card from Kyser had been hand-delivered to Jason’s Venice Beach bungalow while Jason was recuperating in Wyoming.

  But as Sam pointed out, there was no proof Kyser had not attended the conference himself. The card could have been delivered by someone in Kyser’s pay or even a friend.

  Did guys like Kyser have friends? Or were they more accurately called accomplices?

  Since the macabre greeting card, there had been no further word from Kyser.

  Which was good news, of course. As far as it went.

  Which was never going to be far enough, in Jason’s opinion.

  Sam said, “There’s an ongoing BOLO.” He hesitated. “They’re debating on whether to put him on the Most Wanted List.”

  Jason was aware of the debate, and he understood the reason for it. There was no actual evidence that Kyser was his assailant. There was no evidence Kyser had broken any law. There was not even an openly stated threat in the cards he had sent Jason. The only reason the idea was even being floated was because Jason was an FBI agent—and a politically connected one at that.

  “Maybe he lost interest,” Jason said.

  A guy could hope.

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he’d lost interest, he would not be in hiding.”

  “He has to know he’s a suspect in the attempted abduction of an FBI agent.”

  “That information hasn’t been released to the press.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, he’s aware he’s under investigation, but that’s only part of it. In my opinion, Ky
ser going into hiding indicates some kind of plan is in motion.”

  “Swell.” Jason thought it over. “Maybe he’s not hiding. Maybe he’s dead.”

  A guy could hope for that too.

  “Then his body would have turned up.”

  Jason resisted the urge to keep arguing. It sprang from the desire to talk away the threat. He would love to be able to convince himself the danger was not real and present.

  Unfortunately, it was.

  The elevator reached Sam’s floor, and the doors opened with a ding.

  Sam’s room looked like Jason’s. Same neutral palette color scheme, same buy-it-by-the-bushel artwork on the walls, same selection of nondescript furniture: desk with mirror, king-size bed, solitary “comfortable” chair, dresser with TV and coffee maker. A small balcony overlooked the tree-shaded parking lot and offered a view of the shadowy mountains. Sam’s still-packed suitcase sat on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  Sam tossed his key on the tray with the coffee mugs and packets of Sweet’n Low. He turned to Jason. “Hi.”

  Jason smiled into Sam’s eyes. “Hi.”

  They kissed, warmly, unhurriedly, and Jason felt everything in him unclench and relax.

  Sam kissed him again, said, “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you standing in that ranch yard this morning.”

  “Same.” Jason grinned. “That would have raised a few brows.”

  “A few.” Sam’s blue gaze was penetrating. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  Sam studied him for a moment, deciding for himself. Jason must have passed his psych evaluation because Sam asked, “Russell okay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s absorbed it yet.”

  Sam nodded, agreeing with that.

  “The brass flew in from Salt Lake.”

  “Of course.” Sam considered him. “You’re not worried about the shooting review, are you?”

  “No. It was a good shoot.”

  Sam said dryly, “Even if it wasn’t, it’s pretty rare the Bureau finds an agent at fault.”

  No kidding. In 228 shooting incidents ranging from 2011 to the present, the Bureau’s internal review process had only five times found that agents acted improperly in discharging their weapons, and none of those times had been fatalities. Granted, there were very good reasons for that. Unlike a city police force, FBI agents tended to be older, better trained, more experienced, and maybe more to the point, not out there patrolling the streets and responding to in-progress crimes and unpredictable situations. When the Bureau went in, they went in with overwhelming force and a well-thought-out strategy.