The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Thompson threw an anguished look at the circle of guests playing cards at a table in the lobby living room. “Do you mind taking this outside?”

“Not at all. After you,” Jason said.

They followed Thompson out onto the broad wooden porch that wrapped around the building.

Thompson said to Jason, “I told you people you need to talk to Quilletta. I don’t know what more you want from me. I don’t know anything about stolen art.”

“And yet it’s your name listed right along with hers as co-defendant in the lawsuit filed by the Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn Museum.”

Thompson stuck his chest out. “That lawsuit doesn’t mean anything. A foreign museum can’t sue an American citizen.”

“Au contraire, pardner,” Jason said. “Not to mention the fact that Uncle Sam is liable to get into the act very soon if somebody named Thompson doesn’t start demonstrating willingness to cooperate.”

J.J. put in helpfully, “My partner is talking about a potential indictment for ‘conspiring to receive, possess, conceal, store, barter, sell, and dispose of stolen goods, and for receiving, possessing, concealing, storing, bartering, selling, and disposing of stolen goods.’”

“There’s also the possibility of an IRS investigation.”

“True,” J.J. said.

De Haan broke in. “It’s too late to pretend you are acting in good faith when you ended off negotiations with the museum for the van Eyck in order to sell to a private collector!”

Jason put his hand on de Haan’s arm. He could feel the older man shaking with agitation. This was personal for de Haan. He had spent years tracking down the missing pieces to that castle in Bavaria, and then more years following the trail of each and every US soldier tasked with protecting the recovered treasure. To be confronted with this final, outrageous obstacle was liable to be his breaking point.

“This is blackmail,” Thompson said. “You can’t force me to answer your questions, federal agents or not.”

“No. This is giving you one final chance to cooperate before we reach the point of no return,” Jason said. “Nobody wants a big, messy, and very expensive lawsuit, including the US government.”

“Don’t give me that,” Thompson said. “You people live for your lawsuits. Well, I’ll tell you this for free. If Uncle Roy did take some souvenirs, it was just what everybody else was doing.”

Proving that he did occasionally pay attention to Jason, J.J. said, “This isn’t about a flag or a German helmet or a confiscated Lugar. These are priceless works of art that belong to everybody.”

“Yes, everybody,” Thompson said hotly. “Including us. You know what I don’t understand? Why the US government would be trying so goddamned hard to give those things back to the country who started the war in the first place!”

“S-s-started the war!” de Haan began to stutter in outrage.

Jason had heard this line of argument before. He said patiently, “The van Eyck was originally stolen from a cathedral in Belgium. Most of the paintings and jewelry were looted by the Nazis from museums or Jewish families in the Netherlands. The Belgian and Dutch people have a right—a legal and moral right—to reclaim their property.”

“They didn’t rescue the property—the alleged property. American soldiers like my uncle did. The damned Dutch surrendered after one day.”

De Haan turned purple and then white. Behind the spectacles, his mild eyes blazed into fury. “Two hundred thousand people in the Netherlands died—”

“Okay, wait a minute.” Jason gave de Haan a warning look. “This isn’t up for debate. Mr. Thompson, you can refuse to answer our questions, but the investigation will continue. Your unwillingness to cooperate will be noted and used against you—”

Thompson was not listening to him. Was not even looking at him. He stared past them. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Jason automatically glanced over his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Thompson exclaimed, striding to the edge of the porch. “Is he out of his goddamned mind?”

A disreputable-looking white pickup was barreling down the dirt road toward the ranch. Dust flew up in a cloud around the bouncing vehicle. A man in a red shirt and a cowboy hat hung halfway out the passenger-side window, holding what appeared to be an automatic rifle.

Jason reached for his weapon as J.J. said, “Is that what I fucking think it is?”

Yes, it fucking was.

As the white truck hurtled beneath the towering timber ranch gate entry sign, the cowboy in the truck opened fire.

Chapter Three