“But this guy wouldn’t have known that.”
“Anyway, I changed all my passwords as soon as I noticed the laptop was gone. So he would have had a short window to work with. Also, wouldn’t I have those emails in my Sent box?”
“He probably deleted them immediately.”
“But they exist somewhere, right? On some server? You could subpoena them?”
“If I can put together a convincing probable cause, yes.”
“And what are the chances of that?”
“Not great at the moment. All I have are the suspicions of a retired art detective. Yeah, White quits his job and disappears, but so what? That’s not a crime.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“Well, I was hoping you could get the emails, if they existed, from your friend Tommy. But it sounds like that’s not the case.”
“Nope.”
“Have you heard from him at all?”
“Briefly. Between assignments. He’s out of pocket now.” Tommy had asked her not to tell anyone he might show up at the reunion, and Jackie planned to keep that confidence.
“What else can you tell me about Charlie White?”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Any dealings you had with this guy, anything weird you noticed.”
“Honestly, he seemed like a normal enough guy. Maybe a little creepy.”
“How so? Describe him.”
“Well, he’s a skinny little guy. He has a mustache, glasses, he was always wearing a bowtie. I think he said he was from Rhode Island. And a little…handsy?”
Coleman raised an eyebrow. “Handsy?”
“Yeah. Touchy-feely. I met with him, I think, three times, and each time he asked me out for a drink.”
“And you said?”
“I politely refused. Maybe next time, I’m in a hurry, that sort of thing. But while we were talking, he’d touch me on the shoulder, leave his hand there a little too long. The third time he tried to go in for a kiss on the cheek, but I kind of pretended I didn’t notice and pulled away before he could stick the landing.”
“Anything else? Out of the ordinary?”
“Really nothing. He just helped me out with the mailing list, setting up hotel rooms, you know, with the Emerson group discount. Dug some mementos and videos out of the archives, stuff like that. Have you looked into this guy? Does he have a record or anything?”
“Not in this state. I’m waiting to hear back from Rhode Island, but I don’t think I’m a priority with them. I really have nothing on this guy.”
“Well, in that case…is this the end of our official business? Do you want another beer?”
“Sure.”
The sun had set. Coleman drank in the lights of Boston spread out before him. He could get used to this. Jackie returned with two more frosties.
“There is something else we should talk about,” said Coleman.
“And what’s that?”
“My partner, Carnahan…he’s kind of on to us.”
“Kind of on to us? What does that mean?’
“He….thinks we’re…seeing each other.”
She smiled. “And are we? Seeing each other?”
“That’s…the point is, you’re a person of interest.”
“I should hope so.”
“You know what I mean. Technically…I mean, it doesn’t look good if I’m seeing a…”
“Suspect?”
“No! I mean, of course you’re not a suspect. But you are part of this investigation, and I’m the investigator, and…”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet. But I’ll tell you, I didn’t exactly take the direct route here. I drove out Memorial Drive to the Fresh Pond Parkway, parked out at Alewife, took the Red Line to Park, Green Line to Hynes. Stopped at three stores along the way.”
“Why did you bother doing all that if this is official business?”
“I guess…just in case, at some point it became unofficial business.”
“And has that point arrived?”
“Well…that’s kind of up to you.”
Jackie eased her chair closer to his, set down her beer, and leaned in until her lips met Coleman’s. He responded with no hesitation. Hungry tigers released from their cages into a field of deer show more restraint. After a long minute, they both came up for air.
“So,” Jackie said. “What about what we discussed last time I saw you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you seemed to be saying that we should do what you think Charlie White did, minus the murder. Go after Tommy and go after the paintings. And the reward.”
“And are you up for that?”
“Isn’t that going to cause more problems for you? Careerwise?”
“I don’t think so. I’m murder police, not art police. Looking into this Gardner case, as far as I’m concerned, it’s moonlighting. Maybe I’m not eligible for the reward, but you definitely are.”
“You know I think this is all bullshit, right? Tommy looked for those paintings back in the day and it didn’t end well.”
“And yet they’re still missing. And people are still looking for them.”
“They could be anywhere.”
“What about Shane Devlin? You ever meet him?”
“I sure did. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough. No hurry, right? Those paintings have been missing almost seventy years. We don’t need to find them tonight.”
“Did you have something else in mind?”
“Didn’t you say something earlier about taking a shower?”
“I might have mentioned something like that. Care to join me?”
“I could probably use one, yeah.”
“Right this way, detective.”
JUNE 16, 1946
By 3:30 a.m., two robbery detectives and the museum director had arrived at the Gardner, the medical examiner had completed his investigation of the murder scene, and the victim’s body was on its way to the coroner’s office. Over the next five hours, a methodical search of the museum from top to bottom would confirm the theft of thirteen works of art, including five Degas drawings, two Rembrandt paintings, and The Concert by Vermeer.
For Sergeants Higgins and Leonard, their work in the museum was done, but their night was far from over. Police canvassing of the immediate vicinity had uncovered a second victim in the front seat of a tan DeSoto, parked approximately sixty yards from the museum entrance. This man, identified as Joseph Cahill, had been shot twice in the head. Since yet a third murder, just a few blocks away, had also been reported, Sergeant Leonard stayed with the Cahill scene while Sergeant Higgins responded to the disturbance at 4 Charlesgate East.
