The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Sam, standing by the window and gazing out at the parking lot, glanced over, and Jason saw something like surprise flash through his eyes.

“I just came to say goodbye,” Jason said.

Sam nodded. He left the window, walking toward Jason—but then stopped beside his desk. “You’re not staying for the party?”

“No. I need to get back.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

Jason hesitated. What the hell was there left to say, really?

But…if a thing was worth having, it was worth fighting for. Right? And while this was starting to feel hopeless, they had come so far.

Or was that his imagination too?

He stepped into the office, closed the door.

“I just wanted to say…” He drew in a sharp breath, let it out slowly, evenly. “I’m sorry I turned out not to be who you thought I was. I’m sorry you think I can’t be trusted.”

“I wish it were that simple.” Sam was frowning bleakly into some distance Jason couldn’t see, his right index finger absently, nervously tapping the manila folder beneath his hand in a soundless tattoo.

“Why isn’t it that simple?” Jason asked. “Jesus Christ, Sam. Did it ever occur to you this isn’t about you?”

Emotion flashed across Sam’s face. Doubt. Affront. Confusion.

Three expressions he’d rarely—ever?—seen on Kennedy’s face.

Jason said, “I get that I put you in an awkward position. I get that you disapprove of my actions. Does it really not make any difference that I didn’t attempt to cover up the facts of the case? That I did everything I could to keep my investigation fair and unbiased? That I conducted myself as I would have in any other case?”

Sam said dryly, “By conducting yourself as you would in any other case, you mean by gambling your life and taking unnecessary risks?”

“Wow. That’s…pretty unfair. And that’s not what we’re talking about.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “But since we’re on the subject of last night, why the hell didn’t you let me know what you were planning?”

Were they on the subject of last night? It seemed they were. Jason was going to have whiplash at this rate.

“It was more impulse than plan.”

Sam rephrased, “Why didn’t you call me when you knew what you were going to do?”

Really? Did Sam really not understand this? Could he possibly be this oblivious? This emotionally out-of-touch? He was so good at reading other people, at analyzing what made people tick. He had to know what he was doing.

“Sam, I’ll never ask you for help again as long as I live. I’d die first.” Jason wasn’t angry. He said it matter-of-factly.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He smiled without humor, and said, “That’s a little dramatic.”

Was it? Because Jason meant it. He wasn’t going to forget that he had turned to Sam for help—and Sam had turned on him.

“Well, hey, not the first time you’ve told me that.”

He waited, but Sam simply continued to stand there frowning at him.

That wasn’t normal, right? It wasn’t just him; this was not the way most people would behave in this situation.

Not that Jason had previous experience with this situation.

When it was clear Sam was not going to add anything, Jason shrugged. “Okay. Well, that was it. That was my whole speech. I don’t know what more I can say. It doesn’t seem to matter.”