by Josh Lanyon
Sam considered this and shrugged. “That could be nothing more than good old networking.”
“Sure.”
The waitress delivered another round of drinks and asked how they were enjoying their meals.
Jason glanced down at his salad. He didn’t remember it arriving at the table. “Great,” he said, and she continued on her mission of mercy, drinks tray held high.
“It’s interesting, though.” Sam sipped his whisky sour, considering. “But Sandford didn’t last in his job this long by not knowing how things worked. He had to realize that shooting you would not stop any ongoing investigation into the Thompsons. In fact, it would probably accelerate things. So what would be the point?”
“What’s the point in killing de Haan?” Jason asked. “The investigation into the stolen art doesn’t end with his death. Not on his end and not on this end. The US government is involved now. There’s no stopping this case driving to its natural conclusion.”
“I agree.” Sam studied him. “Do you think Sandford is somehow involved in de Haan’s homicide?”
“I don’t know. If he hadn’t held that gun on me, I’d have said no chance in hell.”
Sam said, “It’s possible he didn’t know who you were. It’s possible the kid didn’t give him the full story or that he didn’t wait to hear the full story. It’s possible he went into that situation with a set of biases we don’t know about.”
Sometimes Sam’s dispassionate objectivity was aggravating, no lie. This was one of those times.
Jason said grudgingly, “True.”
“It’s also possible that the situation is exactly as you’ve described. We don’t know the extent of his personal loyalties.”
“Okay, yes, and here’s another thing—” Jason broke off in surprise as Sam reached out to cover his hand.
“You need to eat something,” Sam said quietly. His gaze was steady, serious. “You’ve had three drinks and nothing to eat.”
Jason flushed, withdrew his hand. “I’m not drunk.”
“I know you’re not drunk. You need to eat. You’ve had a hell of a day, and you’re running on empty. You can’t do this on nervous energy alone—and you know that.”
“Jesus,” Jason muttered. He took a couple of bites of lettuce and steak, managed to swallow, managed not to throw it up, and after a perilous couple of seconds, did feel better.
He scowled at Sam, who continued to watch him in that grave, measuring way. Sam smiled faintly.
“You can thank me later.”
“Uh, yeah, I wasn’t actually thinking of thanking you.”
Sam’s grin turned a little wolfish. “Then I’ll thank you later.”
“Anyway, as I was saying, the Thompsons aren’t in a bad position legally right now. They’ve reached a tentative agreement with the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum, the government’s official position for now is that they are cooperating… I don’t see that they have any motive for wanting to be rid of de Haan. Or me. And if they don’t have a motive, why would Sandford have a motive?”
“That’s my point,” Sam said. “It’s possible Sandford went into that situation with expectations we’re unaware of.”
“He was in stealth mode, that’s another thing.”
Sam made an inquiring sound.
“He arrived on scene Code 2, no lights, no siren. I’ll guarantee it. He was there way before the rest of his team.”
Sam shook his head. “There could be a lot of reasons for that.”
Could there? Jason couldn’t think of any offhand. De Haan’s battered head and staring eyes flashed into his mind, and his stomach lurched. He wished he hadn’t eaten. But no, Sam was right. He couldn’t run forever on caffeine and booze, not if things were going to continue like today.
Maybe he should take up smoking.
“Something funny?” Sam inquired.
“No. Definitely not.” He sighed and made himself eat a couple more bites. He was on the verge of getting smashed, and that would not be helpful.
Sam said, “So he threatened to arrest you, tossed you out of his crime scene—”
“Even the way de Haan was killed,” Jason interrupted. He couldn’t help circling back to the thing preying on him the most. “That crime scene.”
“Go on.”
“He was fully dressed, lying face up on the made bed. It looked like he’d been hit from behind. There was significant head trauma, but the blood was all—or at least mostly—on de Haan’s clothes. If he’d been attacked in that room, there was nothing to show for it. No blood spray, no overturned furniture, no soaked sheets… His laptop was there, his phone was there. No attempt had been made to hide him or set the scene to look like a robbery or anything else. I just don’t understand.”