It was not the first time Higgins had been called to that particular address, as he informed the uniform who greeted him at the entrance.
“This place gives me the fucking creeps,” Higgins said. “When I was a kid, this was the swankiest hotel in town. My mother took me here one day after shopping, just to walk around the lobby and look at all the fucking rich people. But the Depression came, and this place just went to hell. Couple years back, I got called here on a double. Guy had beat a whore damn near to death, but not quite. As he’s walking out of the room, she pulls a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson from the night table drawer, plugs him six times in the back. That’s about all she had left. By the time the ambulance got here, she’d died of her injuries. You never saw a case closed faster. They killed each other and they were both dead. But on my way out of here, I got stuck in the elevator. And I hear these… sounds coming down the elevator shaft, like a coyote or something. Then the lights go out. For maybe three or four minutes I’m crouched in the corner of the elevator with my gun drawn, listening to these howls in the dark. Then just like that, it’s all over. Lights come on, the howling stops, elevator brings me back down to the lobby, and I got the fuck out of here in a hurry.”
The uniform didn’t seem to know what to say to this, so
Higgins asked his name.
“Lehane, sir.”
“All right, Officer Lehane, where are we going?”
“Back staircase. This way.”
Higgins followed him down a hallway lined with decorative tile, through a long-defunct, cobwebbed ballroom crammed with old furniture, to a staircase landing where another uniform was chatting with a tearful young woman wearing a skimpy black negligee. A few feet away, the body of a man lay motionless in a pool of blood.
“What’s the story, Officer…?”
“Cullen,” said the second uniform. “Well, our victim here is Mr. James Dryden of Somerville. Ms. Gale here is one of his employees.”
Higgins smirked. “Oh yeah? Let me guess, this is an accounting firm? You’re Mr. Dryden’s secretary?”
“What do you think?” said the teary-eyed woman in her underwear.
“I think this is Jimmy Dryden, who, when he was alive, performed a valuable public service right here in this building. And he greased the right palms to make sure his business ran smoothly. Although this turn of events may throw a monkey wrench into the works. So what happened?”
“Ms. Gale here was entertaining a client,” said Cullen, “so she didn’t see nothing. But she heard shouting from the hallway on the sixth floor, and then she heard a scream. And when she ran out to see what was happening, she found that Mr. Dryden, who last she knew was up there on that same sixth floor, was now on the ground floor. And it looked like he got there in a hurry.”
“And Ms. Gale’s client? Where’s he?”
“Apparently he remembered another very important appointment. Gone before we got here.”
“So nobody actually saw what happened? Maybe this guy suddenly felt guilty about the illicit way he was making his living and decided to end it all.”
“I heard two voices,” said Ms. Gale.
“But you couldn’t tell what they were saying.”
“No.”
“So this other person just…disappeared? You didn’t see anyone going down the stairs?”
“No, I didn’t. For all I know, he could still be in the building. There’s a lot of rooms, a lot of floors…he could be anywhere.”
Higgins leaned on the staircase bannister and rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Thanks for your time, Ms. Gale. Why don’t you find somewhere else to be?”
She didn’t wait around to be asked twice. Her grief over Dryden’s untimely demise had its limits.
“You’re just letting her go?” Cullen asked.
“Do I look like a vice cop to you? I’ve got more important things to do than bust some two-dollar whore.”
“So what should we do? Seal off all the exits, conduct a doorto-door search?”
Higgins shook his head. “No thanks. Who knows how many more bodies we’d find if we start down that road. We might never get out of here. No, more I look at this, I’m pretty sure we’ve got an accident on our hands here.”
Cullen’s confusion was transparent. “Are you serious, Sergeant?”
“No, I’m fucking Jack Benny. Cullen, I don’t know if you’ve been on the horn tonight, but I’ve got two dead bodies back at the Gardner, and both of them are definite homicides. So I don’t have time to dick around here with some guy, probably drunk, I bet the blood tests will confirm that, takes a header off a staircase. Either he tried to kill himself and succeeded, or he slipped and fell and it just isn’t his day. Either way, it’s a waste of my valuable time.”
“But the girl—”
“Yeah, the girl heard voices while some john was pumping her against the bedpost. Look, if another witness turns up, that’s great. Otherwise, I’m not seeing it.”
“You don’t think this might be connected with the Gardner thing?”
“I don’t see how. Sure, these guys all know each other, but unless someone’s going around town knocking off wiseguys one by one…you think that’s what’s happening here, Cullen? You think maybe the Shadow moved to Boston, didn’t tell nobody? Maybe he’s a Sox fan, am I right?”
“Well…”
“Only the Shadow knows, huh?”
Sergeant Higgins gave a dismissive wave and left the Charlesgate—along with any chance he had of solving the Gardner case, catching the killer, and recovering the artwork—without looking back.
