Among Thieves

by David Hosp

  Skykes considered this. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. This is too thin to count as even a theory from what you’ve told me; it’s hardly a lead.”

  Sanchez could feel Stone looking at her. She knew what he was thinking, but she was resistant to sharing any more with the captain. Her success had come, in many respects, as a result of her ability to keep secrets.

  Skykes could read her hesitation. “If there’s more, I want to know about it, Sanchez,” he said.

  “‘The Storm,’” she said.

  “‘The Storm’?”

  “It’s what was written at the scene of Murphy’s murder,” Stone said.

  “There’s a chance that it’s a reference to one of the paintings that was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum back in ’90,” Sanchez said.

  Skykes nodded. “The speculation has always been that the IRA was involved in that theft,” he said. “Do we have any point of contact? Any way we can work the theory?”

  “Not really. Just the lawyer.”

  “The lawyer.” Skykes closed his eyes and Stone had the impression that his mind was processing information like a computer. “Finn, right?”

  “That’s right, Captain,” Sanchez said.

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Good reputation for courtroom work. He handles mainly criminal defense cases; he’ll take on a civil matter here and there if the payout is good enough. Lives in Charlestown, where he’s got his office—grew up there too. When he was younger he got into some trouble. Managed to pull himself out, though.”

  “So how is it that he came to show up at both Murphy’s place and Ballick’s shack right around the time they got dead?” Stone couldn’t tell whether the captain’s question was rhetorical; he let Sanchez deal with it.

  “We don’t know. When he showed up at the auto body shop, he told Stone that he was there for a client—Devon Malley. Malley’s a thief. There’s a chance that he was involved in the Gardner job, too. He was busted Monday morning looting Gilberacci’s on Newbury. Someone called in a tip it was gonna go down. Don’t know who.”

  “So Malley may be tied in to all this?” the captain asked.

  “It’s possible,” Sanchez said.

  “When’s the lawyer coming in?”

  “He was supposed to be in today, but he called and said he had an emergency. He said tomorrow, maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Skykes said. “We’re the police; since when do we accept ‘maybe’ in a murder investigation?”

  “Finn’s a lawyer, and unlike most, he’s not dumb. We lean on him too hard, we won’t get anything; he’ll show up and claim privilege on everything he knows. The conversation will last all of thirty seconds. If he doesn’t want to, he won’t tell us what he had for breakfast without a subpoena and a couple of trips to the appellate court.”

  Skykes grunted. “Probably right. Anyone else we can work on?”

  “Finn works with Kozlowski. He handles Finn’s investigations. It’s a good bet that if Finn knows something, Kozlowski knows it too,” Sanchez noted.

  “Tom Kozlowski? Former cop?”

  “That’s him. You know him?”

  Skykes shook his head. “Not personally. I know of him. He was a good cop, but a pain in the ass. You won’t get anything out of him. He’s too smart to make a mistake, and anything he found out from Finn is covered under attorney-client privilege too.”

  “Can we lean on him?” Sanchez suggested.

  Skykes laughed. “Sure, but it’d be like leaning on Mount Washington. He’ll hold you up, but he won’t move. That’s not who he is.”

  “What, then?” Stone asked.

  Skykes looked at Sanchez for an answer. “We put a tail on the lawyer,” she said. “See where he goes; who he talks to. He’s gotta know something.”

  “That could take weeks,” Stone lamented.

  “Maybe, but unless they’re willing to talk to us voluntarily, it’s the best we’ve got,” Sanchez said.

  Skykes nodded to them. “However you want to work it is fine with me. Just make sure we get something useful. I don’t care that the dead guys were scumbags when they were alive; seven dead bodies is seven dead bodies. I don’t like it in my city.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lissa left the Green Dragon ahead of the others and headed to Southie to pick Sally up from school. Finn and Kozlowski stayed for a little while to talk strategy; then Finn drove Kozlowski back to the office in Charlestown. The brief respite of seasonable weather had ended, and New England was exacting its revenge as the skies turned gray and troubled and the wind spat drizzle at Boston’s inhabitants. It was like this every year, and yet people seemed to forget. A few mild days in April tempted Bostonians into believing winter had been banished, but it always regrouped for a final assault. It was usually May before the weather was consistently pleasant.

  Finn, a meteorological optimist, had put the top down on his battered MG, and when he and Kozlowski emerged from the bar, he struggled to pull the canvas covering back out. By the time it was back up, the interior was soaked.

  Kozlowski stood outside the car, looking angrily from Finn to the passenger seat.

  “Wipe it down,” Finn said. “There’s a towel in the back.”

  Kozlowski reached into the back and grabbed the towel. “Wiping it down doesn’t do a goddamn thing,” he said. “The seat’s cracked. The water soaks into the cushion so it’s like sitting on a wet sponge. Why do you think the car smells like mildew all the time?”

  “I thought that was you.”

  “Asshole.”

  “You wanna call a cab? I can meet you back at the office,” Finn asked.

  “No, I don’t want to call a goddamned cab. I want to work with someone who drives a real goddamned car. Not some piece of crap clowns should be jumping out of.”

