by Josh Lanyon
Baby said, “He forgave my uncle Bert, but he never would acknowledge Patty was his great-niece. He always said she wasn’t his blood.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
Baby said, “Uncle Bert is… People get the wrong idea about him. But even after all those things Uncle Roy said about Cindy, he was the one who visited Uncle Roy in the hospital the most. He used to argue with Mommy about letting Uncle Roy’s friends come and see him.”
“Uncle Roy’s friends?”
Baby said uncomfortably, “Gay people. Uncle Roy kept an apartment in Missoula, where he used to visit his gay friends. After he got sick and went into the hospital, Mommy wouldn’t have any of those people around him. Uncle Bert said what did it matter? But it did to Mommy.”
“What happened to the apartment in Missoula?” Jason asked.
She shrugged. “I think Uncle Bert and Cindy cleared it out. I don’t know.”
Jason said, “Thank you. You’ve been really helpful.” He held up the locket. “And I’ll see that this goes back to where it belongs.”
She nodded sadly, turned, and walked away.
Jason watched her for a moment. He glanced at the locket, and he couldn’t help smiling. Proof. The proof he had been waiting for.
The locket proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Captain Roy Thompson’s thefts were not limited to the altar piece and the paintings. He had sent the locket home too, which meant there was a very good chance every single one of the fifteen missing items on the Engelshofen Castle art-collection center’s inventory list had been removed by Thompson and no other.
Well, maybe one other.
He dropped the locket in his pocket and headed for his car.
The gray, glass-paned door opened, and Jason held up the bottle of Patrón Estate Release tequila. “Is this a bad time?”
Doc’s brows rose. “Not according to your friend there.” He grinned and unlatched the screen, pushed it wide. “Come in. I was just having supper. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Thanks, I’ve already eaten,” Jason lied.
He stepped past the bronze Indian chief doorstop and followed Doc down the black and white gallery of his glory days.
“The Screaming Eagles,” Jason said. “Now that was a tough outfit. The ‘tip of the spear,’ right? First Allied soldiers to set foot into occupied France. You guys were in Bavaria in May ’45. You drank wine and cognac from Hitler’s own cellars.”
Doc said, “You’re sure one for trivia. Did you know Jimi Hendrix was with the 101st?”
“Which means you were in Bavaria at the same time as the 3rd Infantry Division. The same time as your old pal Captain Roy Thompson.”
“Like the song says, it’s a small, small world.”
Doc led the way into the tidy kitchen. The table was set for one. Trout and potatoes were sizzling in butter in a frying pan on the stove.
“Fresh caught this morning. Do you like to fish, Agent West?” Doc asked.
“I do. I don’t have much time for it these day, but yes. My grandfather taught me. He was in Bavaria around the same time as you and Captain Thompson.”
Doc made a thoughtful sound, using a spatula to turn the fish over. “Is this that Emerson Harley fellow you were asking about the other day?”
“That’s right. He was Deputy Chief with the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program.”
“A Monuments Man.” Doc’s smile was wry. He glanced at Jason. “I think I know where this is headed.” He nodded at the table. “Have a seat. I’ll fix our drinks.”
Jason sat down at the table. A set of Delft-style windmill salt-and-pepper shakers sat on the polished walnut. He lifted the saltshaker and read the faint stamp: Occupied Japan. He put the saltshaker down.
Doc was busy pouring ice and tequila into the blender. “The secret to a great margarita is fresh juice.”
Jason’s gaze traveled idly around the well-scrubbed kitchen. The hardwood floor looked clean enough to eat off. He had been pretty sure of his theory when he’d arrived on Doc’s doorstep, but now he was starting to wonder.
“Were you a combat medic? Is that where the nickname came from?”
Doc laughed. “Nope. The nickname came because of my sterling ability to give Jerry a taste of his own medicine.”
“Ah.”
Doc turned on the blender. As the ice and liquid whirled around noisily, he studied Jason—and Jason studied him back.
Doc turned off the blender, poured the margarita mix into two sparkling glasses, and carried them to the table.
Jason took his glass, clinked rims.
Doc said, “Geronimo.”
Jason sipped the cold, tangy liquid. He was not a huge fan of margaritas, but this was pretty good. The fresh juice did make a difference.
“Do you always have a batch of these ready to go?”
“Sure. Always Be Prepared. That’s the 101st’s motto.”
Jason grinned. “Actually, that’s the Boy Scouts’ motto. The 101st’s motto is Rendezvous with Destiny, isn’t it?”
Doc considered. “Maybe it is,” he agreed. He sipped his drink, then swallowed the rest in a gulp.
Jason followed suit.
“Another?” Doc inquired.
“Yep.”
Doc made another batch, carried the pitcher to the table, and refilled their glasses. “I don’t care for salt. At my age, it’s a bad idea. And I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to poison you.”
Jason laughed. “Nah. You wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to get fancy. You’d just hit me over the head with that bronze doorstop before I left.”
Doc laughed too. “I like you kid. You’re a pistol.” He downed his drink, said briskly, “Let’s have another, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Chapter Seventeen
The funny thing was Jason did most of the talking.
