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He said instead, “Sam should be down any second.”
Petty nodded, glanced automatically at the elevators. When he turned back to Jason, his expression was odd. He said, “Did he tell you about me?”
Jason frowned. On the one hand, nice to know his instinctive unease regarding Petty was not misplaced. On the other, he had never been confronted with a situation like this, and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Is there so much to tell?” he asked finally. Which probably wasn’t tactful, but he didn’t like this scenario. And he was quite sure Sam would like it even less.
Petty’s smile was wry and unexpectedly appealing. “I thought there was. I guess not.” He added thoughtfully, “This explains why he was different that last time.”
Having been on the receiving end of Sam being “different,” Jason could relate.
He opened his mouth—though he wasn’t sure what he was going to say—but the elevator doors slid open, and Sam stepped out.
“Enjoy your breakfast.” Jason raised a hand in brief greeting to Sam and then picked up his phone so he didn’t have to watch them walk out together.
Even so, he couldn’t help hearing that too eager note in Petty’s voice as he told Sam good morning—and he couldn’t help analyzing Sam’s deep tones as he replied. Neutral? Guarded? Preoccupied?
The glass doors opened, the dry summer air wafted in, the doors closed.
J.J. appeared and went straight for the coffee urns.
Jason said, “We’ve got just enough time if you want breakfast. They’ve got your Cinnabons.”
J.J. gave a full body shudder. “No. God no.”
Jason stared at him. “Are you hungover?”
“A little.” J.J. grimaced. He brightened momentarily. “That girl, West.”
“Martinez?”
“She’s a saint.”
“That must cramp your style a little.”
J.J. made a ha-ha face.
Jason was not unsympathetic, though. J.J. was still technically a new agent. He’d been in more gun battles his first year than most agents dealt with their entire careers. And now he had killed someone. Sure, they were trained for that possibility, but even so…
“We’re supposed to meet de Haan at Quilletta McCoy’s lawyer’s office.”
J.J. scowled. “De Haan’s in on that meeting too?”
Jason nodded.
“Why are we allowing a civilian to take part in these interviews?”
“Because he’s officially representing Aaldenberg van Apeldoorn. And because he’s been working this case for nearly twenty years. We’re working off his notes, his research. He knows a hell of a lot more about it than either of us do. About the case and about the treasure.”
“Treasure.” J.J. looked pained. “Can we not refer to it as treasure?”
“I don’t know what else you’d call it,” Jason said. “Fifteen missing items, including a platinum and diamond necklace, pearl and emerald earrings, two jeweled and enameled boxes, a gold locket, an altar piece by van Eyck, and nine very valuable—maybe even in one case priceless—paintings.”
“It’s the paintings you want,” J.J. said. “Especially that Vermeer.”
“If it is a Vermeer, yes, I’d like to be part of seeing that recovered. But it will go back to Amsterdam. It won’t go to a museum here.”
Or at least in principle that was what should happen. More often than not, museums, galleries, and even governments struggled with letting go national treasures—even another nation’s treasures. Particularly items that had graced museum collections for decades. The ongoing battle for the Elgin Marbles was a perfect example.
