The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“Doesn’t look like it. We don’t own that property.”

Bram tied up the boat, and they clambered onto the dock and walked up to the “lodge,” Jason shouldering his carryall and clutc

hing his meager bag of groceries.

The holiday rental was a long box of tall, narrow windows and green siding. A fieldstone chimney capped one end of the building and a large screened-in sleeping porch the other.

Bram unlocked the front door. “Home sweet home.”

Jason stepped inside and set his bags down. The place smelled musty but clean, scented of a million summer vacations: a blend of fish, wet towels, fading potpourri, and disinfectant. It was chilly and a little damp, but Bram flicked a switch and the heater rumbled into life, gusting hot, stale air through the vents.

“This is great. Thanks for the ride—” Jason reached for his wallet, but Bram waved him off.

“No, no. It’s all part of the service. Let me show you around.”

The grand tour began with the small, dark wood kitchen.

Bram pointed to an ancient-looking machine. “Coffee maker—”

“Thank God,” murmured Jason. As long as the thing turned on, he’d be happy.

Bram thumped an oak cupboard door. “Dishes. Utensils in the drawer. Dishwasher, microwave, oven, refr—”

“Thanks. This is great. I’m sure I can find everything.”

Bram would not be deterred, leading the way into the next room. “I guess it must be pretty exciting working for the FBI?”

“Good days, bad days,” Jason said. “Like any job.”

“Have you worked any high-profile crimes? Anything I’d have read about?”

“I doubt it,” Jason said.

Bram grinned. “Have you ever caught any serial killers?”

Thanks to television, most people thought the FBI spent all its time chasing kidnappers and serial killers.

“Me? No. My team mostly follows paper trails. I spend a lot of time examining old documents.”

“I see.” Bram smiled, clearly not believing this for a second. “Here’s the family room. You can see we’ve got lots of games, puzzles, and books. My wife loves to read, so all her castoffs end up here. Romances mostly. Stereo, TV, DVD player—we’ve got a great video library. Let me think…” He brightened. “We’ve got Silence of the Lambs, Manhunter, Hannibal, Suspect Zero, and Red Dragon. And one other one about the FBI. I forget… Oh, Heat. We love that one. We love that Sandra Bullock!”

Did Bram think FBI agents only watched movies about FBI agents? Jason said gravely, “I know what I’ll be doing tonight.” And that, hopefully, would be sleeping. Deeply. Dreamlessly.

“It’s too cold this time of year for swimming or snorkeling, but there’s the outdoor grill, and you’ve got the kayak—”

“Sounds like the perfect vacation.” Jason stayed patient. “I wish I could spend an extra day or two.”

“Smuggling, I bet.” Bram watched him shrewdly. “With Canada right across the water? Yeah. It’ll be smuggling. Off the record?”

“Off the record?” Jason winked. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

“Right. Right. Well, if anything goes wrong, there’s the phone. Your cell phone will work too. Mostly. It depends on your carrier, of course. When you’re ready to come back, you can borrow the pontoon. If you’re not comfortable driving a boat, I’ll come fetch you.”

“I grew up on boats. That’s not a problem.”

Bram seemed reluctant to leave, but at last he ran out of instructions, information, and gossip, and was forced to bid Jason so long.

Jason watched Bram’s motorboat grow small, smaller, and then speck-sized in the misty distance. Good. Now maybe he could finally get to w—