He started out discussing his case—and his darkest suspicions (which amused the hell out of Doc)—and somehow wound his way to talking about his grandfather and how important it had seemed to clear his name and protect his legacy, when the truth was Emerson Harley would have brushed all that tarnished-reputation stuff aside as nonsensical bullshit. One of his favorite phrases. Emerson Harley would have said the successful work he had done during the war was all the legacy any man needed.
“No,” Doc said solemnly, raising his glass and staring Jason in the eye. “Nope. He’d have said you’re his legacy.”
Of course, Doc was outdrinking Jason two-to-one at that point.
“I don’t know why Roy’s story changed over the years,” Doc admitted. “I don’t know why he did half the things he did. It wasn’t to get rich. He didn’t care that much about money. He didn’t sell any of the treasures. I can tell you that. He’d be mad as hell to know they’re being sold off now. He did give things to people. He gave his mama that pair of emerald earrings. Now what was she supposed to do with those? A nice little churchgoing lady like her? I think she wore them to Christmas once and gave them to the Goodwill.”
Jason choked on his drink and started coughing.
Doc shrugged. “Roy was pretty upset, but I don’t know what he expected. I do know why he thought he couldn’t give the things back. There just wasn’t any way without it coming out what he’d done. No way was that going to happen.”
“Where are the rest of the paintings?” Jason asked.
“I have no idea where they are now. I can tell you where they were at one time. There’s a shed at the back of Roy’s property with a trapdoor leading down into a basement. He had that room all fixed up like his own personal little museum.”
“This is the property Quilletta inherited?”
“That’s right. She and Roy were always thick as thieves.” Doc snorted.
“One of them killed de Haan.”
“No.” Doc shook his head. “I can see why you might think so, but no. There’s not enough backbone in all of them put together.”
Jason let the backbone
comment slide. He didn’t think hitting a man from behind required a lot of courage.
He told Doc about his belief that Police Chief Sandford was somehow involved, and Doc shot that down too.
“No damn way. There’s no way Roy included Sandford in his will. He couldn’t stand Sandford. Never liked him. Thought he was a bully and a cheat.”
“Well, where did he form that opinion? Maybe that’s a clue right there.”
Doc shook his head. “I don’t think so. No.”
Jason was not drinking nearly as much as Doc, but he was drinking—clearly—because then he told Doc about the shootout at the Big Sky Guest Ranch and his suspicion that Bert had phoned Sandford even before the bullets started flying. From there he got onto the topic of Russell and his difficulty in dealing with having killed someone, and his own fear of getting shot again.
“You’d be stupid not to be afraid,” Doc told him. “Were you crying and pissing yourself?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Then you were fine. You were doin’ great.”
And somehow—so maybe he’d had more to drink than he realized—from there Jason got onto the topic of Sam and his own mistakes in their relationship.
“He let you down,” Doc said, slurring ever so slightly. “You came to him for help, and he turned on you and threw you to the wolves. Did he help you? No. Forget about him. Heartless bastard. I hate sonofabitchin’ heartless bastards.”
Jason’s phone rang, and they both blinked at it like phones were a new invention.
Jason picked his cell up, peered at the ID display.
“I should take this.”
Doc waved him off and gloomily considered his empty glass.
Jason stepped out into the backyard. The cool night air felt good against his flushed face. The air smelled of flowers. A fountain chattered softly from the center of a rock garden. Moonlight gilded the treetops, blanching the roses and other blooms. He could hear the sound of the neighbors’ television drifting over the wooden fence.
He clicked to accept the call.
“Hey,” J.J. greeted him. “Maybe you’re not as crazy as I thought you were.”
“Thank you for calling,” Jason said. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better tonight.”
“Yeah, but I know the connection between Sandford and the Thompsons. Well, Quilletta and Sandford.”
“What’s the connection?”
“They used to be a hot item in this town.”
“When?”
“About eight years ago. They were having a not-so-secret affair. It broke up Sandford’s first marriage and it’s probably part of the reason the Winter Squash King ran off with his girlfriend.”
Jason said slowly, “That’s the second husband, right? The one you haven’t been able to get in contact with?”
“Right. I mean, eight years is a long time ago, and the affair has been over for nearly that long. But there is a connection. You were right.”
“Are you out with Martinez?”
“Yep. How do you think I learned all this?”
Where would law enforcement be without local gossip?
“Okay. This is helpful.”
“I know it’s helpful,” J.J. said. “I just told you it was helpful.”
Maybe J.J. had had a drink or two himself that evening.
“Right. Well, we’ll figure out our game plan tomorrow.”
“You’re welcome,” J.J. said and hung up.
Jason walked into the house and found what appeared to an old-fashioned hatbox sitting in the middle of the table.
“This is what you wanted,” Doc told him. “I’m not saying your answers are in here, but any answers in here will be yours.” He nodded solemnly.
Jason nodded too, because at the moment it did seem to make a lot of sense.
“I should be going,” he said. “I want to check something out while I’m thinking about it.”
“You have a rendezvous with destiny,” Doc pronounced.