“And you’re not likely to get a copy of the forensics report from Sandford.”
“Hell no.” Jason took another bite of salad, swallowed, said bleakly, “JDLR.”
Sam grimaced at the copspeak for Just Doesn’t Look Right.
“De Haan is a stranger in town. Hell, he’s a stranger in the country. What is the motive for murdering him?”
Sam said, “It sounds like you have a theory.”
“I wish. But if it’s a random attack, how does that happen? If it didn’t happen in his motel room, and it sure didn’t look like it to me—”
“You can’t know without seeing the forensics report.”
“Okay, fair enough, appearances can be deceiving, and it’s just supposition so far, but if he wasn’t killed in that room, if it was a random attack, why on earth would his murderer take him back to his motel room?”
“Possible theories?”
Jason grimaced. “He was killed in a mugging, and Police Chief Sandford had his body returned to his motel room so as not to upset the tourist trade.”
Sam snorted. “You don’t believe that.”
“Hell no, I don’t believe that. It has to do with van Apeldoorn v. Thompson. But then…like I said, there really isn’t any motive for murder.” He thought it over. “Except…”
“Except?”
“De Haan was convinced the Thompsons are concealing the rest of the items taken from Engelshofen Castle. What if he went looking for them?”
“Let’s say he did. Let’s say he even found something. It’s quite a jump from lying about looted art to committing murder.”
“I know. But those missing pieces are worth a lot of money. That Vermeer alone—”
“Even so. You’re talking about two very different psychological profiles.”
“But that kind of crossover happens. Shadow on the Glass—your own book—details a couple of cases where petty criminals escalate to violent, horrific crimes.”
“There’s a sexual component in all those cases that’s missing here. Your subjects are not the perpetrators of the original theft. They had zero involvement. At most, they’re guilty of concealing evidence, lying to federal investigators, and hiding stolen property. Correct?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“The murder of de Haan is a very different skill set, and—as you pointed out yourself—no principal in your case has a strong motive for eliminating your victim.”
“Crazy isn’t enough of a motive?”
“In my discipline, yes. In yours, no.”
“Hm. Well, I don’t know about that lack of motive theory,” Jason said. “If de Haan was correct and the Thompson family is hiding the rest of the treasure, I think several million dollars is a pretty decent motive.”
Sam’s pale brows rose. “Several million?”
“Yes. If the Vermeer is part of that treasure trove, it’s probably worth at least ten million. In fact, given the legendary status of the painting, I think it would be worth a lot more.”
“But this particular Vermeer is a myth, isn’t it?”
“No. Well, yes. The painting did exist at one time, but it could well be history now. Literally. But there was some painting in that treasure trove that fits the gene
ral description, which is pretty unique in paintings by Dutch Masters. Or anyone else.”
“How so?”
“Interior. In which a gentleman is washing his hands in a perspectival room with figures, artful and rare.”
“That’s the title?”
“Title and description.”
“And that’s a rare scene in Dutch art?”
“It is, yes. At least as far as gentlemen go. There’s a fair bit of ladies washing their hands. But really, there’s not a whole lot of handwashing in Vermeer of either sex. There’s some foot washing and some jug pouring, but no handwashing. The washing of hands was probably an allegory for cleansing the soul, but that just makes it all the more interesting.”
Sam made a you-don’t-say expression and took a swallow of his drink.
“I’m guessing he probably used the composition of Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window. He liked that window a lot. At first, I was thinking he might have used the same composition as in The Milkmaid or Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, but the addition of the ‘artful and rare figures’ would require a more elegant setting.”
“Sure,” Sam said in the tone of one humoring a difficult patient.
“Sorry. I’m babbling.” Jason rubbed his forehead. He really did want to believe in that Vermeer. And he really was very tired.
