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Chapter One
He was halfway through the meeting with Kapszukiewicz before it dawned on him—he was not going to be fired.
Special Agent Jason West of the FBI’s Art Crime Team was so flabbergasted, he actually missed the next few words of the chief of the Major Theft Unit of the Criminal Investigative Division, which oversaw ACT.
“Do you see the irony here?” Kapszukiewicz said.
Jason clipped out, “Yes, ma’am.”
Yes. He did indeed see the bitter irony. Would Sam see the irony?
“For the record, I’ve never subscribed to the idea that everyone gets one mistake.”
Jason half swallowed his husky, “No, ma’am.”
“You’re getting a second chance, West, because, with one exception, your performance over the past six years has been exemplary. You’ve earned the right to one mistake. One. One mistake. This was it. Any other agent under my command would be leaving this meeting without his badge and weapon.”
“Understood.” He drew a sharp breath. “And again, I’m very s—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Kapszukiewicz’s normally warm blue gaze was glacial. “The consensus is there were sufficient mitigating factors in this case. I concur. Don’t prove me wrong. Don’t fuck this up.”
Seven minutes later Jason walked out of the private elevator, past the security cameras, the reception desk, the guard desk, the giant blue and gold FBI seal positioned between two flags (one for the good old US of A and the other the FBI’s own standard) and the metal detectors of the security checkpoint. He pushed through the bulletproof glass door, leaving the official air-conditioned quiet for the hot, noisy sidewalk of Pennsylvania Avenue on a July afternoon.
It was almost disorienting to find himself back in the real world—and still employed. The summer air smelled of car exhaust, hot cement, and close calls.
He pocketed the lanyard with his ID, strode along the buff-colored concrete exterior with its repetitive, square, bronze-tinted windows set deep in black frames. Much like its namesake, the J. Edgar Building was not a handsome structure. In fact, that particular architectural style was known as Brutalist. Talk about on the nose.
Jason hailed the first available cab and jumped inside.
“DoubleTree Crystal City.”
The cab, which had barely come to a stop, sped up again, slipping seamlessly into the flow of anonymous traffic, just another fish swimming upstream.
Jason dropped back in his seat, wiped his damp forehead on his sleeve, loosened his tie, and pulled out his cell. He thumbed Sam’s number.
Sam picked up on the second ring. “Where are you?”
“Headed for the airport. Well, the DoubleTree. But it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m still on the payroll. I’m not even on the beach.” An hour ago, he’d been convinced suspension without pay or maybe ISL—Involuntary Stress Leave—would be his best-case scenario. He’d have counted himself lucky to receive either. This was almost more than he could take in.
Sam said crisply, “I’ll meet you in the Skydome Lounge.”
“You’ll… You’re still in DC?”
“Correct.”
Though they’d flown together from LA to DC, Sam was supposed to be driving on to Quantico and then eventually to his home in Stafford.
Jason held his phone away and studied it doubtfully. Putting it to his ear once more, he said ruefully, “You must have thought I was finished for sure.”
“No. I figured Kapszukiewicz was too smart to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but you can’t always predict.”
“I thought I’d be bounced.” No lie. Jason had walked into that meeting with the cheery confidence of a man facing a firing squad.
Even at that reduced volume, Sam’s sardonic, “You’re the agent who found a long-lost Vermeer, West,” came through loud and clear. “Firing you would look terrible on TV.”
Ouch.
But that was partly what Kapszukiewicz had been referring to by “consensus.” Far from wanting Jason’s head on a platter, the LA Field Office’s Special Agent in Charge Robert Wheat had been raising hell over Salt Lake City’s Art Crime Team’s “attempt to steal credit” for Jason’s—to put it politely— “black op.” Wheat hadn’t gone so far as to pretend he’d sanctioned Jason’s actions, but he’d come close. Wheat was an ambitious guy, and he was hell-bent on the LA Office—and himself—getting credit for one of the biggest art recoveries of the past decade.
“Yeah, well.”
“We’ll talk when you get here.” Sam clicked off.
Jason sank back and mopped his forehead again.
The Skydome Lounge was a revolving restaurant and bar on the top floor of the North Tower of the DoubleTree Hilton in Crystal City. The muted George Jetson meets George Washington decor was uninspired, but no one came for the beige ambiance or even the Tomahawk Ribeye. It took less than forty-five minutes for the glass dome to complete a full 360° rotation, and when the weather was clear, like today, the views of the Pentagon, DC, and the Potomac were phenomenal.
Also, the Skydome’s bartenders understood the art of the free pour.
Jason scanned the mostly empty room and spotted Sam seated at a table beside the wall of windows. His dark suit jacket was draped on the back of the chair, and he was working on his laptop. For a moment Jason let himself enjoy the sight of Sam being Sam: his hard not-quite-handsome profile absorbed in whatever he was reading, white shirtsleeves rolled to reveal tanned, muscular forearms, one well-shod foot moving in absent, restless rhythm.
At a nearby table, two attractive, well-dressed women whispered to each other and tittered as they sized Sam up.
Otherwise, the restaurant was deserted. A DJ station sat vacant in the middle of the room, surrounded by a small parquet dance floor that would barely accommodate three couples. Four large televisions tuned to MSNBC hung from the ceiling, reporting on the continued lack of cooperation from pretty much everyone for pretty much everything.
As Jason approached, Sam glanced up. His severe expression softened, though in order to recognize that, you’d have to know what to look for. Sam took off his gold-wire glasses and pushed down the lid of his laptop.
Jason said, “Hey.” He was still disconcerted—though happy, no question—to find Sam waiting for him in his hotel.
“Hi.” Sam studied him. “Okay?”