  “So sit on the towel then. That’ll keep you dry.”

  “I would, but then my head scrapes against the roof of the car.”

  Finn looked again at Kozlowski. His expression had turned from anger to disgust to plain unhappiness. “You have seriously turned into a major whiner,” Finn said. “Are you going soft on me?”

  Kozlowski’s look was sharp. “I’m not going soft, I just don’t want to sit in pants with a wet ass for the rest of the goddamned day.” He frowned again, then spread the towel over the seat and slid in gingerly, trying to hold some of his weight off the seat. Finn had to stifle his laughter. They drove like that back to the office with Kozlowski leaning on the door and holding himself up with the windshield. The rain pelted him through the window, drenching his head and shoulders.

  It was after four o’clock when they arrived. Lissa and Sally were already there when Finn and Kozlowski walked through the door.

  “What happened to you?” Lissa asked Kozlowski, noting his wet head.

  “Don’t ask,” Kozlowski replied. He nodded to the girl and padded down the hall toward the bathroom to dry himself off.

  Finn looked at Lissa. “Did you tell her?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I told her.”

  “I’m in the room,” Sally said. They looked at her. “You were talking about me, right?”

  Finn nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to ignore you, I just…”

  “She told me,” Sally said. “My dad’s not getting out today.”

  “Not yet,” Finn said. “We ran into an issue that we didn’t expect.”

  “Yeah, sounds like Devon pitched a fit,” Sally replied. “He’s a fuckup; I already know that.”

  “I might have used different terms,” he said. “But yeah, he had a little outburst. I’ll get another bail hearing set, though.” He glanced at Lissa, wondering how much she had told the girl. She frowned and gave a slight shake of her head that Finn took as a signal that she hadn’t gone further. He breathed a sigh of relief; the last thing he wanted was to have to explain anything more than the basics to Sally. He looked back at the girl. “So, I guess
you’re staying with me for a couple more nights. That okay with you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have any choice, I guess,” she said.

  “That’s all you have to say?” Lissa asked.

  Sally looked up at her. “What else do you want me to say?”

  “It’s okay,” Finn began, but Lissa cut him off.

  “No, it’s not okay,” she said. “You wanna spend your time playing savior, that’s your call, but I’m not gonna sit here and watch the person who’s benefiting from your generosity be rude to you.” She looked at Sally. “When someone does something nice for you, you say thank you.”

  Sally stood up. She was wearing her coat, and her bag dangled from her hand. Finn thought there was a good chance that she was about to walk out the door. That was the last thing he needed; he had no interest in combing the city, looking for Devon’s kid. He felt a bolt of annoyance with Lissa. “I could go to the street,” Sally said. “I’d survive, y’know.”

  “I know,” Lissa said. “That’s why Finn’s offer is nice. He doesn’t have to give you a better option, but he’s doing it anyway. Some appreciation is in order. If not…” Lissa swept her hand toward the door as she let her ultimatum trail off.

  Finn rubbed his temples. He was about to cut in when Sally turned and looked at him, biting her bottom lip. “Thank you,” she said.

  Finn just stared at her. Then he looked with incredulity at Lissa. After a moment he turned back to Sally. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Good,” Lissa said. She looked at Finn. “You’ve got a dozen messages on your desk, and your voice mail is full. It’s gonna take an hour or more to deal with whatever’s there. I have some things that I gotta take care of, too. Sally can use the time to do whatever work she has.” Sally blinked at her. “You do have homework, I assume?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. Then, when we’re all ready, I’ll take us to dinner.”

  “You don’t need to,” Finn said. “I can feed her at my place.”

  “On what? Ketchup? I’ve seen your refrigerator.”

  “I’ve got more than ketchup,” Finn said.

  “Yeah? What else?”

  “Mustard and relish,” Sally answered before Finn could respond. He looked at her. “And something in an old Chinese takeout carton that’s growing feet. I was hungry last night,” she said. “I looked.”

  “Did you check the cupboard?” he asked.

  “I’ll make some reservations,” Lissa said. “An hour?”

  Kozlowski was walking back into the office from the hallway. His hair was tousled but dry. “What’s in an hour?”

  “Dinner,” Lissa said. “I’m buying.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Just thought everyone could use a good meal,” Lissa said.

  “Ah,” Kozlowski said knowingly. “Someone looked in Finn’s refrigerator.”

  “It wasn’t pretty,” Sally said.

  “I think I liked you better when you were less grateful and more sullen,” Finn said to her.

  “An hour,” Lissa said again. Finn looked at her and nodded. Then he went to his desk and started digging out from the messages and mail that had piled up during his daylong absence from the office.

