“So don’t eat,” said McCullough. “You could lose a few pounds.”
“I can’t go all night without eating. I don’t eat, I get light in the head. You don’t want a dizzy cop backing you up.”
“I’d say that ship has sailed.”
“Wise guy. But the problem is, there’s no schedule to it. I mean, you work a regular day shift, it’s easy. Breakfast is breakfast. You eat it in the morning. Lunch at noon. Dinner after work. Simple. But you work overnight, all that’s out the fuckin’ window. You don’t know when to eat.”
“I know when to eat. My wife packs me a sandwich, I eat it when I get hungry enough to eat it. What could be more fuckin’ simple than that?”
“Well, you got a wife. It’s different.”
“You can make your own sandwich. It don’t exactly require a college degree.”
“I could really go for a ham and cheese. Charlie’s is open until one. Swing over there and I’ll get a ham and cheese.”
“Here’s what you do. You go to the deli. You ask ’em to slice you off a pound of ham, a half pound of cheese. I like cheddar, but you get what you want. You buy a loaf of bread, a jar of mustard, presto. Ham and cheese sandwiches for a week. You can even pick up some fresh tomatoes and lettuce at the Haymarket.”
“I like a hot sandwich. Charlie’s makes a hot ham and cheese. Fresh. Not sitting in a bag all night.”
“Oh, well, excuse me, Chef. I didn’t realize you were such a fussy eater.”
“It’s two blocks away, just swing over there. This town is dead tonight. There’s not a peep on the radio. I’m starving.”
McCullough sighed and started the car. “Fine. But I’m tellin’ ya, we’re gonna catch a call tonight. There’s something in the air here lately. You heard about the fat man the other night?”
“Of course. Why, you know something?”
“I hear things.”
“Things?”
“Things. I dunno. Guy had a reputation. Lotta lowlifes would like to take credit for that one.”
“He had a lotta friends, too. Whoever did it, I wouldn’t expect ’em to grow old.”
“Probably not. But I dunno why we can’t ever catch a call like that. Would make the long nights pass a little faster, that’s for sure.” McCullough pulled up in front of Charlie’s Kitchen in Kenmore Square. “Here ya go, your highness.”
“I’ll be out quick.” Pinkham popped out of the passenger side door and headed into Charlie’s. McCullough kept his eye on the sidewalk traffic, hoping for something, anything to happen.
After five minutes, the car radio crackled. “All units. Reports of shots fired in the Fenway, near the Gardner Museum.”
McCullough almost gave himself a hernia reaching for the radio mike. “Car 27 here. We’re in the immediate vicinity. On our way.”
McCullough leaned on the horn. Through the storefront window of Charlie’s, he could see Pinkham at the counter, holding up his index finger. McCullough leaned on the horn again, then triggered the siren. Pinkham threw up his arms, then came running out and climbed back in the car.
“What the fuck, my sandwich isn’t ready yet!”
“Fuck your sandwich. We got a call. Shots fired.” McCullough squealed away from the curb and made a U-turn. He leaned on the pedal all the way down Brookline Ave before taking a hard left onto Fenway. No more than two minutes after pulling away from Charlie’s, he stomped on the brakes in front of the Gardner Museum, shut down the engine and jumped out of the car. Pinkham followed.
McCullough drew his gun as he approached the Gardner entrance. The front door was wedged open. As he closed in, McCullough could see that it was wedged open by an adult human body. Judging by the red pool surrounding it, a dead adult human body. But McCullough wasn’t taking any chances.
“This is the Boston police!” he shouted. “If you can hear me, raise your hands above your head!”
McCullough didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one. He took the last few steps forward, then kneeled beside the body.
The departed was a male in his late thirties. His shirt was soaked in blood. The ivory handle of a straight razor lay against the center of his chest, almost spotless, but the blade was thickly coated with blood.
“Holy shit,” said McCullough. “What did I tell you? What did I just fucking tell you? We finally caught a good call.”
“A good call? Is he dead?”
