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“Are you fucking kidding me?” J.J. demanded, now sounding fully awake and sober. “You can’t go in there. You don’t have a warrant.”
“I know. Before we try to get a warrant, I want to see if there’s even any point. Thompson may have disposed of everything but the altar piece and the two paintings.”
J.J. was silent for a moment. “You know, this isn’t how it’s done.”
“I know.”
“It’s unlawful entry, West. At the least. If you’re caught breaking in, your career is over.”
“My career is over anyway. If there’s any chance of getting that treasure back, I’m willing to take it.”
“What are you—? And if I’m caught, my career is over too!”
“Don’t get caught. Are you coming or not?”
“You asshole. Yes, I’m coming! Don’t step foot on that goddamned property till I get there.”
The shed was locked. That was not a surprise.
The surprise was that the key was on top of the doorframe. All Jason had to do was reach up, feeling along the frame until he found the chill bite of metal.
He glanced over his shoulder. He could still hear Sandford’s voice floating down the unlit garden, but trees blocked his view of the house. Sprinklers were shooting across the lawn, water drops turning silver in the moonlight as they bounced off shrubs and grass.
Jason unlocked the door. It opened on soundless hinges.
He stepped into the dark interior, switched on his high-powered pocket flashlight. The beam played over what appeared to be an artist’s studio. An easel stood near the window. Blank canvases rested against one wall. Painted canvases leaned against the opposite wall. From what he could see, the blank canvases looked to be more valuable.
Something glinted in the spotlight created by his flashlight. A pair of round spectacles lying by the floorboard near the door.
His heart jumped. He took his phone out and snapped a photo. He did not move the spectacles. He was doing his best not to move or touch anything he didn’t have to.
A Bokhara red rug was positioned in the center of the room. Jason knelt, flipped the rug back, and the trapdoor was right there.
His heart pounded. If this was what he thought it was?
This was probably how Carter had felt, stepping into Tutankhamun’s tomb. Or Marcel Ravidat falling down the hole that had turned into the Lascaux caves.
He felt for the recessed handle, lifted it up, and raised the door. It opened without so much as a squeak. A cold gust of funky air rose up. His nostrils twitched at the smoky smell of faded turpentine, varnish, walnut oil, old wood?
?and something weird, as bitter as wormwood.
What the hell was that?
Cement steps led down into what appeared to be a large and very dark basement. The reach of moonlight did not stretch beyond the top of the steps.
Jason shone his flashlight down the stairs. He could not see anything in the gloom.
He started down.
When he reached the bottom, he directed his flashlight beam around the long, rectangular room. His heart nearly stopped as he took in walls lined with gold-framed paintings.
A lot more than nine paintings.
Scenes from myth and legend and everyday life. Laughing faces, haunted faces, abstract faces. Pageantry, poverty, and everything in between. The story of mankind told in the poetry of paint and canvas.
“Jesus…” he whispered. A lump filled his throat. His eyes stung. It was humbling. Standing there in the presence of these both familiar and unfamiliar masterpieces, he was almost overcome by a sense of reverence.
Slowly, he circled the room, scanning its contents, and two things immediately struck him.
