Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “I think so,” said Jake. “This guy is gonna see us. He’s not gonna see you. Is that about the size of it?”

  “You’re a naturally suspicious fella, aren’t you?”

  “Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “Sure. I understand. But just to review the lesson so far: I’ll have this gun. You’ll have jack shit. So it’s in your best interest to lose your skepticism and trust me. Am I right?”

  “Sure,” said Shane. “Trust you.”

  “Okay then. So once the guard is secure in the basement, you’ll join me in the courtyard, where I’ll already be at work securing the items on our list. I estimate it will take no more than thirty minutes to acquire them all. Then we get the fuck out of here, Mr. Cahill drives you back to South Station, and I contact my fence down in Florida to let him know the job is done. Within forty-eight hours, I’ll exchange the art for the promised payoff. You call the number I gave you and give my friend the account number for the wire transfer. Then you get your cut, and at that point, our partnership is concluded.”

  “We’d be legends,” said Shane. “Except no one will ever know it was us.”

  “Yeah, well, why do you think I killed the Little Rascal who couldn’t keep his mouth shut? I know you both threw his name out, but the truth? It was always gonna be him. Hope that helps you sleep at night.”

  ***

  It went according to plan at first. Jake and Shane rang the doorbell. The security guard answered. Jake explained that they were responding to a disturbance. The guard opened the door to let them in. Dave T jumped out of the bushes with his gun and ordered the guard inside. He directed Jake and Shane to the basement. They each took the guard by an arm and led him downstairs.

  “Come on, fellas,” the guard pleaded. “Don’t do this. I’m just a college student. I’m gonna lose this job!”

  After tying the guard up and gagging him, Jake led Shane to a dark corner of the basement.

  “We’re going to have to make our move soon,” Jake said.

  “Great. How?”

  “We gotta get him to shoot at us.”

  “I don’t think I heard you.”

  “We get Dave T to shoot at us.”

  “This is your plan? I think we can pull it off, but I don’t exactly see how that benefits us.”

  “Maybe it won’t. But we know for sure he’s going to put bullets in our brains at close range if we don’t do anything. If we can get him to expend his bullets shooting at us from a distance, our odds are better. Maybe we get shot anyway, but better to be a moving target than a sitting duck.”

  “I guess so. It ain’t like I’ve got a better idea.”

  “All right. Let’s just play along with him until he’s ready to leave.”

  Jake and Shane headed back up the stairs, leaving the security guard straining against his bonds in the basement. When they reached the courtyard, Dave T was waiting there with a rolled-up canvas tucked under his arm and his revolver still at hand.

  “Took you long enough,” he said. “I was about to get worried.”

  “He fought us,” said Jake. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

  “I doubt that. Come on, we’ve got to move fast. We’re going to the Dutch Room next.”

  “Fine. Lead on.”

  “No, after you. It’s up those stairs, just past the statue of the Greek broad with no arms.”

  Jake nodded to Shane and they made their way across the courtyard to the staircase at the far end.

  “Kind of beautiful in here, huh, guys? Smells good, too, all this greenery.”

  Jake didn’t have much interest in admiring the aesthetics nor the aromas of Isabella Stewart Gardner’s life’s work, but he had to grudgingly agree. The inverted walls of a Venetian-style palazzo rose to meet a full-ceiling skylight that flooded the courtyard with silver light from the nearly full moon. Plants and sculptures lined the walkways on either side of the massive mosaic floor. Water flowed serenely through an ivy-covered stone fountain. It wouldn’t be the worst place to die if it came to that.

  At the top of the stairs on the second floor, Dave T told them to turn right. They entered a spacious gallery, its walls dominated by several intimidating portraits of royalty and a striking image of a ship in peril on stormy seas.

  “Okay,” said Dave T. “I’m gonna stand guard here at the door. Here.” He tossed a small object to Shane, who caught it in the air. It was an ivory handle, about five inches long. “Open it.” Shane did so, revealing the blade of a straight razor. “Okay, see that painting there with the poor fuckers on the sailboat? Go over and slice it out of the frame. Carefully. There’s a lot of money at stake for all of us.”

  Jake and Shane approached the painting, which measured roughly five feet high by four feet wide and was mounted in a gilded frame. This was Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee, painted by Rembrandt in 1633, not that Jake and Shane gave a shit. They each grabbed one of the ornate Italian chairs lined up against the wall and turned them to face either side of the painting, then stepped up onto them. Shane took the razor and carefully drew it around the perimeter of the canvas on his side of the painting, then passed the blade to Jake, who did the same.

  “All right. Peel it out and roll it up. Slowly and carefully.”

  As delicately as possible, Jake used the razor blade to pry the canvas away from the edge of the frame at the top corner, then passed the razor back to Shane so he could do the same. Working in unison, each holding one top corner of the canvas, they slowly pulled it away from the frame, rolling it as they went. Flecks of paint and canvas wafted to the floor, each speck no doubt reducing the painting’s value. When it was completely rolled up, Shane handed his end off to Jake, who awkwardly tucked the Rembrandt in the crook of his arm.