“Oh, he’s very fucking dead. And I know who he is. Well, I don’t know his real name, but I know his street name. This is a big one.”
“Well, spill! Who the fuck is it?”
“You ever heard of Dave T?”
OCTOBER 11, 1986
Whatever “Wurlitzer” Prize-winning story the old man who’d introduced himself as Shane Devlin had in mind, he was in no mood to share it with me at the moment. He didn’t know if he could trust me, he said, and just like Mrs. Coolidge, he had to ask around about me first. I had no idea who he was planning to ask or what sort of information he was after, but I wrote down my name and phone number on a napkin so he could get in touch with me if I passed muster. In retrospect, maybe I should have given a little more thought to turning my contact info over to a man who’d just spent forty years in prison, but since he already knew where I lived, why not go all in? At that point, I figured there was at least an eighty percent chance the guy was a complete crackpot.
I’d filled up on free Buffalo wings at the Fallout Shelter, but decided to swing by the Canteen anyway just to see if I could catch the dinner crew. Sure enough, Murtaugh, Brooks, Rodney, Jules, and the Rev were at our usual table. And so was Purple Debbie. I decided to play it cool, taking the open seat directly across from her.
“Happy Friday, folks!” That didn’t come out quite as nonchalantly as I’d hoped, thanks in part to the four Knickerbockers I’d guzzled while chatting with Devlin.
“Are you drunk?” Murtaugh asked.
“I’m not drunk. I had a couple Knicks at the Fallout Shelter.”
“They let you back in that place?”
“Of course. What, you’re surprised they have no standards? Anyway, I got talking to this guy who just got out of prison, and he might have some good shit on the old days of Charlesgate for me. It was a career day all around.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to be proud of,” said Brooks.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ve got something much more important going on.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Rodney rolled his eyes, spearing his Salisbury steak. “Brooks has been hanging out with the no-nukes kooks.”
“They’re not kooks. We’re organizing a protest against the Seabrook nuclear power plant next week.”
“Which is in the sovereign state of New Hampshire and thus none of your goddam business. And you can tell Generalissimo Dukakis I said so.”
“It’s on the border. There are four Massachusetts towns within ten miles of the plant, which means they’re in the evacuation zone, which means Governor Dukakis has to approve the evacuation plan before Seabrook can open. Radiation doesn’t recognize state borders, Rodney.”
“Hey, good for you, Brooks,” I said. “I’d join you except, you know, this very important article I’ve gotta work on.”
All this time, I could sense Purple Debbie staring a hole in the side of my head, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to meet her gaze. With great effort, I now did so.
“What’s up, Deb?”
“Oh, look! I exist!”
I tried to laugh it off. “Of course you exist. What, you think I’ve been avoiding you or something?”
“Maybe I’ve been avoiding you.”
“Well, that’s kind of the impression I got.”
“Sure you did. Because it’s all about you, right?”
I glanced around the table. We had everyone’s undivided attention. “Do you really want to do this now?” I asked.
“Do what? You started it.”
“I said
‘what’s up.’ That’s all I said.”
“Oh right, you’re the bigger person. You know they’re all on your side no matter what,” she said, gesturing dismissively to the rest of the group.
“I have no idea what’s going on right now,” said Jules.
“In fairness to the senator from Maine,” said Murtaugh, “I was in the room the other night, and—”
“Hey, hey, hey, we’re not in court here,” I said. “I don’t need any expert testimony. Debbie, why don’t we just talk about this privately—”
“I keep telling you, there’s nothing to talk about! I’m back with Chad, case closed.”
“You’re back with your gay boyfriend?” Murtaugh asked.
“He’s not gay! He was confused.”
“Brooks,” said Murtaugh. “You ever get confused and think maybe you like dick?”
“Umm…”
“Wait, why am I asking you? Rodney! You ever get confused and think maybe you prefer cock to the sweet, sweet poontang?”
“There’s absolutely no confusion,” said Rodney. “I am no man’s butt-boy.”
