by Josh Lanyon
“I know why you’re here, of course. Quilletta has started selling Roy’s pictures, hasn’t she?”
Jason opened his mouth to answer, but Doc turned on the blender.
When the blender stopped, Doc said, “Don’t believe a word she says. That little gal lies like a rug. But you know, there’s not a mean bone in her body. And the things she’s had to contend with. Imagine: two husbands running off on her. The first bastard leaving her with a baby girl and a mountain of debt.”
Once again, Jason tried to speak, and once again Doc turned on the blender.
When the whirring stopped, Doc said, “Bert’s a different story. He’s a born and bred asshole.”
“I didn’t realize that took a lot of breeding.”
“More than you might think, Agent West. Homophobia is alive and well in the wild, wild West. I’ll give him credit, he’s been a good father to Patty and a good husband to Cindy. He wasn’t much of a nephew, though.”
Another burst of whirring ice.
Jason tried to hang on to his patience. That Spanish saying about the rich and the mighty? The elderly did not like to be rushed either.
The blender stopped, and Doc poured the frosty pale-green contents into two margarita glasses the size of small parachutes. He brought one to Jason, who took it with a sigh.
“Geronimo,” Doc said, holding out his glass.
Jason clinked rims and put his glass down.
“Hey, that’s bad luck,” Doc protested.
“Sir—”
“Call me Doc. Everyone does.” Doc slurped his margarita, licked his lips. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Agent West.”
“Doc, what can you tell me about Roy Thompson?”
“What did you want to know?”
“Anything would be helpful at this point. He’s a little bit of an enigma. What was he like? What kind of man was he?”
“I guess he was an ordinary guy. He had his strengths, and he had his weaknesses. Like the rest of us. He was loyal to his friends. He was generous to a fault. He was proud and didn’t forgive insults easily. And he was easily insulted. He was a good son and a good brother and a good uncle. He wasn’t a churchgoer. He wasn’t a hypocrite.” Doc shrugged like there was nothing else to say.
“When did you meet?”
Doc shook his head, picked up Jason’s untouched glass, and quaffed the margarita in two gulps.
“Roy and I met at Gallatin County High School. In Mrs. Kaynor’s tenth grade art class. And we stayed friends till the day Roy died. I guess we’re still friends.”
“Were you ever more than friends?”
“There’s nothing more than friends, Agent West. Friends are the most important relationships we have. They’re the family we pick.”
“Sure,” Jason said. “Were you ever romantically involved with Roy?”
Doc considered. “I don’t know if it was ever what I’d call romance. After the war, we used to keep each other company sometimes.”
“You were with the 101st where during the war?”
Doc said drolly, “Well, there was this little place called Normandy. You may have heard of it.”
Jason nodded, conceding a point. “Sure. And thank you for your service, sir. Were you ever in Bavaria?”
Doc laughed heartily at the idea, but Jason was pretty sure the Screaming Eagles had been in Bavaria. Maybe not in May 1945, but at some point. He’d spent a lot of time listening to his grandfather talk about the war.
“You and Roy didn’t serve together?”
“No. Different units entirely.”
Being in Bavaria was a link, but not enough of a link. Still, not necessarily a complete dead end.
“You and Roy shared an interest in art. Was Roy a painter too?”
“He wanted to be.” Doc said regretfully, “He just wasn’t very good.”
“But he taught art for a while. He collected art.”
“Sure.”
“Did Roy show you his art collection?”
“Sure. Roy showed everyone his collection.”
If that was true, that would sure make his and J.J.’s job easier.
“Can you describe what you remember of his collection?”
Doc said vaguely, “His taste was eclectic. There were some things he bought from local dealers, things he picked up at art shows, things he bought on eBay, though I used to warn him not to trust those descriptions.”
“And some things he shipped back from Europe during the war,” Jason said.
“Now that I couldn’t say.”
“That’s what his family says.”
“Like I told you, Agent West, I wouldn’t take anything Quilletta tells you too seriously.”
“What about you? Did you bring back a few souvenirs?”
Doc said dryly, “We all brought back souvenirs of one kind or another.”
“Did you bring back art?”
“No.” He was definite on that point.
“The Thompson family tried to sell a panel from a van Eyck altar piece,” Jason said. “That, along with a couple of valuable paintings they also put up for auction, was part of a trove of art looted by the Nazis and stored in Bavaria.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Doc said wonderingly. “Looks like some of Roy’s eBay buys paid off after all.”
Jason was both amused and exasperated. “Doc—”
Doc glanced at the clock above the refrigerator. “I don’t want to be inhospitable, but I’ve got to get to a doctor’s appointment in a little bit. Once you get to be my age, doctor appointments are the highlight of your social calendar. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
“Yes. There are plenty of other things I want to know. Did Roy ever mention the name Emerson Harley to you?”
Doc squinted as though watching a distant parade fade from sight. “I don’t think so.”
Was he telling the truth? He sounded sincere. Jason relaxed a little. “What about his letters? I understand you have those in your possession.”
