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Jason choked on his drink and started coughing.
Doc shrugged. “Roy was pretty upset, but I don’t know what he expected. I do know why he thought he couldn’t give the things back. There just wasn’t any way without it coming out what he’d done. No way was that going to happen.”
“Where are the rest of the paintings?” Jason asked.
“I have no idea where they are now. I can tell you where they were at one time. There’s a shed at the back of Roy’s property with a trapdoor leading down into a basement. He had that room all fixed up like his own personal little museum.”
“This is the property Quilletta inherited?”
“That’s right. She and Roy were always thick as thieves.” Doc snorted.
“One of them killed de Haan.”
“No.” Doc shook his head. “I can see why you might think so, but no. There’s not enough backbone in all of them put together.”
Jason let the backbone
comment slide. He didn’t think hitting a man from behind required a lot of courage.
He told Doc about his belief that Police Chief Sandford was somehow involved, and Doc shot that down too.
“No damn way. There’s no way Roy included Sandford in his will. He couldn’t stand Sandford. Never liked him. Thought he was a bully and a cheat.”
“Well, where did he form that opinion? Maybe that’s a clue right there.”
Doc shook his head. “I don’t think so. No.”
Jason was not drinking nearly as much as Doc, but he was drinking—clearly—because then he told Doc about the shootout at the Big Sky Guest Ranch and his suspicion that Bert had phoned Sandford even before the bullets started flying. From there he got onto the topic of Russell and his difficulty in dealing with having killed someone, and his own fear of getting shot again.
“You’d be stupid not to be afraid,” Doc told him. “Were you crying and pissing yourself?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Then you were fine. You were doin’ great.”
And somehow—so maybe he’d had more to drink than he realized—from there Jason got onto the topic of Sam and his own mistakes in their relationship.
“He let you down,” Doc said, slurring ever so slightly. “You came to him for help, and he turned on you and threw you to the wolves. Did he help you? No. Forget about him. Heartless bastard. I hate sonofabitchin’ heartless bastards.”
Jason’s phone rang, and they both blinked at it like phones were a new invention.
Jason picked his cell up, peered at the ID display.
“I should take this.”
Doc waved him off and gloomily considered his empty glass.
Jason stepped out into the backyard. The cool night air felt good against his flushed face. The air smelled of flowers. A fountain chattered softly from the center of a rock garden. Moonlight gilded the treetops, blanching the roses and other blooms. He could hear the sound of the neighbors’ television drifting over the wooden fence.
He clicked to accept the call.
“Hey,” J.J. greeted him. “Maybe you’re not as crazy as I thought you were.”
“Thank you for calling,” Jason said. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better tonight.”
“Yeah, but I know the connection between Sandford and the Thompsons. Well, Quilletta and Sandford.”
“What’s the connection?”
