The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)
“You’ve already done the hard part,” Jason said. “Now it’s a matter of sifting through the conflicting accounts.”
J.J. joined them. He patted his pocket, his smile smug. “Ready to roll?”
Jason shook his head, said, “This is my partner, Special Agent Russell. Special Agent Russell, meet Hans de Haan, the art historian and private investigator hired by the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum.”
He was relieved when Russell said, “Right. I read your notes on the case.” Not something you could ever take for granted with Russell, who was counting the minutes until he was reassigned.
They shook hands, and Jason said to de Haan, “Do you want to follow us out to the ranch?”
De Haan assented, and they left the restaurant together.
As J.J. started the rental sedan’s engine, he announced over the blast of air conditioning, “I just had breakfast with the girl I’m going to marry.”
“The girl?” Jason repeated. “Did you notice this girl lives a thousand miles away from you?”
“Yes. That’s not going to be a problem. She’s got to be dying to get out of Siberia.”
“Oh boy,” Jason murmured, programming the car’s GPS.
“Hey, your pal Kennedy lives double that, and I don’t see you complaining.”
“I’m not the complaining type.”
J.J. hooted with laughter and put the car into drive.
Big Sky Guest Ranch offered day trips to nearby Yellowstone National Park, an abundance of hiking trails, sparkling mountain streams for fishing, and whitewater rafting excursions on the Yellowstone River.
“The absolute best in Western hospitality,” the chirpy redhead manning the front desk assured the three of them. She wore a short black denim skirt, a gray T-shirt with black stars, and a brass replica sheriff’s badge, which read: Big Sky Deputy.
Jason told her it all sounded wonderful. He and J.J. offered their own IDs, and Jason asked to speak to Bert Thompson.
The redhead’s face fell, she buzzed Thompson, informed him the FBI was in the lobby, and then listened to him rant, casting apologetic looks at Jason and J.J. as she tried to muffle the speaker.
“…be damned…can go to hell…my tax dollars…”
De Haan, hovering impatiently behind them, muttered, “See? They will whitewall us.”
Jason winked at him, said gravely to the receptionist, “Make sure Mr. Thompson understands we’re perfectly happy to wait here until it’s convenient for him to speak with us.?
??
She cleared her throat, conveyed the message, and winced at the response.
“He’s, um, under a lot of stress,” she whispered to Jason.
Jason turned to J.J. “He’s under a lot of stress.”
“That’s a shame. Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” J.J. asked her. “We might as well file some reports while we wait in your lobby.”
“Great idea,” Jason said. “I need to phone my contact at the Department of Health and Human Services.”
Two minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, the Big Sky Trail Boss himself slammed out of an office down a long hallway and strode into the knotty-pine lobby.
“What part of no comment do you fellows not understand?” he demanded.
Jason had seen several photos of Roy Thompson, and his nephew resembled him—same short dark hair and keen dark eyes—though he was shorter, stockier, and quite a bit grayer than the Roy of the WWII photographs.
“The part where you confuse federal agents with the members of the press,” Jason replied.