The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

“I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a little touchy when guns are pointed in my direction,” Jason said. “But something was going on there.”

“You’ve got good instincts.” Sam said it almost dismissively. “If you believe that was the situation, then I think you’re likely right. What I don’t understand is why.”

“You mean what would be the motive for shooting me?”

“That, yes.”

Was there another angle to this that Jason didn’t see? Knowing the way Sam’s brain worked, probably.

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to work that out all afternoon. I mean, he wasn’t charmed the first time we met, but I don’t think I gave him grounds to kill me.”

Sam made a sound more pained than amused.

“He’s been police chief for nearly ten years. His Yelp reviews aren’t great, but no one has actually sued him.”

“His…Yelp…reviews?”

“Yeah.” Jason grinned. “Even FBI Field Offices get Yelp reviews. You probably have Yelp reviews.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Nope. Anyway, there seems to be some connection between Sandford and the Thompsons. After the shootout at Big Sky Guest Ranch—and I can’t tell you how ridiculous I feel saying that aloud—Bert Thompson phoned Sandford, and despite the fact that the incident took place in another county, Sandford drove out there and tried to take control of the investigation.”

Sam considered this and shrugged. “That could be nothing more than good old networking.”

“Sure.”

The waitress delivered another round of drinks and asked how they were enjoying their meals.

Jason glanced down at his salad. He didn’t remember it arriving at the table. “Great,” he said, and she continued on her mission of mercy, drinks tray held high.

“It’s interesting, though.” Sam sipped his whisky sour, considering. “But Sandford didn’t last in his job this long by not knowing how things worked. He had to realize that shooting you would not stop any ongoing investigation into the Thompsons. In fact, it would probably accelerate things. So what would be the point?”

“What’s the point in killing de Haan?” Jason asked. “The investigation into the stolen art doesn’t end with his death. Not on his end and not on this end. The US government is involved now. There’s no stopping this case driving to its natural conclusion.”

“I agree.” Sam studied him. “Do you think Sandford is somehow involved in de Haan’s homicide?”

“I don’t know. If he hadn’t held that gun on me, I’d have said no chance in hell.”

Sam said, “It’s possible he didn’t know who you were. It’s possible the kid didn’t give him the full story or that he didn’t wait to hear the full story. It’s possible he went into that situation with a set of biases we don’t know about.”

Sometimes Sam’s dispassionate objectivity was aggravating, no lie. This was one of those times.

Jason said grudgingly, “True.”

“It’s also possible that the situation is exactly as you’ve described. We don’t know the extent of his personal loyalties.”

“Okay, yes, and here’s another thing—” Jason broke off in surprise as Sam reached out to cover his hand.

“You need to eat something,” Sam said quietly. His gaze was steady, serious. “You’ve had three drinks and nothing to eat.”

Jason flushed, withdrew his hand. “I’m not drunk.”

“I know you’re not drunk. You need to eat. You’ve had a hell of a day, and you’re running on empty. You can’t do this on nervous energy alone—and you know that.”

“Jesus,” Jason muttered. He took a couple of bites of lettuce and steak, managed to swallow, managed not to throw it up, and after a perilous couple of seconds, did feel better.

He scowled at Sam, who continued to watch him in that grave, measuring way. Sam smiled faintly.