OCTOBER 16, 1986
The Angels went down without a fight in the last two games of the series. Oil Can Boyd started on Tuesday in a game the Red Sox blew open with five runs in the third inning. About a halfdozen of us watched Game 7 in the Love Room, and after the bottom of the eighth, with the Sox comfortably ahead 8−1, Murtaugh and I ventured down to Kenmore Square to take in the celebration.
It was a harrowing victory party indeed. Bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder and back to belly, spilling off the sidewalks and deep into Commonwealth Avenue, which was closed to vehicular traffic. The heavy police presence didn’t stop the drunken revelers from dancing on top of parked cars, spraying each other with foaming beers and chanting “Yankees suck!” for no really good reason. But who needed a reason?
“This is crazy,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” said Murtaugh.
It wasn’t awesome for some poor bastard who had parked his Toyota Corolla in front of the Pizza Pad. Three townies were doing a jig on its roof and hood, pounding deep dents into its frame. Their dancing intensified and the roof began to cave in. The windows shattered, bringing screams from those closest to the car. Then the townies started chanting “Tip it! Tip it! Tip it!” A half-dozen BU frat rats took them up on the offer, piling along the curb side of the car and rocking it back and forth. The townies stage-dived into the crowd and the frat rats managed to rock the Corolla completely off its driver’s side tires and flip it towards Comm Ave. More screams as the crowd backed away and the car’s roof came crashing to the ground.
“Chief, I dunno about you, but I’ve had enough celebrating,” I said. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”
“Pussy!”
“Yep. Smell ya later.”
I made it home without incident. The next day, I met Shane Devlin at the McDonald’s at Downtown Crossing. He was wearing the uniform with golden arches over his heart and pushing a mop across the floor. “I’ll be done in five,” he told me. “Why’ncha order a Filet-O-Fish or something?”
I ordered some fries and a small Coke and waited for him to finish. A few minutes later he joined me at the table, now dressed in civilian clothes.
“We gotta find these paintings, kid,” he said. “This is the job my parole officer got me. When I went in the joint in ’46, they didn’t even have McDonald’s. I’d see the commercials when I was locked up, always made me hungry. Must be good if so many people love it. Turns out it’s crap.”
I shrugged. “The fries are pretty good.”
“If you say so. But listen, I did my share of mopping up in Walpole. I don’t intend to make a living at it out here.”
“I guess we better get started then.” I tossed my half-eaten fries and we headed out to the Park Street T station.
“Food ain’t the only thing that’s changed,” he told me. “I felt like going to a movie yesterday. I picked one that got a good notice in the paper. Craziest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. This guy is watering his lawn, he has a heart attack or a stroke or something. Hose goes shooting up in the air. His kid comes home from college, he’s walking around in a field, he finds a fuckin’ ear lying there. A human ear. It only gets weirder from there.”
“Blue Velvet,” I said. “Great flick, I’ve seen it three times.”
“I walked out halfway through. You’re a sick fuck, kid.”
I laughed. We got on the Green Line and rode out to Kenmore Square. I took a glance toward Pizza Pad on our way out of the station. The trashed Toyota Corolla was gone. In fact, there was hardly a trace of the previous evening’s craziness.
“Some guys completely destroyed a car over there after the Sox won last night. It was a madhouse here.”
> “I don’t doubt it. Shit, they’ll probably knock that Hancock Building over when we win the championship.”
“Still feeling confident, huh?”
“Why the hell not? They rolled over the Angels. They’re on a hot streak. And the Mets? That wasn’t even a team when I went in.”
We approached the Charlesgate entrance. “Just let me do the talking,” I said. “But if anyone asks, you’re my grandpa, you’re from Maine, you’re a retired lobster fisherman, and you’re very proud of me.”
“Sure, kid. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I punched in the code and the front door lock clicked. I opened it and led Shane Devlin inside. The RA on duty behind the front desk was Missy from the Nunnery. Fortunately, we were on pretty good terms.
“Hey, Missy. Uh, this is my grandfather, Art Donnelly. He’s in town for a few days, so he’ll be visiting me now and then.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Donnelly!”
Shane leaned onto the front counter. “Hello, young lady! I’m a retired lobster fisherman from Maine. We’re very proud of Tommy.”
I nudged him in the ribs. “Anyway, I’ll sign him in.”
Missy smiled at Shane and pushed the guest book forward. I signed in my “grandpa” and led him through the inner doors to the elevator lobby. I hit the button.
“I told you to let me do the talking.”
“I was just practicing, kid. Getting our story straight.”
The elevator door slowly creaked open and Jackie St. John stepped out.
“Hey, Tommy.”
“Uh…hey, Jackie. This is…uh…”
Shane took her hand and planted a kiss on it. “Art Donnelly, my dear. I’m Tommy’s grandfather. We’re all very proud of him.”
“I bet! Tommy, your grandpa’s quite a charmer. I guess you must favor the other side of the family tree.”
I made an awkward sound, somewhere between a laugh and a dog choking on a chicken bone. Shane didn’t miss a beat.
“Our Tommy’s always been a little shy,” he said. “But give him a chance and I know the Donnelly charm will come out.”
“Okay, gramps,” I managed. “I think it’s time to let Jackie be on her way.” I pulled Shane into the elevator and pounded on the button for the eighth floor.
Charlesgate Confidential Page 17