“Hey,” Sam said softly. Jason’s eyes flashed up to meet his gaze. “You’re not babbling. A little overstimulated maybe, but you’re making perfect sense to me. And I’m not saying you’re wrong about the motive behind de Haan’s murder. The Thompsons may not be a good fit, but a random act of violence seems even less likely.”
Jason’s smile was wry. “Thanks.”
“You want to get out of here?”
“Yeah, I do.”
On the drive back to their hotel, it occurred to Jason it might be very useful—even invaluable—to get Sam’s perspective on Captain Roy Thompson. Not so much as it related to his current and ongoing investigation, but for getting a reading on Thompson and his original crime. Even if Sam only did a cursory, off-the-cuff psychological profile on Thompson, it would give Jason better insight on what type of offender he was investigating. Specifically, how likely it was that Captain Thompson had acted alone or on his own recognizance, how prone his personality type might be to lying, the types of lies he might tell, what might motivate him to implicate an innocent party in his crime…
But not only did Sam have his own crushing workload—partly self-inflicted, but still—there was a high probability he was going to notice what no one else had so far: Jason’s personal connection to the case.
Okay, what if he did notice? It would be a relief at this point to be able to share his concerns. Even when they disagreed, there was no one whose opinion Jason trusted or whose judgment he valued more than Sam’s.
He continued to weigh the pros and cons as they walked into the hotel lobby.
Sam glanced at the elevators, said, “Your place or mine?”
“Yours,” Jason replied. “I’ve got Russell in the room next to me.”
The elevator doors opened, and Sam put his hand on the small of Jason’s back to usher him in. Jason stepped back and said, “Can I ask a favor?”
Sam’s brows rose. “Of course.”
“Will you look over the original case notes regarding Roy Thompson? I mean de Haan’s research as well as my own.”
“Of course.” Sam did a double take. “You mean now?”
“I know. It’s a lot to ask.”
Sam’s smile was crooked. “Not so much. Get the file, West. Let’s have a look.”
Jason brought the file up to Sam’s room. Sam, by then in jeans and shirtsleeves, had ordered room service from the bar and was pouring a drink. He held up the bottle of Canadian Club. Jason shook his head and handed him the folder.
Sam sat down at the desk, half turning his chair so that he could prop his feet on the end of the bed. He put his glasses on and began to read.
Jason sat on the foot of the bed to wait.
The blood-red sunset faded to twilight and deepened to dusk. The stars came out.
Jason walked out onto the balcony, watched for lucky stars for a while, failed to find any, and came back in. He circled the room.
Without looking up from the file, Sam said, “The pacing is distracting.”
“Right. Sorry.” Jason sat on the foot of the bed, smothered a yawn with both hands.
Sam sighed, raised his head. “Go to bed, West. I’ll join you as soon as I finish.”
Jason blinked owlishly at him. “You sure?”
Sam’s wry grin was answer enough.
“Okay. If I don’t wake up, nudge me.” He undressed down to his boxers, pulled the comforter back, and climbed between the sheets. He was pretty sure he was too wound up to sleep, but the idea of resting his eyes sounded like heaven.
Sam said absently, “Sleep well.”
The next time Jason opened his eyes, the sun was coming up. The room was misty with rose-gold light, and the quiet was bliss. Too early for maid service, too early for downtown traffic, and even the air conditioner was silent. He glanced over at the other side of the mattress.
No Sam.
He raised his head, blinking, and saw that Sam was still sitting at the desk, gazing out the window. The file folder was lying closed on the desk. His glasses were folded on top.
At Jason’s movement, Sam glanced at him.
He said in a quiet voice Jason had never heard before, “How is it you got permission to work this case?”
Jason sat up. He said cautiously, “What do you mean? De Haan approached me.”
“You know what I mean. MFAA Deputy Chief Emerson Harley is your grandfather.”