“What about you, Rev? Any confusion?”
“No, man. I got no problem with gay people, but dick is not on my menu.”
“How about you, Tommy? Is cock—”
“Fuck you guys!” The Canteen seemed to go completely silent as Purple Debbie shrieked. “Fuck you all! Chad is NOT a homo. And you don’t even have to ask Tommy! Because he ate my pussy like it was his last fucking meal!”
I don’t think I actually slid under the table, but every instinct in me was crying out to do so. I didn’t have to look up to know that every eye within a five table radius was on me. Purple Debbie stormed out of the Canteen to a wild round of applause—catcalls, whistles, the works. An eternity seemed to pass while I searched for something to say.
“So…you guys wanna go watch the game?”
***
The Red Sox lost Game 3 and the next day they lost Game 4. It didn’t look good. A season that had begun with so much promise, with Dwight Evans hitting the first pitch he saw out of Fenway for a leadoff homer, was about to go down the toilet like so many others. But I had other plans for my Saturday. I went back to the Boston Public Library to search the daily papers from 1946 in hopes of finding out why Shane Devlin had received a life sentence. I started with the December 31 issue and worked my way backwards from there. Two hours later, I reached the October 16 issue. At the top of the front page, I saw this headline:
COP KILLER DEVLIN SENTENCED TO DEATH FOR DOUBLE SLAYING
My new pal from the Fallout Shelter had been convicted for killing two men, one of them a police officer, on June 14, 1946. So that was reassuring.
MAY 1, 2014
Coleman pressed “End Call” and pocketed his phone. He had set up a meet with “art detective” Nicholas Woodward in an hour at Grendel’s in Harvard Square. Now he just had to clear it with his partner.
“Hey, Carny. You got this under control?”
Carnahan shrugged. “Perp’s on his way downtown with our guys. I’m guessing he’s connected in such a way as to make bail almost immediately, and I will be shocked shitless if he doesn’t plead self-defense. Ain’t nothing left for us to do here. Why?”
“I mighta caught a break on our Charlesgate case.”
“No shit?”
“Well…might be bullshit, but like you said, we got nothing going on this one.”
“Hey, knock yourself out. I’ll finish up the fine print here. Give me a call later. But Trane?”
“Yeah?’
“I ain’t forgotten our earlier conversation. You wrap this up, great. Our girl’s not involved, you have my permission to bring the ruckus to her fine-ass tuchus. Otherwise we’ve got more words ahead.”
“Fine. Jesus, Carny.”
Coleman jumped on the Red Line at Broadway and rode it all the way to Harvard Square. He walked the block from Out of Town News to Grendel’s Den and took at a seat at the bar with five minutes to spare. He ordered a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life and checked his text messages. A new one popped up while he was looking: “Walking in now.” He turned to face the door. A white-haired man in a Louis Vuitton suit stepped in and carefully made his way down the steps to the bar area. Coleman raised a hand and the man joined him at the bar.
“You’re Woodward?”
“I am. And you are Detective Coleman.” His accent was posh London. Coleman shook his hand.
“Want a drink? It’s on me, assuming you aren’t full of shit.”
“I am not. And I’ll have a glass of Cabernet.”
Coleman made the order, then set his phone on the bar, dictation app on. “You don’t mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
“You are Nicholas Woodward and you’re an…art detective?”
“Yes. My official job title for many years was Fine Arts Claims Adjuster, but I’ve been retired for some time. Well, semi-retired. I still take on the occasional freelance assignment.”
Woodward’s piercing gaze and easy smirk reminded Coleman of the British actor Malcolm McDowell. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Indeed. I’ve retired to St. John’s Wood, but quite recently I received an offer I found difficult to refuse. You see, I spent several years here back in the late ’70s to early ’80s. In fact, I lived very near here and frequented this pub, which I why I chose it today. I was working for Lloyd’s of London, and my primary assignment in those days was the Gardner Museum robbery. I assume you’re familiar?”