Doc raised his brows. “Whose letters?”
“Roy’s.”
“His letters? What kind of letters?”
“Letters he wrote during the war.”
“We didn’t write each other during the war. You wouldn’t want to put anything on paper you wouldn’t say to a room full of people. The censors were watching everything.”
“Not to y—” Jason caught the glint in Doc’s eyes and realized he was being led down another rabbit hole. “He wrote letters to his family, some of which were published in your local paper.”
Doc said reminiscently, “That used to happen back then. People were eager to hear from the boys overseas. A lot of papers used to print letters like that. Roy had a colorful turn of phrase.”
“Right. But do you know what happened to the original letters? To Roy’s letters that weren’t published in the paper.”
“I guess the family would have those.”
“Bert says he believes you have his uncle’s letters.”
“Bert wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
Jason smiled. “You didn’t answer the question, Doc.”
Doc tipped his head, regarding Jason. “I’ll tell you what, Agent West. You come back and have a real drink with me some evening, and maybe I’ll tell you what you want to know.” He grinned. “Or maybe I won’t.”
So okay.
It could have gone better, but then it could have gone worse too.
Doc almost certainly had those letters of Roy’s. Whether he would hand them over remained to be seen. It wasn’t unusual to have to interview witnesses more than once in complicated cases, and this case was nothing if not complicated.
As Jason walked down the peaceful shady street to his rental car, he tried to decide how much of what Doc had told him was the truth. On the whole, he thought Doc had been candid. He had tried to avoid outright lies. But he had also prevaricated. He might not know everything, but he knew more than he had been will
ing to share.
He had not seemed to recognize the name Emerson Harley. That was a relief. Not conclusive, of course, but moving in the right direction.
He would take Doc up on his offer and come back another time. Sometimes it took a while to establish trust.
Unfortunately, a while was a luxury Jason did not have.
Chapter Nine
Jason had just turned the key in the ignition when he noticed a familiar blue compact rental car pull up across the street from Doc’s house.
De Haan got out of the car and crossed the street.
Jason turned off the car engine and went to intercept him.
De Haan spotted him, checked, and his narrow face took on a defiant look.
“What are you doing here, Hans?” Jason asked.
De Haan straightened his shoulders, as if bracing for the reprimand he knew was coming. “The same thing as you, I think.”
“The difference being I’m an agent of the federal government and you’re—”
De Haan burst out, “I’m not breaking any laws. I have a right to ask questions.”
“And these people have a right not to answer them. Look, it’s not about: do you have a right; it’s about what’s going to get the results we need. If you start duplicating my efforts, that’s liable to end with our witnesses shutting down and refusing to talk to either of us. They’re not eager to talk now.”
“I can’t sit and do nothing.”
“You can if it’s the best way to get results.” Jason hardened his heart. “Maybe it’s time to go home.”
“Go home!” De Haan looked aghast.
“Yes. You’ve done what you can do. You’ve got to let us take it from here.”
“I can’t do that. I will not do that.”
“Hans…” Jason struggled for restraint. He threw a quick look back at Doc’s house, and lowered his voice. “You came to me because you thought I could bring about your desired outcome to all your years of investigation, which is the return of these stolen artworks. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. But you’ve not been able to do this. At every turn they lie and deny. Our progress has stalled.”
“For God’s sake. I’ve just started. You’ve got to give me a little time. We’ve already managed to get Quilletta and Bert to agree to come back to the negotiating table for the van Eyck and the two paintings currently up for auction.”
“They have no choice. There is an injunction to stop the sale.”
“But they’re not appealing. That’s good. That’s what we want. They’re showing a willingness to cooperate with the museum.”
“They deny having the other items. They deny the Vermeer.”
“Yes. They do. Which is why I need to continue my investigation. I’m not taking them at their word. But I also don’t have proof that they’re lying.” Jason added, “And as far as the Vermeer goes, we don’t know that the painting described on the inventory list was a Vermeer.”
“It is the exact description.”
“It’s very similar, I know, but—”
“I can feel it’s here.” De Haan put his hand over his heart. “I know they have it.”
Jason was abruptly reminded of J.J. and his “sixth sense” about gay people. He sighed. “Okay, but that’s not proof.”
“Let me get the proof!”
“That’s my job. Not yours.”
“But I am not bound by the same rules and regul—”
“Stop,” Jason snapped.
De Haan stopped, looking startled and then a little wounded.
Jason said more evenly, “Stop and listen to me. We want the same thing.”
And that was true. Yes, Jason wanted additional things—proof that his grandfather was not involved in the theft—but the end goal was the restoration of these valuable treasures to their homeland. If somehow, unbelievably, his grandfather had been involved in the removal of these works of art, it was all the more important to Jason that he be the one to deliver them back to their rightful places. It was on him to make reparation, restitution.
“Hans, I’m on your side,” Jason said. “If you ‘know’ anything, you know that.”
De Haan met Jason’s gaze. His shoulders slumped. “Yes.”
