Josh Lanyon
Prologue
C leared for duty.
Shane stared in disbelief at his cell phone.
The magic words. The good news. And the bad news.
But mostly the good news because there had been times over the past month that
he’d worried he was on the beach for good. Not that this wasn’t a nice beach to land on,
and not that he didn’t have faith in the system or trust in due process—how ironic would
it be if a special agent for the FBI didn’t believe that justice would prevail? But the
circumstances of the Fallon case were complicated. Or at least had appeared complicated
to his superiors at the Bureau once the Fallon family had launched their lawsuit.
Yeah, he had been worried. In fact, the longer this administrative leave had stretched,
the more he had feared he—or at least his career—would end up as collateral damage
following an out-of-court settlement. Not a damn thing he could do about it either. He
had gone on the record, told the truth, given a full and complete accounting of the
facts…and been sickeningly aware with each passing day that none of that might make a
difference. The Fallon family was absolutely convinced Shane had stolen a fifteenth
century samurai sword from the weapons recovered in the sting operation he had been in
charge of back in January.
Beyond the fact that his great-grandfather, a World War Two vet, possessed a
collection of Japanese militaria of somewhat dubious provenance, there was no reason to
suspect Shane. His record with the Art Crime Team was impeccable, his career was on
the fast track—Asian antiquities weren’t even his forte. But suspect him the Fallons did.
They believed the Yasumitsu sword had been part of the recovered haul; a suspicion
based solely on the word of Denny Green, one of the two defendants in the case. Green
already had two burglary convictions and wouldn’t know a katana from a Klimt, but the
family wanted to believe the sword had been in Shane’s possession because that meant
there was a chance it might eventually be returned to them.
The sword had not been there. Had never been there. But Shane had begun to wonder
if that would ultimately matter.
Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of hell—the last two weeks made bearable only
by Norton.
And then, just like that, the case was dropped, and he was cleared for duty.
Shane shaded his eyes from the glare of the spring light bouncing off white sand and
the whiter hulls of the pristine boats bobbing on the choppy blue water of Santa
Catalina’s Avalon Bay. Overhead, gulls mewed plaintively as they circled, ever hopeful,
ever hungry. A ship’s bell rang out across the sun-glittered water.
This welcome news meant, come Monday, he’d be back in San Francisco. Spring
break was effectively over. Really, he ought to book his flight out for today. But if he
held off until Friday he’d still have the weekend to get ready for his return to work, and
that would leave him two and a half days to spend with Norton. Who…should have been
here by now.
Shane glanced at his phone. No messages, and yes, Norton was definitely running
late.
Which wasn’t really like him. Scruffy and offhand Norton might be, but Shane had
noticed he wasn’t nearly as disorganized as he let on. And he sure as hell wasn’t
forgetful.
Maybe Shane had misunderstood. Maybe they were meeting for lunch and then
going sailing?
Or maybe Norton was running late. Yeah, that was probably it. It was easy to run late
here. Island time , they called it. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the habit of island
time.
Shane turned from the beach and started back along Crescent Avenue, crowded with
passengers from the cruise ship which had dropped anchor outside the bay. The floating
cities arrived every Monday and Tuesday during the month of March.
Better to skip sailing altogether and talk. Time to come clean. Maybe past time,
given those jokes Norton made about being an international art thief. Norton
Prologue
C leared for duty.
Shane stared in disbelief at his cell phone.
The magic words. The good news. And the bad news.
But mostly the good news because there had been times over the past month that
he’d worried he was on the beach for good. Not that this wasn’t a nice beach to land on,
and not that he didn’t have faith in the system or trust in due process—how ironic would
it be if a special agent for the FBI didn’t believe that justice would prevail? But the
circumstances of the Fallon case were complicated. Or at least had appeared complicated
to his superiors at the Bureau once the Fallon family had launched their lawsuit.
Yeah, he had been worried. In fact, the longer this administrative leave had stretched,
the more he had feared he—or at least his career—would end up as collateral damage
following an out-of-court settlement. Not a damn thing he could do about it either. He
had gone on the record, told the truth, given a full and complete accounting of the
facts…and been sickeningly aware with each passing day that none of that might make a
difference. The Fallon family was absolutely convinced Shane had stolen a fifteenth
century samurai sword from the weapons recovered in the sting operation he had been in
charge of back in January.
Beyond the fact that his great-grandfather, a World War Two vet, possessed a
collection of Japanese militaria of somewhat dubious provenance, there was no reason to
suspect Shane. His record with the Art Crime Team was impeccable, his career was on
the fast track—Asian antiquities weren’t even his forte. But suspect him the Fallons did.
They believed the Yasumitsu sword had been part of the recovered haul; a suspicion
based solely on the word of Denny Green, one of the two defendants in the case. Green
already had two burglary convictions and wouldn’t know a katana from a Klimt, but the
family wanted to believe the sword had been in Shane’s possession because that meant
there was a chance it might eventually be returned to them.
The sword had not been there. Had never been there. But Shane had begun to wonder
if that would ultimately matter.
Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of hell—the last two weeks made bearable only
by Norton.
And then, just like that, the case was dropped, and he was cleared for duty.
Shane shaded his eyes from the glare of the spring light bouncing off white sand and
the whiter hulls of the pristine boats bobbing on the choppy blue water of Santa
Catalina’s Avalon Bay. Overhead, gulls mewed plaintively as they circled, ever hopeful,
ever hungry. A ship’s bell rang out across the sun-glittered water.
This welcome news meant, come Monday, he’d be back in San Francisco. Spring
break was effectively over. Really, he ought to book his flight out for today. But if he
held off until Friday he’d still have the weekend to get ready for his return to work, and
that would leave him two and a half days to spend with Norton. Who…should have been
here by now.
Shane glanced at his phone. No messages, and yes, Norton was definitely running
late.
Which wasn’t really like him. Scruffy and offhand Norton might be, but Shane had
noticed he wasn’t nearly as disorganized as he let on. And he sure as hell wasn’t
forgetful.
Maybe Shane had misunderstood. Maybe they were meeting for lunch and then
going sailing?
Or maybe Norton was running late. Yeah, that was probably it. It was easy to run late
here. Island time , they called it. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the habit of island
time.
Shane turned from the beach and started back along Crescent Avenue, crowded with
passengers from the cruise ship which had dropped anchor outside the bay. The floating
cities arrived every Monday and Tuesday during the month of March.
Better to skip sailing altogether and talk. Time to come clean. Maybe past time,
given those jokes Norton made about being an international art thief. Norton
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