“Yes.” Okay, he had known Sam would probably recognize his grandfather’s name. And he had figured Sam would disapprove of his decision to work the case rather than recuse himself. He had also figured that Sam would recognize his efforts to stay objective—it was right there in his written analysis for Sam to read. He wasn’t concealing, covering, condoning. He was simply gathering the facts—all the facts. He had assured himself it would be okay, but there was a note in Sam’s voice that seemed to catch him mid-heartbeat.
Sam said in that deadly quiet voice, “You’ve got a conflict of interest as wide as the Danube. How did you convince Kapszukiewicz to grant an individual waiver in this case?”
Despite the sudden dryness of his mouth, Jason said steadily, “I didn’t. I didn’t disclose my potential conflict of interest.”
“You didn’t tell Kapszukiewicz and you didn’t consult an ethics official?” The lack of any…anything in Sam’s voice was far more alarming than if he’d raised his voice. “Did you discuss this with your squad supervisor, your SAC or your ADC?”
“No.” Jason rushed on to say, “Because there isn’t a conflict, Sam. Not really. I know my grandfather was not involved. He did not give Thompson those items or even permission to move them to a safer local.”
Sam started to speak. Jason kept talking, “I know what you’re going to say, but I have the advantage of having known the man. But that’s beside the point. I’m investigating this as I would any other case. You’ve got both my notes and de Haan’s in front of you. You can see I’m not trying to lead the inquiry in any direction; I’m not trying to conceal anything. It’s all there. I’m following the trail to wherever it leads. If that wasn’t the truth, I wouldn’t have asked you to look at the files.”
Granted, if he hadn’t been a little smashed and so tired he couldn’t see straight, he wouldn’t have asked Sam to look at the files. He could see now that had been a huge tactical error.
Sam put on his glasses, picked up his phone, and read aloud, “5 C.F. R. Section 2635.501 through 503 (Subpart E - Impartiality in Performing Official Duties). In addition to the impartiality regulation, 28 C.F.R. Section 45.2 prohibits a DOJ employee, without written authorization, from participating in a criminal investigation or prosecution if he ha
s a personal or political relationship with any person or organization substantially involved in the conduct that is the subject of the investigation or prosecution, or any person or organization which he knows has a specific and substantial interest that would be directly affected by the outcome of the investigation or prosecution.
“Tell me what part of that you don’t understand.”
Jason said stiffly, “I understand every part of that.”
“Tell me which part of that is news to you.”
“No part of that section of the Code of Federal Regulations is news to me.”
“Tell me the part you think doesn’t apply to you.”
Jason controlled his temper. “I know it all applies to me.”
Sam stared at him for a long moment. “Then what the fuck do you think you’re doing, West?”
In this context, “West” was not remotely a pet name.
“I think I’m working a case I am best qualified to investigate.”
Sam put a hand to his temple as though he thought his head was about to split open. He said in that same tight, terse tone, “You don’t get to make that call.”
Jason opened his mouth, but Sam overrode him.
“And if you think this isn’t a real problem, let’s phone Kapszukiewicz right now. Let’s explain the situation to her and see what she has to say.”
Jason closed his mouth.
Sam’s smile was humorless. “That’s what I thought. You’ve not only compromised yourself and your investigation, you’ve compromised me.”
Jason felt the blood drain from his face.
“Was it your expectation that I would keep this information to myself, or did you assume I’d contact your superiors?”
Jason said nothing. He was genuinely stricken.
Into his shattered silence, Sam said, “So you’re making me complicit in this clusterfuck.”
“That was…not my intent.”
“Good to know.” Sam’s eyes looked like ice chips.
Jason sucked in a sharp breath, said, “Call Kapszukiewicz, then. Go ahead. Tell her everything. I don’t care. But I didn’t— It was not my— If you believe I’m morally, ethically, fundamentally compromised, then whatever. I’m not asking you to cover for me.”