by Josh Lanyon
“Yes, this Emerson Harley, the officer who gave him permission to take the works from the castle. We know he was complicit in the theft,” de Haan said.
So much for hoping de Haan might have forgotten the name of that mysterious officer. It was like discovering you had stepped on a landmine—again. Everything in Jason froze…and then defrosted in a wave of anger. But that was irrational. De Haan wasn’t the bad guy. He was simply drawing logical conclusions from the information available to them. He was thinking like a good investigator.
“We don’t know that,” Jason said. “We don’t know there was any such officer.”
“I agree,” J.J. said. “That sounds like a bullshit excuse to me.”
“What are you saying? We have the man’s name,” de Haan objected. “Emerson Harley. The McCoy woman says there is proof.”
Every time he heard his grandfather’s name, Jason flinched internally. He tried to clarify without actually stepping into the zone of possible obstruction. “Harley existed, yes, but there would have been other officers around too. We don’t yet have proof that any of them were involved with Thompson.”
“It’s Thompson’s word against whatever this Harley will say,” J.J. agreed.
“Harley is dead,” de Haan said dismissively. “Perhaps you are right. But I believe Quilletta is lying. She is hiding something.”
For an instant Jason was paralyzed by the realization that de Haan had done preliminary research on his grandfather—and could easily have stumbled across Jason’s personal connection.
He missed the next bits of conversation, before managing to say, “She might not be lying. She might not have all the facts to begin with. I think she’s legitimately afraid of further lawsuits.”
Bert’s…friend comment popped into his mind. Bert’s expression had been…what?
He added, “Bert Thompson, however, is hiding something, that’s for sure.”
And not just the obvious something. Something more. Something Quilletta didn’t know?
“Bert?” J.J. sounded surprised.
Jason nodded.
“I didn’t get that. He didn’t say more than ten words the whole time.”
“We must get a search warrant,” de Haan said. “We must search Thompson’s house for the missing treasure.”
“Thompson’s house is Quilletta’s home now,” J.J. said. “She got the house. Bert got the flower shop.”
That was one of the things that worried Jason. Roy Thompson had not been a rich man, but he’d been comfortably off. In addition to real estate and a small but lucrative business, he’d been able to leave his niece and nephew each a hundred thousand dollars. Was that financial cushion the result of quietly selling off stolen art treasures over the years?
De Haan thought not. De Haan had been tracking these individual pieces for decades, waiting for them to show up on the international art market, and he believed the treasure was still intact. But then, he wanted to believe it was intact. They all did.
“Anyway, we’d have to have a hell of a lot more evidence than we currently do to get a search warrant,” J.J. said. “No judge is going to grant one based on what we’ve got so far.”
De Haan turned to Jason.
“Agent Russell is right,” Jason said. “The Thompsons are ostensibly cooperating with us. We don’t have any proof they possess the missing items. If they do have them, why wouldn’t they have put them up for sale at the same time as the altar piece and the two paintings?”
“They may have been testing the waters.”
“Maybe. Or they’re telling the truth. They don’t have the rest of the treasure.”
“Then the accomplice has them,” J.J. said. “We need to figure out who that guy was.”
Jason said, “Okay, again, we don’t know that there was an accomplice. And even if there was, we don’t know if it was a fellow soldier—”
“But it was,” de Haan insisted. “It was the officer Harley. We must find out more about this mystery man. If we speak to his family…”
“Emerson Harley,” J.J. mused. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“No!” Jason burst out.
De Haan and J.J. gaped at him. Jason controlled himself with an effort.
“What I mean is, yes, of course, we have to follow up on that, but we can’t afford to make assumptions. It’s very unlikely Thompson’s commanding officer, let alone a member of the MFAA, gave any such order. If you understand anything about the Monuments Men, you’ll see it’s…it’s ludicrous.”
“Most of the thefts were by officers,” de Haan pointed out. “Officers had access to places enlisted men could not go. They could move items without being questioned.”
That, unfortunately, was true.
“Not the MFAA,” Jason said. “These weren’t regular soldiers. They were art historians, museum curators, archivists, teachers, artists. A lot of them were too old to be drafted, so they enlisted. They voluntarily chose to go into battle zones, to risk their lives so that they could protect the art treasures of the world. And they stayed on after the war to oversee the return of something like five million cultural objects. There were Monuments Men in Europe all the way to 1951.”
De Haan shrugged. J.J. was still studying Jason. “What’s your theory?”
“I don’t have a theory yet. I just— We have to remember that if Thompson had an accomplice, it wasn’t necessarily someone in his squad. Or regiment. Or even division. And it needn’t have been a friend. Or maybe it was a friend but in another division. It could have been someone in, I don’t know… The shipping depot. When he started mailing all these parcels home, why did no one question it? Or, it could have been a Bavarian national.”
“A girl,” de Haan said. “Perhaps there was a romance—”
“Nah,” J.J. said. “I think Thompson was gay.”
Momentarily distracted, it was Jason’s turn to stare.
J.J. shrugged, explained to de Haan, “I always get partnered with gay agents. I have a sixth sense about this.”
