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One was the painting of a young man with long dark hair washing his hands in front of a stained-glass window. The wooden-framed painting had been placed on a decorative display easel—a work of art in its own right—and the work was unmistakably that of Vermeer.
The other thing that stood out for Jason was the skeleton tied to a chair.
Chapter Eighteen
Proof that he was Emerson Harley’s grandson, Jason went to examine the painting first.
Partly that was because he assumed the skeleton was a vintage medical skeleton. Maybe Roy’s taste for antiquities stretched to the macabre.
Partly that was because… Vermeer.
He felt almost dizzy gazing at the familiar face of the man in the portrait. Familiar because it was the same model who had posed for The Astronomer and The Geographer. Same absorbed expression, same long, sensitive face, same expressive hands. He wore a similar scholarly dressing gown of green-blue. The room was the same as in the other portraits. Same corner cupboard, same twin globes—one celestial, one terrestrial—but the desk with its maps and books had been replaced by a table with a gleaming basin and jug. A Grecian-style statue, an armillary sphere atop a painted trunk, and a telescope crowded the background.
They had been wrong. Both he and Hans had guessed wrong. Vermeer had used the composition of The Astronomer and The Geographer rather than that of The Love Letter or A Maid Asleep. Instead, he had framed the painting so that the viewer seemed to be standing right outside the half-door, gazing into the room at a particular and very private moment.
Belatedly, Jason remembered the skeleton—remembered why that skeleton was only too relevant, and remembered why it was highly unlikely to be a medical skeleton.
He turned reluctantly from the painting.
“Throw your piece out and come up with your hands out.”
Sandford’s voice boomed overhead.
Jason instinctively jumped for the deep shadows along the near wall. He knew from trying to look down from above, that even if Sandford turned on the lights, he would not be able to see him from that angle.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” Sandford said.
“I could say the same to you,” Jason called back. He moved quickly along the wall, grabbed an antique six-foot art pole, and jabbed it at the foot holding the door up.
The trapdoor slammed down with a loud bang.
Quilletta’s voice murmured dismay from overhead.
“You’re not getting out of there,” Sandford yelled. “I don’t know what good you think that does.”
He opened fire at the trapdoor. Light from above pierced through the bullet holes.
Quilletta began screaming. Jason yelled, “Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you know what’s down here?”
“You’re down there!”
“Those paintings are worth millions,” Quilletta cried. “You can’t start shooting in there.”
“I’m not going to jail for a bunch of paintings,” Sandford said. “I should never have agreed to help you the first time. It never ends. Every goddamned time I turn around, there’s a new one to get rid of.”
Quilletta was talking through her sobs, but Jason couldn’t make out what she was saying.
Sandford shot twice more. A bullet ricocheted off the floor and hit the wall a foot or two from Jason. A second bullet knocked a painting off the wall. Quilletta started screaming again, and Sandford told her to shut up.
Jason began to swear. He did not want to die, but he could not just stand here and let this treasure trove of priceless art be destroyed. He racked his brain, but there was nothing like bullets flying to ruin your concentration.
His best bet was to hold them off as long as possible. Three lots or not, her neighbors were surely going to hear all the screaming and shooting. And J.J. had to be close to arrival.
“Come out of there, or I’ll fill that fucking room with bullets.” Sandford added in afterthought, “I just want to talk to you.”
Jason gave a shaky laugh. Sure. Just a friendly chat.
When he didn’t respond, Sandford began firing through the splintered Swiss cheese of the trapdoor again.