  Liam sat in a rented van parked on the square a half block down from Finn’s office. There was a newspaper in front of him, opened to the sports section. Liam didn’t follow any American sports, but he wasn’t looking at the paper. He was watching the door to the lawyer’s office. He’d been there for more than an hour, waiting. He’d passed by the place once, determining that it was empty. He’d scouted the area, getting an idea for the layout. There was a back door to the little office, but it didn’t look as if it saw much use. He assumed they would be entering from the front. The square was the best spot from which to observe. It was close enough to get a good look at the building, but far enough away that he wouldn’t draw too much attention. It was near a small row of stores; in the rain and cold, he didn’t look too far out of place. The van was a nondescript white delivery vehicle, dappled with patches of rust and textured with dents from hard use. The interior was stripped to the metal, rippled and grungy, with pockets of moisture bordering on small puddles that seemed never to dry no matter what the weather. He could have been waiting to pick up or deliver just about anything.

  The woman showed up with the girl about a half hour after he’d settled in with the paper and a cup of coffee. When he saw them enter the brownstone, he double-checked the address. They looked like a mother and daughter, but that didn’t fit with his information.

  The two men arrived twenty minutes later. It was clear which one was the lawyer. The younger one was thin and tall, and dressed in an expensive suit. He carried a leather case with him, and he had a serious look on his narrow face. The man with him looked nothing like a lawyer. He was solid and older, and his thin overcoat flapped around the calves of his cheap slacks. He moved deliberately, and his head swung from side to side, taking in everything around him. He reminded Liam of many survivors of the troubles on both sides. They were quiet, serious men. They were the men he worried about coming up against.

  He’d done enough background to identify the adults. Finn, Kozlowski, Krantz. He knew their names and ages and roles in the tiny little firm that was representing Devon Malley. They all had solid reputations, but they were in over their heads.

  The girl was a surprise. Liam didn’t like surprises. Her presence at the office might mean nothing. She might be a niece or the daughter of a friend who had errands to run. And yet he had this feeling—an intuition—that there was more to it than that. A lifetime had taught him never to ignore his intuitions. Very often they came from that deep spot in the brain that noticed something the conscious mind had missed. He’d learned that paying attention to his intuition could save his life.

  He leaned back into the car seat to mull things over. Information was the most valuable commodity in any profession; more so in Liam’s than others. It was clear that he needed more of it now.

  The restaurant was a huge family-style place in Charlestown. Only a glass partition separated the diners from an open kitchen with wood-burning stoves. The patrons could watch their meals being prepared, and it gave the place a sense of intimacy. It was the kind of restaurant that required connections or a three-month wait for a reservation on a weekend night. Midweek, though, it was merely bustling, and determination was all that was required to get a table on a walk-in basis.

  The four of them were sitting at a table near the middle of the restaurant. It was a big, round, heavy oak slab, finished unevenly to maintain the rustic feel of the place. It could have seated eight, and with just the four of them, they had to keep their voices up to hear each other over the din.

  Not that it mattered through much of the evening; the conversation was spotty. Finn, Kozlowski, and Lissa usually talked about their work when they ate; it was a time when they could fret over their most pressing cases. That night, however, their most pressing case concerned the father of the girl who was sitting directly across from Finn. He couldn’t discuss the case openly, but he couldn’t get it out of his head, either.

  “How was school?” he asked at one point, trying to break the awkward silence that had settled over the table.

  Sally looked up, surprised. “It sucked,” she said after a moment.

  “Why?” Finn asked.

  “It’s school. School sucks.”

  “What sucks about it?” Finn continued.

  She twirled some pasta onto her fork and stuffed the mess into her mouth. “You really wanna know?” she asked as she chewed.

  “Yeah,” Finn said. “What grade are you in?”

  “Eighth,” she said.

  “Okay, eighth grade,” Finn said. “What sucks about eighth grade? Do you have any friends?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the kids are assholes. Why would I want more assholes in my
life? I got all I can handle.”

  Finn winced. He’d grown up on the street, but the disparity between the girl’s age and her demeanor was still unsettling. Most people didn’t master cynicism until at least their late teens. “How about the schoolwork?” Finn asked. “Do you like that at all?”

  Sally laughed. “It’s an inner-city school; there is no real schoolwork. If you’re not stabbing someone, you’re an honor student as far as the teachers are concerned.”

  “Do you learn anything?”

  She shrugged. “I learn what I want to learn.”

  “What’s that?”

  She pushed the food around on her plate. “I like reading,” she said at last. “English class is okay. The teacher is a joke, but I like the books.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Right now? The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” she said grudgingly.

  “Good book. You like that one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Because he’s a kid and he takes care of himself. He doesn’t need other people to survive and he doesn’t take any shit.”

  The table went silent for a moment. She put her fork down on her plate, and it made a sharp, definitive noise—like an exclamation point. Finn reached out and plucked a roll from the basket on the table, tore off a piece, and dipped it in the olive oil on the table. After a moment, he said again, “Good book.”

  Lissa cleared her throat. “You could make friends,” she said. “It wouldn’t be hard for someone as smart as you.”

  “What the fuck is this?” Sally said loudly. A few people at other tables turned to look, then glanced away quickly. “I’m fine. I don’t need your pity, y’know. I need a place to sleep, that’s all. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

  Lissa looked embarrassed. It wasn’t a look that came naturally to her. “We’re just trying to help a little, that’s all. It might be nice to get to know you a little better.”

  “How about if I get to know you a little better, then?” Sally said.