  “All right,” said Dave T. “Next up is The Concert by Vermeer. It’s got a guy sitting at a piano with his back to us and two broads standing next to him.”

  “I see it,” said Shane. He pointed to the Vermeer and he and Jake repeated the slicing and rolling process with this smaller work. The trio worked their way through the museum, accumulating a total of thirteen works of art. At Dave T’s direction, Jake and Shane distributed the artworks between them, each holding several rolled canvasses and smaller drawings under their arms; another smart move on Dave T’s part, as the added bulk would make it even more obvious if they were to try making a move on him.

  “All right, that’s it,” said Dave T. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. You first.” By now he was holding nothing but his gun. The time had clearly come. Jake and Shane slowly picked up their pace as they reached the top of the staircase. The courtyard was to their left, about a twenty-five foot drop from the top step. Jake and Shane started down the stars, accelerating as they went. They were ten feet ahead of Dave T. Then fifteen. Then…

  “Now,” Jake whispered, about halfway down the stairs. They both tossed their priceless artworks behind them, directly in Dave T’s path, and vaulted over the side of the staircase. They hit the floor and rolled to their feet, sprinting back the way they’d come in.

  “Hey! Drop or I fucking drop you!” Dave T hustled down the stairs two at a time.

  “Fuck you!”

  The small entryway was thirty yards away when Jake heard the gunshots. He kept running, counting the shots in his head. He’d heard three when his left bicep exploded. The next sound he heard was his own screaming. He’d survived six months as a Japanese prisoner of war, but now some fucking card dealer for the Mob had drawn blood. He kept running. He heard one more shot, followed by a click. His vision blurred and he pitched forward. He hit the floor, looking up in time to see Dave T frantically trying to reload his gun while Shane charged him with the straight razor. When he saw what was happening, Dave T threw the gun at Shane and broke for the exit.

  “What the fuck are you idiots doing? We’re about to be rich!”

  “No,” said Shane. “ We’re about to be rich.” He caught up to Dave T just as he reached the d
oor, grabbed him with his left arm, and drew the straight razor raggedly across his throat. Dave T howled—actually it was more of a gurgle—and swatted helplessly at the air as his blood shot out in front of him. Shane swung out his right foot and kicked Dave T’s legs out from under him. He crumpled to the courtyard floor. The hideous gurgling noises continued, but not for very long. His scrabbling hands fell limp. Shane dropped the bloody blade onto his chest. Jake tried to pull himself to his feet using only his right arm, but kept slipping back down. The pain in his left arm was unimaginable. Shane finally noticed his plight and came running. “No!” said Jake. “Get those paintings. We’re not leaving here with nothing.”

  “But Jake—”

  “Do it!”

  While Shane collected the drawings and rolled canvasses, Jake finally managed to get to his feet. He spotted Dave T’s revolver near the statue of the Greek broad with no arms, staggered over and picked it up. Dave T had managed to load two bullets before Shane caught up to him.

  “Jesus,” said Shane. “You’re bleeding like a sonofabitch.”

  “Never mind. Slide one of those paintings around my arm so the gun is hidden.” Shane did so and Jake pressed his good arm to his chest. From a distance it would look like he was carrying his share of the load. “Now let’s fucking go. We’ve got one more loose end to tie up.”

  ***

  Across the street, Joey Cahill sat behind the wheel, checking his watch. It was past time to go. Just then he saw Shane and Jake breaking from the museum entrance, each carrying rolled up paintings. As they sprinted toward him, he leaned across the passenger seat and pushed open the door.

  “Where’s Dave T?” he asked.

  “You’ll see him in just a minute.” Jake raised his good arm and shot Cahill twice in the head. Smoke wafted from the open end of the canvas wrapped around his arm. Cahill slumped to the steering wheel and Jake slammed the door shut.

  “Okay, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “Jake, you’re bleeding like crazy—”

  “What do you want to do, go to Brigham and Women’s down the street and ask them to take out the bullet? The cops are gonna be all over this place in about five minutes. We gotta go!”

  “Where are we going on foot?”

  “Somewhere close. Somewhere we can stash these goddam paintings and figure out our next move.”

  “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Where it all began. We’re going to the fuckin’ Charlesgate.”

  OCTOBER 18, 1986

  We all gathered in the Love Room to watch the Red Sox eke out a 1−0 win over the Mets in the first game of the World Series, but my heart wasn’t in it. A crazy old man who’d spent the past few decades behind bars had almost choked the life out of me and I had no one to blame but myself. He’d seemed like a harmless old coot until suddenly he hadn’t.

  I kept this turn of events to myself. When Murtaugh asked how my day with grandpa had gone, I just shrugged it off. I thought about going to the police. Maybe Shane Devlin had done something to violate his parole, maybe just being in the Fallout Shelter drinking a beer was enough to put him back behind bars.

  But I didn’t do it. Why? Did some part of me think I could still get a good story out of this, a gem that would make my portfolio shine when it came time to look for a real job after graduation? Or was I just greedy, wanting to believe there was some chance those paintings were still in Charlesgate, and if we found them I’d be set for life? Famous, even. Jackie St. John couldn’t ignore me then, and hell, I could even ignore her if I felt like it.

