by David Hosp
“They said she was okay?” Kozlowski said.
“Yeah.” They were moving as soon as Finn hung up the phone. Finn forwarded his office phone to his cell and locked the door to the office. Kozlowski was already in the car when Finn got there.
“Did they say what happened?” Kozlowski asked. His voice seemed calm, but Finn could hear the man’s teeth grinding together, and the muscles in his jaw and shoulders were flexing in a disjointed, spasmodic rhythm.
Finn shook his head. He was worried about Lissa, but the nurse who had called said she was going to be okay. His primary concern was locating Sally. “She’d probably head to the office,” Finn said. “Either that or my apartment.”
“Who?” Kozlowski’s full consciousness was devoted to Lissa at the moment.
“Sally,” Finn said. “If Lissa never got to the school to pick her up, she must’ve set off for Charlestown on foot.”
Kozlowski shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Can you think of anyplace else she would go?” Finn cast a quick look at Kozlowski as he drove.
“I have trouble thinking of anyplace she wouldn’t go.” He looked at Finn. “What? You’ve seen her. She’s been on her own for a while, I’m sure she’s got lots of places she can go—none of them good.”
Finn turned his attention back to the road. “She’s my responsibility,” he said.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Kozlowski said.
Finn’s cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and took a quick look at the readout. The call was being forwarded from the office; the number was blocked. It could be the hospital, Finn thought.
He pressed the button to accept the call and put the phone up to his ear. “This is Finn,” he said. He heard nothing but static; he was traveling through a weak signal, and the noise from his car made it difficult to hear. “Hello?”
“I have the girl,” the voice said.
“Who is this?” From the accent Finn had a pretty good idea, but he could think of nothing else to say.
“Devon will know who I am,” the voice said. “Tell him I have her. Tell him I want the paintings. If I get the paintings, I’ll let her go. If not, I’ll kill her.”
“I don’t understand; what paintings?” Finn bluffed.
“Devon will know.” The man’s voice made Finn shiver.
“What if Devon doesn’t know what you’re talking about? What if he doesn’t have any paintings?”
“That would be too bad. Particularly for the girl. His daughter, as I understand it? Either he gives me the paintings, or he trades himself for his daughter. If I have time with him, I’ll find out for myself whether or not he knows anything. Otherwise, she dies. Tell him.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“One more thing,” the man said. “Don’t go to the police. If I think they are involved, I’ll kill her. Then I’ll come after Devon. Then I’ll finish off the woman from today and her old man. Then I’ll come after you. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Finn said.
“Good.”
“I need time to get him out of jail,” Finn said.
“I’ll give you a day, then I’ll call back.”
“I don’t know that it’ll happen that fast.”
“One day, Mr. Finn,” the voice said. “Then I’ll kill the girl.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll do better than that. I’ll call tomorrow at the end of the day. Six o’clock. Have Malley out, and be ready with an answer. Otherwise, I’ll be coming.” The line went dead.
Finn clicked his phone off and slipped it into his pocket. Kozlowski was still looking at him, saying nothing. “Not good,” Finn said.
“Devon’s Irishman?” Kozlowski asked.
Finn nodded. “He’s got Sally. He says he’ll kill her if he doesn’t get the paintings. Either that or Devon trades himself for her.”
“That’s not good,” Kozlowski agreed. “I take it he’s the one who put Lissa in the hospital?”
“Probably. He says that if we go to the police, he’ll kill us all.”
Finn could see Kozlowski’s jaw muscles grow tighter. “Can’t you make this goddamned car go any faster?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Boston City Hospital was on Massachusetts Avenue, just across the Roxbury border from the South End. The area had traditionally been one of the more dangerous in Boston. Gentrification had edged its way in uneasily during the explosion of real estate costs in the city in the 1990s and early 2000s, but it remained a high-crime neighborhood. Boston was the home to many of the world’s greatest hospitals; due largely to its location, BCH was not considered one of them. It served an urban community without the money or the connections to get into Mass General or Brigham and Women’s. Nevertheless, it was a place with a solid reputation, and a wealth of experience in treating trauma victims.
