The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

On the drive back to their hotel, it occurred to Jason it might be very useful—even invaluable—to get Sam’s perspective on Captain Roy Thompson. Not so much as it related to his current and ongoing investigation, but for getting a reading on Thompson and his original crime. Even if Sam only did a cursory, off-the-cuff psychological profile on Thompson, it would give Jason better insight on what type of offender he was investigating. Specifically, how likely it was that Captain Thompson had acted alone or on his own recognizance, how prone his personality type might be to lying, the types of lies he might tell, what might motivate him to implicate an innocent party in his crime…

But not only did Sam have his own crushing workload—partly self-inflicted, but still—there was a high probability he was going to notice what no one else had so far: Jason’s personal connection to the case.

Okay, what if he did notice? It would be a relief at this point to be able to share his concerns. Even when they disagreed, there was no one whose opinion Jason trusted or whose judgment he valued more than Sam’s.

He continued to weigh the pros and cons as they walked into the hotel lobby.

Sam glanced at the elevators, said, “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Jason replied. “I’ve got Russell in the room next to me.”

The elevator doors opened, and Sam put his hand on the small of Jason’s back to usher him in. Jason stepped back and said, “Can I ask a favor?”

Sam’s brows rose. “Of course.”

“Will you look over the original case notes regarding Roy Thompson? I mean de Haan’s research as well as my own.”

“Of course.” Sam did a double take. “You mean now?”

“I know. It’s a lot to ask.”

Sam’s smile was crooked. “Not so much. Get the file, West. Let’s have a look.”

Jason brought the file up to Sam’s room. Sam, by then in jeans and shirtsleeves, had ordered room service from the bar and was pouring a drink. He held up the bottle of Canadian Club. Jason shook his head and handed him the folder.

Sam sat down at the desk, half turning his chair so that he could prop his feet on the end of the bed. He put his glasses on and began to read.

Jason sat on the foot of the bed to wait.

The blood-red sunset faded to twilight and deepened to dusk. The stars came out.

Jason walked out onto the balcony, watched for lucky stars for a while, failed to find any, and came back in. He circled the room.

Without looking up from the file, Sam said, “The pacing is distracting.”

“Right. Sorry.” Jason sat on the foot of the bed, smothered a yawn with both hands.

Sam sighed, raised his head. “Go to bed, West. I’ll join you as soon as I finish.”

Jason blinked owlishly at him. “You sure?”

Sam’s wry grin was answer enough.

“Okay. If I don’t wake up, nudge me.” He undressed down to his boxers, pulled the comforter back, and climbed between the sheets. He was pretty sure he was too wound up to sleep, but the idea of resting his eyes sounded like heaven.

Sam said absently, “Sleep well.”

The next time Jason opened his eyes, the sun was coming up. The room was misty with rose-gold light, and the quiet was bliss. Too early for maid service, too early for downtown traffic, and even the air conditioner was silent. He glanced over at the other side of the mattress.

No Sam.

He raised his head, blinking, and saw that Sam was still sitting at the desk, gazing out the window. The file folder was lying closed on the desk. His glasses were folded on top.

At Jason’s movement, Sam glanced at him.

He said in a quiet voice Jason had never heard before, “How is it you got permission to work this case?”

Jason sat up. He said cautiously, “What do you mean? De Haan approached me.”