“I know it’s not easy, but trust me a little longer. I promise I’ll keep you updated every step of the way, but you’ve got to let me do my job.”
De Haan wavered, clearly torn. “You’ll phone me this evening with everything you’ve learned?”
“Whether I’ve learned anything or not, I’ll call you and bring you up to speed.”
De Haan shook his head as though he did not believe it, but finally he turned away.
Jason watched until de Haan got into his car and drove off before returning to his own vehicle.
* * * * *
He was pushing through the glass front doors of the Bozwin satellite office when someone jumped out of the hedge and snapped his photo.
For a moment Jason was so enraged, he considered tackling the guy and beating him with his own camera. And it must have shown on his face because the reporter stepped back, spreading his arms like all’s fair in love and news, right?
And yeah, that was right, but Jason still wanted to kill him, not least because for one shocked instant, he had thought something very different was happening. He had not been ready for it, which scared him a little.
He had to stay ready. Kyser could come at him again at any time.
No harm, no foul. This had not been Kyser, this had not been that moment, but whether today’s photo op had to do with yesterday’s shooting or with word leaking out about why he and Russell were in town, having his picture in the paper was a bad idea.
Shit.
He continued into the office, made his way through the mini maze of cubicles and desks and offices. It was funny how every satellite office looked basically the same. Potted plants on desks, bulletin boards with calendars showing days checked off to the next vacation, framed family photos. By now even the people in the family photos were starting to look familiar.
As he passed the conference room, he glimpsed Sam leaning back in his chair, arms folded, watching approvingly as Agent Petty drew what appeared to be astrological symbols on a whiteboard.
It did not improve his mood any.
“Good, you’re back,” J.J. greeted him when he walked into their office. “How’d it go?”
“I’m going to have to talk to him again. De Haan arrived as I was leaving.”
“De Haan? What the hell with that guy? You’re going to have to do something about him.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. You’re supposed to be the diplomatic one. And if diplomacy fails, shoo—”
J.J. cut off mid-word. They stared at each other. J.J. picked up a notepad. “Here’s what I’ve got so far on our principals. Quilletta, get this, is a former Miss Montana. That’s her second claim to fame. She’s never had any trouble with the law. She’s an administrative assistant—a well-paid administrative assistant—at the Big Sky Federal Credit Union.”
Jason nodded, only half listening. He was still rattled by the incident outside the building. He hadn’t even noticed the man lurking in the hedge. How could he not have noticed? He had to be more vigilant.
“Her first husband ran off with his high-school sweetheart. They live in Arizona now. I’ve got a call in to him. Her second husband ran off with some bimbo he met online. I guess it wasn’t just online, because he got her pregnant, from what I hear. Anyway.”
Jason looked up. “What about Bert?”
“Clean slate there too. He married late in life. His wife’s a lot younger. Same age as his niece, as a matter of fact. She was pregnant when they met. That baby grew up to be Patty, the girl Brody Stevens was trying to kill, I guess, when he shot up the Big Sky Guest Ranch.”
Jason didn’t miss that trying to kill, I guess. That was the awful truth. Brody Stevens might not have meant to kill Patty or anyone else.
He might have just been trying to get her attention. That was the trouble when you mixed guns and bozos.
“What’s Bert’s credit report say?”
“He’s a better cowboy than he is a businessman. Even with the money he inherited from his uncle, they’re underwater financially. Everything’s mortgaged to the hilt.”
“Interesting. Okay. He needs the money the sale of the art would bring.”
“Urgently.”
“What about the niece? The great-niece, I mean. Quilletta’s daughter.”
J.J. consulted his notes. “Oh. Right. Terry “Baby” Mayhew. Thirty-nine, married, a stay-at-home…housewife, I guess. She doesn’t work. No kids. Her husband, Gary, is forty and owns what appears to be a profitable garage here in town. But here’s something interesting. Gary has a record.”
Jason looked up. “He does?”
“Yep. B&E with a side of burglary. He did time. He was twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one?” Jason weighed and discarded. “He hasn’t been in trouble since?”
“He hasn’t been caught since.”
“Point. And it demonstrates a willingness to break laws.” He thought back. “You said Quilletta had two claims to fame.”
J.J. chuckled. “She and Ronnie McCoy, husband #2, were king and queen three years running of the Annual Winter Squash Festival.”
Jason snorted. “And you tell me he ran off and left it all behind?”
“Sadly, it seems he gave up the squash for a squeeze.”
Jason laughed, shook his head.
J.J. eyed him, hesitated, said, “Has Phillips spoken to you?”
“No. Why?”
“She told me Duane Jones is going to be arraigned on attempted homicide charges.”
For a second, Jason could not remember who Duane Jones was. Oh. Right. The kid who had been driving the truck. The survivor.
No, one of the survivors.
“Sounds about right to me.”
“Yeah.” J.J. asked, “Do you think we should have heard something by now?”
“About what?”
“About yesterday? From the SIRG, I mean.”
“No, it’s too way soon. They’ll still be interviewing witnesses and going over the forensics. We probably won’t know for another month.”