The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

J.J. looked at him like Jason was an idiot. “With Martinez, of course.”

Jason’s surprise must have shown because J.J. scowled. “It’s not going to help sitting around talking about it. I need to change the subject.”

“No. Sure. I get it.”

“Plus, I’ve only got another couple of days here. I’m not wasting this chance.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Jason said. “Fine by me.”

Was J.J. serious about Martinez? He’d never figured his partner for a love-at-first-sight kind of guy, but this was definitely not his usual MO.

“And if I were you, I wouldn’t spend the night second-guessing yourself either.”

About the shooting? No. Jason wasn’t second-guessing his decisions that morning. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he was simply relieved he hadn’t frozen and that neither he nor his partner nor anyone in their charge had been shot. About other things? Yes, his conversations with George and with Karan had reinforced his guilty awareness that he was sinking deeper and deeper into ethically murky waters.

Having made a point of insisting he was best qualified to pursue the investigation based on being fully versed in every aspect of the case—true, for the record—there was no way he could later claim he hadn’t realized his personal connection.

He hated being in this position. The knowledge that he was risking a job he loved and a career he was proud of was an almost physical weight on his mind. He just didn’t see a way around it.

“I appreciate the advice.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m right.”

J.J. was still talking about the shooting. Still processing it. And he was right. There was nothing to be gained by reliving those terrifying seconds. They had not been shot. They had done their job and taken the necessary steps to protect civilians and property.

J.J. was the one who had to live with the consequences of that action, so if a night out with a fellow agent in a faraway RA was going to take his mind off it for a while, more power to him.

When they parted ways at their hotel, Jason said, “Have a good night.”

J.J. answered, “Stay out of trouble.”

* * * * *

“I still find it hard to believe the shooting had nothing to do with the treasure,” de Haan said.

They were having dinner at the Club Tavern and Grill, a surprisingly cozy sports bar and restaurant offering an all-American menu and an outstanding selection of beers and booze.

Still wound up from the day’s action, Jason had realized he didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t want to spend the evening imagining Sam out with his task force—or more precisely, imagining Sam rubbing elbows with the handsome and admiring Travis Petty. He’d phoned de Haan, and de Haan had picked him up from his hotel.

“I know, but that does seem to be the case,” Jason said. “Brody Stevens was mad at his ex-girlfriend and thought shooting up her parents’ home and business would teach her a lesson.”

“You Americans and your guns.”

Jason sighed. Like most law-enforcement officers, he was not happy with every dumbass in the country having access to a personal arsenal, but this was not a conversation he wanted to have here and now.

De Haan put his Bozone Amber down. “When I saw that truck coming toward us, I felt certain…”

De Haan didn’t finish it, and Jason eyed him curiously. “You believed there was some connection to Captain Thompson’s trove of stolen art?”

“There is a lot of money involved,” de Haan said. “People have killed for much less.”

“Yes.” That was certainly true. Two of the rediscovered paintings—d’Antonio’s The Siege of Veii and Nolde’s Poppies and Roses—would easily fetch a million dollars apiece. Jason said, “If the Vermeer really exists, well, if you figure The Concert, the Vermeer stolen in the Gardner Museum heist, would fetch over ten million if it ever reappeared and went up for auction. Gentleman would probably be worth…”

“Inestimable,” de Haan murmured, and Jason couldn’t argue.

He did say, as much to remind himself as de Haan, “The odds of Thompson’s stolen painting actually being a Vermeer are pretty slim.”

De Haan quoted, “‘Untitled. Man washing his hands in a see-through room with sculptures and art.’”