The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Where the hell had he been, then?

Jason squatted down and studied the well-worn soles of de Haan’s tennis shoes. It looked like bits of green-black something were stuck to the welt. Weeds? Moss? Grass? Again, not his area of expertise.

Their best bet would be to access his phone records to see if his cell had pinged off any nearby towers, but that would take time and a court order. And, despite the fact that de Haan had been his complainant, there was no their. This was not going to be Jason’s case. This homicide would go to local law enforcement.

Jason’s gaze fell on the framed photo of a smiling blonde woman in an oval rosewood frame. That had to be Anna, the art teacher who was waiting for Hans to finish chasing his lost treasure and settle down so they could raise a child together.

His stomach knotted. He shook off the reaction impatiently. De Haan had not been afraid to take risks. If he had known the potential cost of his quest, it was highly probable he would have kept right on. He had not been deterred by the shootout at Thompson’s ranch.

Even so, art historian was not supposed to be a dangerous profession.

But was de Haan’s death linked to his search for the Engelshofen Castle treasure?

His laptop was still there. His phone was still there. And now that the federal government was involved, the investigation he had initiated would not stop with his death.

Jason turned to study the room a final time and noticed the thin band of light beneath the bathroom door.

He drew his weapon, opened the door and, of course, despite the light left on, the small room was empty. There was a window over the toilet; one of those old-fashioned jalousies with glass slats—at least, judging by the remaining hardware. The slats and the strips of hardware had been removed, leaving a perfect empty square of an entrance. Not a large entrance. Though the window was wider than most found in motel bathrooms, it was probably not big enough to stuff a body through.

The sound of approaching sirens drifted through the opening.

Jason cast one last look around the bathroom, but there was nothing of note. Sink, toilet, and tub looked clean. De Haan had used baby shampoo, complimentary soap, and baking-soda toothpaste. The towels, including the ones crumpled on the floor, were bone dry, as was the used washcloth hanging over the shower-curtain bar.

Jason stepped out of the bathroom and froze. A black silhouette filled the door to the motel room. Even with sunlight shining in his eyes, Jason could make out the glint of metal buttons on a uniform and off the barrel of the weapon pointed at him.

The cop didn’t speak, and something in that stark silence raised the hair on the back of Jason’s neck. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man in the doorway was weighing whether to shoot him. He also knew without a shadow of a doubt who that man was.

“Seriously?” he said, and his voice shook. He was so furious, he almost forgot to be afraid. “You’re pulling your gun on brother law enforcement? If you’re aiming at me, you better pull the trigger, asshole.”

“I saw his badge,” the kid from the front desk said faintly from the landing.

After another second that lasted a year, the cop holstered his weapon.

“You’re no brother of mine, jackass,” Police Chief Sandford said. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“You know goddamned well what I was doing in here,” Jason snapped. He was still buzzing with adrenaline and mad as hell.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Sandford said. “You don’t have any business here. You know goddamned well you should have waited for us before you entered. So, if you don’t want to be arrested for unlawful entry, interfering with a police investigation, tampering with evidence, and anything and everything else I can think of hitting you with, get the hell off my crime scene.”

Chapter Thirteen

“You really believe Sandford would have shot you if the desk clerk hadn’t been watching?” Sam’s tone was neutral, his gaze watchful.

“He was considering it. That I do believe.” Jason swallowed his Kamikaze and set the shot glass on the table. Though he’d had several hours to process his close call, he still felt rattled.

They were eating dinner at the Club Tavern and Grill. Jason had figured Sam would like the dark, retro steakhouse vibe of the place, and he was right. As for himself, he didn’t care where they went. He was too wound up to eat. As days went? First, there had been the news of the wrongful-death lawsuit, then word about Kyser, then his compl

ainant had been murdered, and then he’d nearly been shot by a goddamned cop. Not a great day. Not his usual workday Wednesday.

Even having spent the last few hours finding out everything he could about Police Chief Sandford, Jason couldn’t understand why things had nearly gone down the way they had that afternoon at the Big Sky Motor Lodge. Especially since there really didn’t seem to be anything sinister in Sandford’s personal or work history. Married twice—still married to the second wife—four kids, two in college, one mortgage, and the normal amount of debt for a guy in his position.

“That kid had to have told him I said I was an FBI agent.”

“It seems probable.”

“Which means he held that weapon on me knowing that in all likelihood I was another law-enforcement officer.” It still made Jason’s heart pound with anger and indignation remembering those horrifying seconds while Sandford had weighed whether to pull the trigger.

Sam said nothing.