The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

He reached for his jeans, and Sam caught him by the arm and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Mm,” Sam murmured regretfully. “I wish we had more time.”

Jason smiled, not bothering to answer. Sam released him, and Jason pulled on his jeans and T-shirt.

“What have you got going on tonight?” He picked up his ankle holster and Glock. He had started wearing the ankle holster at Sam’s insistence. Only on those occasions where he would not usually arm. He hated the damned thing with a passion and was convinced he was going to shoot himself in the foot one of these days, but if it made Sam happy…

Sam sighed. “Dinner with the SACs from four satellite offices.”

Jason sighed too. “Okay. Will I see you later?”

“God, I hope so.”

That was so heartfelt, Jason had to laugh. He was disappointed, but he had known there was a good chance the trip was going to go like this.

“Well, if you get away early, give me a call.”

Sam’s brows rose. “What’s early?”

“Anything before seven a.m. tomorrow.”

Sam snorted, pulled him in for a kiss.

After shaving, dressing in appropriate business attire in his own room, and arming, Jason texted J.J.

Lobby in 15, J.J. texted back.

Huh. Either things had gone very well the night before, or they had gone very wrong.

Jason had breakfast on his own—the Holiday Inn did a more than decent spread of pastries and DIY omelets if you were into eating—fueling up on coffee and answering the usual slew of emails that magically flooded his inbox at night.

He was tired, but not as tired as some mornings, and he was grateful to Sam for that. Mostly, his mind was on the upcoming meeting with Quilletta McCoy.

Having met Bert, the co-defendant in van Apeldoorn v. Thompson, he believed Quilletta was probably the driving force behind the efforts to dispose of Roy Thompson’s estate. Not only had Bert directed them to speak to his big sister, Bert’s taste in art seemed to run to comely Indian maidens and cowboys roping broncos. It seemed unlikely he’d recognize an Old Master if a Rembrandt in an ornate gilt frame fell on him.

Quilletta might not have known exactly what she had in Uncle Roy’s treasure trove, but she had been smart enough to know she had something. She had sent the van Eyck to Christie’s for appraisal, and after six months of researching provenance, Christie’s had returned the painting.

Too hot to handle, in other words. Even for Christie’s, w

hich had gained a reputation for not always exercising due diligence when investigating the provenance of works with dubious histories.

Whatever Christie’s had communicated to Quilletta, it had not discouraged her from trying to sell the work on the international art market—and two additional paintings as well.

He scrolled quickly through updates on active cases, frowned over news from Detective Gil Hickok, head of LAPD’s Art Theft Detail, that Shepherd Durrand was rumored to be back in the States—possibly good news if it was true, or possibly not, if Shepherd knew something about his legal standing that they didn’t. There were several new cases to consider: the theft of a Renoir from a residence on Catalina Island, yet another Internet art scam, and a complaint alleging a Beverly Hills vintage-wine merchant had committed fraud.

He was a little irritated—and would be first to admit, unreasonably—when he absently glanced up and spotted Travis Petty enter the lobby. Sam hadn’t mentioned his morning ride to the office was Petty.

That would be because Sam didn’t consider it worth mentioning, which was of course reassuring. Also further irritating.

Petty scanned the lobby, spotted Jason, hesitated—recognized that his hesitation was noticeable—and came over to Jason’s table.

“West.”

“Hey,” Jason said with a cordiality he didn’t feel. “Help yourself to coffee.”

Petty’s smile was off-hand. “No thanks. We’re having breakfast in a couple of minutes.”

We? Jason started to speak but caught himself. Maybe Petty was going to be at breakfast with Phillips and Sam. So what? Why not? The only legit cause he had for annoyance was at himself for having to struggle not to give in to irrational jealousy. He was not jealous by nature, so what the hell?