  On some level I knew this all sounded crazy, and if I’d talked it over with a sane person or two, they would have set me straight. But I didn’t do that. I didn’t want to drag my friends into this. Instead I pursued the story. I set up an appointment with the head of Emerson’s physical plant. I told him I wanted to interview him about the Charlesgate for a Berkeley Beacon article. That was true as far as it went.

  His office was in the basement of 100 Beacon Street. It smelled like stale cigarette smoke, and a radiator banged incessantly throughout our interview. Mr. Horn was a short, chubby man with pasty skin and a greasy combover. He shook my hand and I resisted the urge to immediately wipe it on my pant leg.

  “So what’s this about?”

  “You mentioned on the phone that you were working here when Emerson took over the Charlesgate?”

  “That’s right. They bought it in ’79. Fall of 1980, we had it ready for students to move in.”

  “And what was involved in that process?”

  “What wasn’t? That place was not fit for man nor beast. The police had to clear it out first. Squatters, junkies, whores, Satan worshippers…a couple dead bodies, decomposing on the eighth floor from what I heard. And a couple legitimate residents, rent-controlled. They’re still living there, far as I know.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “At least one of them is.”

  “Oh, you’ve met Mrs. Coolidge?” He laughed, I think. He may also have been choking on a cigar butt. “She’s a pistol.”

  “She sure is. So once the police had everyone moved out, I’m assuming there was a lot of junk that had to be cleared from the building?”

  “You ain’t kidding. Geraldo should have skipped Al Capone’s vault and come here instead.”

  “So you were overseeing the whole cleanup?”

  “Yeah, I was in there every day. We contracted it out, but I had to be on the premises to make sure no one made off with any hidden treasures. Once Emerson bought the building, they owned everything inside it. If we found a chest of gold doubloons or any other fuckin’ thing, it belonged to the college.”

  “And did you find anything like that? Anything interesting?”

  “No pirate treasure, but there was some strange stuff. One room was like the fuckin’ Pit and the Pendulum. All kinda weird homemade torture implements. Thumbscrews, an Iron Maiden, something called a Scavenger’s Daughter, you don’t even want to know. Emerson didn’t keep that shit, they had us get rid of it right away.”

  “But anything valuable?”

  “Some stuff from way back when that place was a luxury hotel. Chandeliers, fine crystal, shit like that.”

  “And what happened to that stuff? Did it get auctioned off?”

  “Not yet. We boxed it all up and stowed it in the stables.”

  “The stables?”

  “Yeah, you know, down in the basement there in the Charlesgate. In its heyday, there were actual stables down there where the rich people parked their horses, with tunnels leading up to the surface. It’s all blocked off now, so that’s where we stashed all that shit. Someday they’ll get around to auctioning it all off. Shit, if they did that, maybe they could afford to stay in Boston instead of moving out to fuckin’ Lawrence.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice? So chandeliers, crystal…any paintings that you recall?”

  “Sure, there were paintings. Sculptures. All kindsa knickknacks.”

  “And as far as you know, these paintings would be stored down in those stables?”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

  I remembered Murtaugh telling me about a locked door I’d tried to open on a drunken ghost hunt. “Huh. You know, it would really help my article if I could get a look down there. You know, get a sense of what it looks like, what’s down there.”

  “I just told you.”

  “I know, but I want to be able to, y’know, paint a mental picture for the readers. Maybe even take a couple pictures.”

  “Look, it ain’t up to me. I mean, I don’t think it’s any big deal, but there’s liability issues, shit like that.”

  “Right. So basically you’re the only one with access.”

  “Well, the resident director’s got a key, too, just in case… well, I don’t know in case of what, but he’s got one.”

  “Makes sense. Well, I appreciate your time. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Sure, sure. Hey, when’s the arti
cle coming out?”

  “Oh, it will probably be another week or two. I’ll let you know.”

  “Yeah, do that. The only time I ever been in the newspaper before was in the police blotter when I got a DUI back in ’81. Not the best way to make the news.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll let you know.”

  I shook his clammy hand again and headed out. Fall had arrived in earnest, as the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since I’d entered 100 Beacon. I had no jacket, so I caught a ride on the shuttle bus. I had a lot to think about. Charlesgate’s resident director was Gerald Torres. I’d been summoned to his office once when my RA caught me with a beer in my hand in the hallway. (The Fallout Shelter might believe I was twenty-one, but Emerson had records indicating otherwise.) If he had the keys to the stables, it might be possible to get my hands on them for a brief period of time without him noticing. If I could sneak into the stables and if the stolen Gardner paintings were actually there…well, it would probably be too good to be true. But I had to give it a shot. The only question was: Should I let Shane Devlin in on my discovery? Or should I try to cut him out of the loop by arranging to have his parole revoked?

  The shuttle pulled to a stop in front of Fensgate. I stepped off the bus and took a deep breath of crisp fall air. Something had changed. I was thinking like a criminal. And I didn’t feel bad about it at all.

  MAY 5, 2014

  Coleman knew he was in trouble. The text from HQ said Lt. Weir wanted to see him right away. He doubted he was going to be offered a promotion and the Medal of Valor.