“I grew up here. I am very familiar.”
“Well, you see, it was my job to exhaust all possible avenues of recovering the stolen art. And I did that. I had no shortage of leads. It was the IRA, it was Whitey Bulger, it was the Kennedys. Every con artist in the Western Hemisphere was lined up to assist my investigation. Your familiarity with the case extends to the reward?”
“Five million, isn’t it?”
“It is now. After the robbery, back in the ’40s, it started at $500,000. It’s gone up ever since. And in all that time there has not been one legitimate claim on the reward. One man was found dead at the scene of the robbery. A man with many known criminal associates who would kill for far less money. And yet none of them ever came forward.”
“At some point this will all lead to a reason you called me here when I was in the middle of another murder investigation. I am not the art police, Mr. Woodward.”
“I understand that. And this does concern a murder. Or at least, I believe it does. And as I mentioned, I’ve been an investigator for many, many years.”
“My Charlesgate vic. You see a connection.”
“As I said, I was employed by Lloyd’s of London at the time of my original investigation. In 1981, I grew homesick and the company reassigned me to England. I was disappointed I’d never cracked the Gardner case, but eager for new challenges. The Gardner case never left my mind, but it…receded. Until two weeks ago. A documentary filmmaker contacted me. She’s making a film about the robbery, and she offered to fly me back here for some interviews and possibly to follow up a few leads. This filmmaker, a Ms. Cindy Klein, is a graduate of Emerson College, and an admirer of another Emerson graduate, a truecrime writer named Thomas Donnelly. She’d wanted to adapt one of his books into a film, but was never able to get in touch with him. She’d also obtained a file of Mr. Donnelly’s clippings from the Emerson newspaper, the Berkeley Beacon, including an article that referenced the Gardner heist. That’s what sparked her interest. I had never seen this article—it was published years after I left the country, and in any case, I’m not in the habit of reading college newspapers. It was a fascinating read.”
“Yeah, I’ve read it.”
Woodward raised an eyebrow. “Have you? May I ask why?”
“Later. Cut to the chase, Mr. Woodward.”
“Of course. The article postulates an interesting theory about the Gardner robbery, as you know. After reading it, I was v
ery interested in speaking to Mr. Donnelly.”
“You think this Donnelly knows where these paintings are? And for some reason he never came forward to claim the five million dollars?”
Woodward smiled. “Are you an art lover, Detective Coleman?”
“Not really.”
“Neither am I, to tell you the truth. But I do love a mystery. Solving a mystery, that is. I think that’s something you and I have in common?”
“That’s the job. That’s why I’m still listening.”
“My point is this. I had no way of knowing whether Mr. Donnelly knew anything about the art or its whereabouts. But it was a lead, however tenuous. Had it ever been followed up? That I didn’t know. So I wanted to speak with him.”
“Something of a recluse, isn’t he?”
“So I came to understand. Ms. Klein hadn’t been able to get in touch with him, and my usual methods came up dry. His publisher was of no help. Apparently he contacts them when he finishes a book. They never even know what he’s working on until he delivers it. But it occurred to me that the Emerson alumni office might have his contact information. Colleges generally keep close track of their big fish, so to speak.”
“And you think they’d share that information with you?”
“Not officially, of course. Not as an institution. But institutions are made up of individuals. Individuals who might become helpful after hearing about a five-million-dollar reward. So I made an appointment with one such individual: Charles White, the direc-tor of alumni research and records at Emerson College. As it turns out, Mr. White did not have the information I sought. But he thought he knew someone who might.”
“Who’s that?”
“A Mrs. Jackie Osborne. Formerly Jackie St. John.”
Coleman motioned to the bartender, trying to maintain a poker face. “And who is she?”
“She was a classmate of Mr. Donnelly’s at Emerson. Mr. White has been assisting her in setting up a class reunion at the Charlesgate, which I believe is the site of the murder you’re investigating, as well as the building Mr. Donnelly wrote about in his article.”
Charlesgate Confidential Page 14