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Go east and take the first right onto South 8th Avenue,” Doc advised. “Follow that for about .19 of a mile. The house will be on your right. Light green with dark green trim. Peaked roof. It’s sitting on three lots. The shed is in the back. There’s alley access. That’s going to be your best bet.”
“Got it.”
“You can let yourself out.”
Jason nodded. He retraced his steps down the hallway with the black and white gallery of Doc’s life in pictures, stepped over the Indian chief doorstop he’d suspected Doc might try to brain him with, unlocked the door, then closed it behind him.
A familiar SUV with official police insignia was parked in front of Quilletta’s house.
Every light in the place seemed to be on, and Jason could see right through the ruffly kitchen curtains to where Quilletta was crying at the table while Chief Sandford stood over her, waving his arms and shouting.
Keeping an eye on the two framed in the window, Jason pulled his cell phone out.
“Jesus Christ. You have horrible timing,” J.J. informed him.
“Where are you?”
“The last place I want to hear from you.”
“Oh. Sorry. The thing is, I think I need some backup here. I’m over at Roy’s old house. I got a tip that the paintings are in a shed basement in the back of the property.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” J.J. demanded, now sounding fully awake and sober. “You can’t go in there. You don’t have a warrant.”
“I know. Before we try to get a warrant, I want to see if there’s even any point. Thompson may have disposed of everything but the altar piece and the two paintings.”
J.J. was silent for a moment. “You know, this isn’t how it’s done.”
“I know.”
“It’s unlawful entry, West. At the least. If you’re caught breaking in, your career is over.”
“My career is over anyway. If there’s any chance of getting that treasure back, I’m willing to take it.”
“What are you—? And if I’m caught, my career is over too!”
“Don’t get caught. Are you coming or not?”
“You asshole. Yes, I’m coming! Don’t step foot on that goddamned property till I get there.”
The shed was locked. That was not a surprise.
The surprise was that the key was on top of the doorframe. All Jason had to do was reach up, feeling along the frame until he found the chill bite of metal.
He glanced over his shoulder. He could still hear Sandford’s voice floating down the unlit garden, but trees blocked his view of the house. Sprinklers were shooting across the lawn, water drops turning silver in the moonlight as they bounced off shrubs and grass.
Jason unlocked the door. It opened on soundless hinges.
He stepped into the dark interior, switched on his high-powered pocket flashlight. The beam played over what appeared to be an artist’s studio. An easel stood near the window. Blank canvases rested against one wall. Painted canvases leaned against the opposite wall. From what he could see, the blank canvases looked to be more valuable.
Something glinted in the spotlight created by his flashlight. A pair of round spectacles lying by the floorboard near the door.
His heart jumped. He took his phone out and snapped a photo. He did not move the spectacles. He was doing his best not to move or touch anything he didn’t have to.
A Bokhara red rug was positioned in the center of the room. Jason knelt, flipped the rug back, and the trapdoor was right there.
His heart pounded. If this was what he thought it was?
This was probably how Carter had felt, stepping into Tutankhamun’s tomb. Or Marcel Ravidat falling down the hole that had turned into the Lascaux caves.
He felt for the recessed handle, lifted it up, and raised the door. It opened without so much as a squeak. A cold gust of funky air rose up. His nostrils twitched at the smoky smell of faded turpentine, varnish, walnut oil, old wood�
�and something weird, as bitter as wormwood.
What the hell was that?
Cement steps led down into what appeared to be a large and very dark basement. The reach of moonlight did not stretch beyond the top of the steps.
Jason shone his flashlight down the stairs. He could not see anything in the gloom.
He started down.
When he reached the bottom, he directed his flashlight beam around the long, rectangular room. His heart nearly stopped as he took in walls lined with gold-framed paintings.
A lot more than nine paintings.
Scenes from myth and legend and everyday life. Laughing faces, haunted faces, abstract faces. Pageantry, poverty, and everything in between. The story of mankind told in the poetry of paint and canvas.
“Jesus…” he whispered. A lump filled his throat. His eyes stung. It was humbling. Standing there in the presence of these both familiar and unfamiliar masterpieces, he was almost overcome by a sense of reverence.
Slowly, he circled the room, scanning its contents, and two things immediately struck him.
One was the painting of a young man with long dark hair washing his hands in front of a stained-glass window. The wooden-framed painting had been placed on a decorative display easel—a work of art in its own right—and the work was unmistakably that of Vermeer.
The other thing that stood out for Jason was the skeleton tied to a chair.
Chapter Eighteen
Proof that he was Emerson Harley’s grandson, Jason went to examine the painting first.
Partly that was because he assumed the skeleton was a vintage medical skeleton. Maybe Roy’s taste for antiquities stretched to the macabre.
Partly that was because… Vermeer.
He felt almost dizzy gazing at the familiar face of the man in the portrait. Familiar because it was the same model who had posed for The Astronomer and The Geographer. Same absorbed expression, same long, sensitive face, same expressive hands. He wore a similar scholarly dressing gown of green-blue. The room was the same as in the other portraits. Same corner cupboard, same twin globes—one celestial, one terrestrial—but the desk with its maps and books had been replaced by a table with a gleaming basin and jug. A Grecian-style statue, an armillary sphere atop a painted trunk, and a telescope crowded the background.