Jason’s mouth dropped open.
“No, but seriously,” J.J. said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously. I knew you were gay the minute I met you.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sexth sense?” Jason retorted, resisting the impulse to conk J.J. with the metal napkin holder.
De Haan just looked confused. He smiled uncertainly at Jason, who shook his head.
J.J. continued blithely on with his theory. “So yeah, I think maybe there was a boy in Bavaria.”
The Boy from Bavaria. It sounded like a schlocky spy movie from the 1970s.
“Anyway,” Jason said, “mystery accomplices aside, the other problem we’ve got is the Thompsons have lived here forever. They have roots in the community; they’re respected business owners and neighbors. We’re the feds, and you’re working for a foreign country. That’s how a local judge is liable to look at this if we can’t supply a hell of a lot more probable cause for a search warrant.”
“What are you saying?” de Haan demanded. “The fight is over?”
Jason said, “No. Of course not. We’re moving forward on recovering the items they put up for sale. And we’re going to continue to investigate what happened to the items still unaccounted for. If it looks like we have grounds, we’ll get a search warrant.”
“I will tell you what will happen to those items. The Thompsons will sell them quietly, secretly, through other channels.”
J.J. looked at Jason.
“I don’t think so,” Jason said. “Not immediately. They think—and rightly—that we’re watching them. If they do have the items and believe they’re successfully hiding them from us—and that’s a huge supposition right there—they’ll wait, let the heat die down before they try anything else.”
De Haan was not happy with this. “I don’t think the Thompsons are as clever as you are, Jason. I think they are prone to act quickly and foolishly.”
“Maybe, but for now
our hands are tied,” Jason said.
And with that de Haan had to be content. Or discontented. J.J. finished his late breakfast, they promised de Haan they would be in touch, and Jason and J.J. left the restaurant.
“Something wrong?” J.J. asked as they were driving back to the office.
Jason glanced at him. “No.”
“Because you seem off.”
“I do?”
J.J. glanced around as though looking for someone in the back seat. He turned to Jason. “Yes. You do. You’ve been tense and short-tempered ever since we left the lawyer’s office. I thought you were going to take poor Hans Brinker’s head off a couple of times at breakfast.”
Jason tried to summon a smile. “No. Just…short of sleep.”
“It’s the Vermeer, right?” J.J. was sardonic. “You had your heart set on restoring a lost Vermeer to the world.”
“That would have been nice,” Jason agreed.
“Well, maybe it’s still out there somewhere.”
“Maybe.”
J.J. gave him another of those sideways looks. “Should I book our flights back to LA?”
“LA?” Jason said blankly.
J.J. made a sound of disbelief. “You remember LA, West. Tall buildings, smog, traffic, our homes and family and friends. Our jobs.”
“Right. LA,” Jason said. “Um, I think we should hold off for a day or so. We still have people to interview, including Edgar Roberts. If he’s of an age with Thompson, maybe they were overseas at the same time. We have to interview Thompson’s great-niece—now there’s something. Thompson had two great-nieces, but only one was mentioned in his will.”
“Bad blood between Bert and his uncle?”
“Maybe. But Bert’s in the will.”
J.J. shrugged. “Okay. Something to follow up, I guess.”
“And we have to interview his friends and neighbors and employees to find out what, if anything, they saw or heard about his treasures.”
“Seriously. Please stop calling them treasures. I feel like one of the Hardy Boys.”
Jason gave a reluctant laugh. “Also, I want to check the newspaper morgue. See what information we can get on possible accomplices.”
“This mysterious commanding officer of Thompson’s.”
“Right.”
“Those archives have to be digitized,” J.J. said. “We shouldn’t have to go through everything here.”
“Are you in a hurry to get back?” Jason asked.
“Hell no. But if you’re delaying on my account…”
That was almost funny. “Of course not.”
Seemingly unconvinced, J.J. glanced away from the road to scrutinize him. “You do think that Vermeer is here,” he said slowly, shrewdly.
Much, much better that J.J. focused on that angle than giving serious consideration to other possibilities.
“It’s not impossible. But either way, there are still plenty of avenues to explore. Thompson may have insured the items, he may have tried to have them appraised, he may have attempted to research their background. All those efforts would leave footprints.”
“And he may have known better than to do any of that.”
“Yes. But what we do know for sure is he was a collector, and one thing all collectors have in common is a desire to show off their collections. If Thompson did bring back other treasures, there’s a good chance he showed them to someone.”
Back in the office, J.J. headed straight for Martinez’s cubicle, and Jason headed straight for the restroom to splash some cold water on his face.
A glance at his dripping reflection in the mirror over the bank of sinks was not reassuring. Hopefully, some of it was the greenish fluorescent lighting, but he looked very tired and very pale. His eyes were fever-bright in his drawn face. No surprise J.J. was wondering what was up with him.
He bent over the sink, splashed on more water, and the door to the restroom swung open and Sam strolled in.
“Hey, how goes it?” Jason said.
Proof of Sam’s preoccupation, he only then seemed to notice who the restroom’s other occupant was. “Fine. You?”
