The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

She quickly shook her head.

“Do you know if your mother and your uncle are intending to sell other items from your great-uncle’s art collection?”

She opened her mouth, hesitated. “There isn’t anything else,” she insisted.

Jason sighed. “Mrs. Mayhew, Terry, I want to caution you about making false statements to a federal investigator.”

Baby gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look—and another of those jerky swallows.

“You’re not in any trouble right now, and presumably you’d like to keep it that way. So, let me give you a piece of advice. Either answer honestly, or decline to answer—which, yes, is going to tell me some of what I need to know—but don’t lie to me. You won’t like how that turns out, and you won’t be doing your mother or uncle any good.”

She licked her lips, started to speak.

He heard the floorboard, tensed, and turned before the loud “What the hell is going on here?” came from the doorway behind them.

Baby jumped. “Gary!”

“What are you doing, Terry?”

“I’m— This is the FBI.”

“I know it’s the goddamned FBI. Don’t say a word to him.”

“Mr. Mayhew?” Jason rose, getting h

is ID out. “I’m Special Agent—”

“That’s right. I’m Terry’s husband, and I don’t give a fuck who you are, Special Agent Suit. I want you out of our house now.”

“Really?” Jason said. “That’s the way you want to play this?”

“You’re goddamned right it’s the way I want to play it. Unless you’ve got a warrant, get out of my house.”

Jason unhurriedly opened his wallet, pulled out his card, handed his card to Baby. “Terry, if you change your mind, you can call me anytime.”

She stared at the card like she thought it was a one-way ticket to the Big House, but then took it with trembling fingers.

“She’s not going to change her mind,” Mayhew said as Jason walked past him. He followed Jason down the sterile test-tube of a hallway to the front door.

Jason stepped onto the tiled Spanish-style porch. “I’m not sure what you’re so afraid of,” he said, “but it sure raises some red flags.”

Mayhew slammed the door in his face.

Chapter Ten

De Haan was not answering his phone.

Jason left a message letting him know he’d spoken to Terry Mayhew, then grabbed his copy of Karl Schütz’s Vermeer. The Complete Works, asked the hotel front desk for some restaurant recs, and headed out to have dinner.

He was used to eating on his own. He actually preferred a good book to dinner with Russell, who never stopped talking sports scores, debating the merits of current girlfriends, or bitching about wasting his best years trailing after Jason on ACT investigations—though in fairness, Russell had eased up a bit on the job complaints in the last month.

He settled on a Mexican restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, ordered tacos with rice and beans, and—remembering Sam’s concerns—diet Coke, and spent a surprisingly relaxing couple of hours reading and occasionally eating.

The Schütz book was beautifully produced and meticulously researched. All thirty-four of the artist’s universally accepted paintings were included, along with gorgeous color plates reproducing every brushstroke, hue, detail, angle, and gesture contained in his paintings. There were even several large foldouts, which Jason did not dare expose to the risk of flying salsa.

Vermeer was a mystery in his own right, down to the exact date of his birth. There was no record of his apprenticeship, leading to the theory—however unlikely—that he was self-taught. But maybe the theory wasn’t so unlikely given how extraordinary and unique his work was—not just precise, not just luminous, but almost inhumanly beautiful. In fact, another theory—dismissed by Schütz—was that Vermeer had used a camera obscura to obtain his hypnagogic results.

What Jason found especially amazing about the quality of universality in Vermeer’s work was that Vermeer painted mostly domestic interior scenes of 17th century Dutch life. What was it about these paintings that so resonated with 21st century viewers? The bulk of his work, certainly the work of his peak years, was set in two smallish rooms in his house in Delft. Again and again, the paintings showed the same furniture and decorations in various arrangements, and Vermeer frequently portrayed the same people. Mostly women.