The Magician Murders (The Art of Murder 3) - Page 19

Chapter Six

“I want to see that security footage for myself.”

Sam’s work voice drifted through the not-quite-closed bedroom door, worming its way into Jason’s dozy dreams.

He blinked awake, remembering abruptly where he was, and lifted his head, listening, frowning.

“No, I’ll call them.” Sam’s tone was uncompromising.

Silence.

Not complete silence. In the distance a donkey was braying. Loudly.

“I’m not ruling anyone out at this stage—” Jason’s jaw-cracking yawn muffled the rest of that. Sam concluded, “That’s exactly the kind of thing I want to know about—and before anyone else. And I do mean anyone.”

Present company included? No doubt.

Jason muttered under his breath and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He examined his ankle, pleased to see that the swelling—even after the strain of the flight—was greatly reduced. He tentatively flexed his foot. Ouch. But still, way better than it had been.

He half closed his eyes, trying once again to remember. Shadows of tree branches falling across the hood of his rental sedan like the painting on an art car. The smell of rain and exhaust. The crack and rustle of dead leaves and dried twigs as something—someone—pushed through the winter-bare trees—

Then nothing.

Goddamn. Why wouldn’t the picture come?

He expelled a long, frustrated breath.

In the next room, Sam’s conversation had clearly reached the chitchat phase. “He’s all right. It was a rough flight…”

No lie there, and it would have been rougher had Sam not done his best to minimize the strain on him. Jason had wanted to die by the end of that flight—and he’d wanted to kill Sam for dragging him halfway across the country.

But that was yesterday. Today he felt like a fever had broken. Maybe it was those nice hardworking endorphins. Maybe it was the inappropriately named Medicine Man Salve. Whatever it was, now that he was himself again, he realized how totally out of it he’d been. The last couple of days felt unreal, a bad dream fading away with the return of daylight and normalcy.

God knew he had to have been out of it to ever give in to this bizarre plan of Sam’s to hide out in cowboy country. For one thing, he was not critically injured. For another, going into hiding solved nothing. It was a Band-Aid, not a cure for his problem.

From the other room, Sam concluded his call.

Jason straightened as Sam opened the bedroom door. He’d had a shower and was dressed—in business casual—looking alert, if not actually rested. As always, Jason felt that surge of physical awareness. Even in these circumstances, there was something larger than life about Kennedy. Something broad and dangerous—leashed power.

They studied each other, and Sam said approvingly, “Well, that’s better.”

“No argument here.”

“Did the phone wake you?”

“Maybe. I think I was already surfacing. Was that Jonnie?”

“It was. She says Stafford SO got a line on that black Porsche.”

“That’s great!”

Sam grunted. “Yes and no. The Porsche belongs to a newly hired manager for an insurance company in the complex. She was carrying boxes from her car to the office. That’s why the trunk of the car was open.”

Jason gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re saying she wasn’t involved?”

“Looks that way.”

“But why did she tear out of the parking lot?”

Tags: Josh Lanyon The Art of Murder Mystery
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