Jason grabbed a paper towel and mopped his face. “Fine.”
There must have been something in his voice because Sam said, “You okay?”
“Yep!”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, of course.” There was nothing like people thinking you were acting oddly to make you start acting oddly. Jason winked. “Maybe a little sleep deprived.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you this evening.”
“Yes. Looking forward to it.” Jason delivered a smile so brilliant, he nearly broke his face, and exited the bathroom.
J.J. had that cat-who-ate-the-canary look when Jason strode into their office.
He started to speak, but Jason cut him off. “Hey, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we split up this afternoon? That way we can cover more ground quickly.”
J.J.’s smug smile faded. He gave an irritated sigh. “I knew it. I’m getting stuck going through the newspaper archives.”
“No. Not at all,” Jason said. “I’ll take the archives.”
J.J. rolled his eyes. “Oh. Right. Because you don’t trust me to go through the archives on my own.”
Would this be funny one day? Because right now…not.
Jason said with strained patience, “If you want to tackle the morgue—”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Exactly. So I’ll take the archives, and you can start laying the groundwork for getting that search warrant.”
“Which I’m going to do how?”
“Why don’t you start by hunting down everyone who worked with or for Thompson? I think it would help if we had a better picture of who this guy was. It would give us insight into whether he was someone who might have taken an accomplice or been chosen as someone else’s accomplice. It might tell us whether it was more likely he was working alone.”
J.J. nodded thoughtfully. “Before the war, he taught art at a local college. After the war, he opened a florist shop. Why the career change?”
“Right. Exactly,” Jason said. “We should find out more about his family. And of course, the main thing we want to know is did he ever talk about his collection with his employees, friends, lovers, enemies, neighbors, mailman…”
“Why would he?”
“Because that’s what collectors do.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. So, can you handle that?”
J.J. said, “I can handle that, West. Keep your hair on.”
“Great. Let’s synchronize our watches—” He snorted at J.J.’s expression. “Kidding. But keep me posted, okay?”
“Where are you going? The newspaper?”
“Eventually, yeah. Maybe I’ll have a word with Edgar Roberts first.”
J.J. frowned. “You don’t want to interview him together?”
“Covering more ground, right?” Jason reminded him.
He shrugged. “Your call.”
“Keep me posted.”
“You said that.”
Jason let the door to the office swing shut behind him.
Chapter Eight
Edgar “Doc” Roberts was trimming the wall of yellow roses surrounding his picture-perfect front yard when Jason parked before the gray and white 1920s bungalow, just a block away from busy Main Street in downtown Bozwin.
Roberts was a tall, slightly stooped elderly man in baggy denims and a faded turquoise Hawaiian shirt. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and lime-green flip-flops, and carried a deadly looking pair of gardening shears. As Jason got out of the car, Doc pulled his hat off, wiped his face on his arm, and replaced the hat.
“Howdy,” he called as Jason strode up the flagstone walk.
“Hi.” Jason flashed his badge. “Special Agent West, FBI. May I have a word, sir?”
“I figured you were some kind of cop.” Doc took the proffered leathe
r wallet. “FBI. Well, isn’t that something?” He took his time examining Jason’s ID and badge. “Looks just like it does in the movies,” he marveled.
Jason smothered a grin. He suspected Doc was pulling his leg a little, but he had a soft spot for old-timers like Doc. They reminded him of his grandfather.
Finally, Doc handed back the wallet. “I’ve been expecting you. Well, someone like you. Why don’t we go inside where it’s cooler?”
Jason followed Doc up the stone walk to the wide wooden porch, and they went inside. It was cooler inside, and the house smelled agreeably of lemon furniture polish and linseed oil.
The interior was as pristine as the front yard, also unexpectedly and charmingly updated with distressed hardwood floors, brick-colored accent walls, and faux brick panels. A geometrically precise arrangement of framed black and white photos adorned the entryway. Jason examined several shots of a grinning younger version of Doc.
“You were with the 101st Airborne?”
Doc looked surprised. “You know your military insignia. That’s right. The Screaming Eagles.”
Doc had been a paratrooper. He had not been with the 3rd Infantry Division when they took Engelshofen Castle. So that was one obvious possibility eliminated.
Jason considered a couple of wooden-framed oil paintings on the wall. Europe. Maybe Germany. Maybe Bavaria. Maybe not. They were nice, though. Not Old Masters nice, but pleasing to the eye and better than the usual amateur effort.
“Are these your work?” Jason asked.
Doc laughed delightedly. “Now how did you know that?”
“I’m FBI. We know everything,” Jason deadpanned.
Doc guffawed. “That’s a good one. What would you like to drink, Agent West? I’ve pretty much got everything. Would you like to try a Montana margarita?”
“Water would be great,” Jason said. “Ice tea if you have it.”
Doc stopped beaming. “Now, I meant a real drink. I have to tell you: I don’t trust a man who doesn’t like to drink.”
“I wouldn’t trust a man who drinks on the job,” Jason retorted.
Doc burst out laughing again. He beckoned Jason into the kitchen, where he set about throwing ice and tequila and margarita mix into a blender.