Page 10 of Hawkeye

Chet’s smile remained in place, but his gaze flicked toward Josie again. This time, the calculation was impossible to miss if a man knew where to look, which bought him surveillance before he ever stood from the table.

The remainder of the meeting yielded promises and timelines, but no useful explanation of how multiple items stolen from Kenny Simon’s home had passed through the same subcontractor. Chet never contradicted himself, not realizing that this only added to my confidence in his dishonesty. People who were telling the truth stumbled through their answers as memories and thoughts came and went. This was a common mistake made by liars. And men telling the truth didn’t control every breath this carefully.

When he left, he shook the director’s hand, thanked everyone for handling the matter discreetly, and acknowledged Josie with a courteous nod that did nothing to erase the coldness I had seen.

I stood and walked to the glass wall, watching as he crossed the lobby. His pace increased once the conference room door closed behind him, and his phone appeared before he reached the main entrance. He placed a call from inside his company vehicle and pulled away while still speaking.

Josie came to stand near my shoulder. “You think he was lying.”

“He prepared every reaction before he entered this room.” I watched the vehicle disappear beyond the front gates, then looked down at her. “The only honest one came when he realized how much you had seen.”

Her dimple vanished as she glanced toward the road. “You noticed the way he looked at me.”

“I did.”

Stryker joined us, his expression hard beneath the polished Black Castle exterior. “Yard, vehicles, employees, and every subcontractor he names.”

“I’ll set it up,” I replied. “Black Castle stays visible to Wynnock and the family. Our guys quietly watch everything else.”

Stryker sent a brief message summoning the surveillance leads to his office. “Quiet until he shows us where he’s moving the property.”

Judge adjusted one cuff. “If his files arrive before the surveillance is in place, he’ll think we bought the subcontractor story.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Let him enjoy it.”

The meeting broke apart, but Michael asked Josie to examine one of the most urgent open military lots before we left. A framed medal group waited beneath the conservation room lights, the aged ribbons and darkened metal arranged over faded fabric. At first glance, it looked like one veteran’s service history dated back decades. But even I could see that the newer backing and uniform fasteners did not belong with the wear on the medals.

Josie tied on her canvas apron and leaned over the worktable, all concentration as she adjusted the lamp. The position pulled her blouse tighter across her breasts and emphasized the rounded curve of her ass beneath the fitted waist of her trousers. My cock thickened while I stood beside her, forcing me to redirect enough attention toward the display to remain useful.

“These two service numbers don’t follow the same pattern,” she explained, pointing without touching the engravings. “That could mean the display combines relatives, but the source description identifies one veteran and doesn’t mention later additions. The mounting also tries too hard to look as old as the medals.”

Michael asked her to show us what she meant. Josie angled the frame beneath the light and pointed out several details without burying the answer beneath more information than we needed. The ribbon folds carried older compression where they had once rested differently, modern adhesive showed beneath the aged fabric, and someone had darkened recent fasteners to make them look original. The senior appraiser looked impressed by her answer.

“What separates ordinary remounting from an attempt to mislead?” I asked.

Josie looked up at me, eyes brightening as the question pulled her fully into the work. “Ordinary remounting usually leaves a reason behind. The family changes the frame, adds another generation, or replaces damaged backing, but the wear still makes sense. Here, someone mounted unrelated age patterns together, then wrote the source description as though the display had always existed in this form.”

Her hands became more animated as she described how the medals had likely been stored separately before someone combined them. I watched the deep dimple appear when she caught herself talking faster, and the urge to bend her over the worktable became strong enough to make my grip tighten around the table’s edge.

After several minutes, Josie glanced between Michael and me. “I know these probably sound like very small things.”

“Small things are what people miss after they decide what they want the answer to be,” I replied. “Keep going.”

Her expression softened, and the warmth returning to her cheeks told me she heard more than professional interest beneath the answer. She resumed the assessment, identifying enough inconsistencies for the senior appraiser to add the lot to the priority list. The engraved numbers gave Wynnock specific records to research, while the misleading source description gave us another reason to doubt the estate company’s paperwork.

Michael carried the file to the records office, leaving Josie to secure the display. I remained beside her while she lowered the light and returned the tools to their places, enjoying the competent economy in every movement. She knew exactly what belonged beneath her hands and never touched anything merely to look busy.

“How long do they keep calling you an apprentice?” I asked.

Josie gave me a curious glance. “There isn’t a fixed finish line. I’ve completed my degree, but major appraisals still require senior review, and there are specialties I could spend decades learning. I can handle most conservation work in my area independently, but the final valuation and catalog attribution belong to someone above me.”

I thought about the medal display she had just pulled apart without disturbing a single piece. “The title tells me where you are in their hierarchy. Watching you work tells me whether I should listen. Those are different things.”

Her smile opened slowly, warm enough to make the room feel smaller. “Which one matters to you?”

“The second.” I let my gaze travel over her face. “The first only tells me who signs the paperwork.”

Her laugh was soft, and my cock responded as though the sound belonged directly beneath my skin. Waiting was becoming less appealing by the minute.