Finn and Kozlowski gave their names at the desk and were directed to a nurse in an office off to the side of the emergency room. She, in turn, took their information again and made a call to page another nurse. That nurse came down and led them through the emergency room waiting area to an elevator and up to the second floor. No one would answer any of their questions. It wasn’t clear to Finn whether the silence was a result of lack of knowledge or adherence to procedure.
On the second floor, Finn and Kozlowski were introduced to a doctor who at least seemed familiar with Lissa’s status. He was young enough that Finn considered asking for someone older. He was wearing a stethoscope, though, and the nametag on his white coat read “Dr. Jeffson.” Finn suspected that questioning his competence wasn’t going to get them information any quicker.
“She was found on Dorchester,” Dr. Jeffson said. Even his voice sounded young. “She was lying unconscious by the side of the road; her car was parked a few yards away. At first the suspicion was that she’d been in some sort of an accident, but there was no damage to the car, and her injuries are more consistent with an assault. She was hit over the head with something solid. The police are interviewing people, trying to determine exactly what happened, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. It’s not the sort of neighborhood where people see anything.”
“Is she okay?” Kozlowski asked. The concern in his voice was plain, but he was keeping it under control at least.
The doctor blinked at them. “Oh, I thought someone already talked to you about her condition.”
“Not really,” Finn said. “The woman who called said she thought Lissa would be okay, but that’s it.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. He took Finn by the elbow and led him discreetly over to the side of the corridor, as though it would give them some privacy. “I take it that you’re the boyfriend?” he said to Finn.
“No,” Finn said. He nodded to Kozlowski. “He is.”
The young doctor looked over at Kozlowski. His eyes showed his surprise, but to his credit he didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry,” he said. “Mr…. ?”
“Kozlowski.”
“Yes, Mr. Kozlowski, Lissa is going to be fine. We still don’t know about the baby, however.”
“What baby?” Finn asked.
Jeffson glanced at him, then said to Kozlowski. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
Finn almost fell over. He looked at Kozlowski, wondering whether the news of the pregnancy would come as a surprise to him. It clearly didn’t, though he rocked backward at the mention. “What happened?” he asked.
“It appears that she was also hit in the abdomen. We don’t know whether it has caused any damage yet. It looks as though she’s around ten weeks; we’re going to run an ultrasound as soon as the equipment frees up. Then we’ll know more.”
“Okay.” Kozlowski looked stunned. “Is she conscious?”
“Yes, she woke up about twenty minutes ago. She hasn’t said much. The police wanted to interview her, but she said she was too tired; I got the impression she wanted to talk to you first, and she’s clearly worried about the pregnancy.”
“Can I see her?”
The doctor nodded toward a door down the hallway. “She’s in room 217. I’ll be in as soon as an ultrasound frees up.”
Lissa lay on the bed, both hands resting on her belly. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Any of it. Her head was killing her, and the fact that her thoughts were being pulled in multiple directions didn’t help any. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sally, and the worry was devastating. She had avoided the policeman’s eyes when he first tried to question her. She put her arm over her face and told him that she couldn’t concentrate. That was true. She also said she didn’t remember what happened. That was a lie. She had to lie, though. She needed more information before she involved the police. The Boston Police Department was a blunt instrument, and it wasn’t clear that that was what was needed at the moment.
She was so worried about her pregnancy that she felt sick. It was odd; she hadn’t wanted to get pregnant in the first place. When her doctor informed her that she was, she’d had mixed feelings. Now that it looked as though she might lose the baby, she couldn’t imagine not carrying to term—not having Kozlowski’s child. It made her feel paralyzed.
Kozlowski walked into the room. He came straight to her and took her hand. She worked to choke back tears.
“What happened?” he asked.
She rubbed the back of her free hand across her nose and sniffled. “It was him,” she said. “Devon’s Irish guy. Had to be. He took Sally.” A tear ran down her cheek.
Kozlowski nodded. “We heard from him. He said he’s going to kill her if he doesn’t get the paintings.”
“I figured. I was late picking her up. We were late. We fucked up. Maybe if I’d been there earlier…” Her voice trailed off.
“He still would have gotten to her,” Kozlowski said. “Think about what he did to Murphy and Ballick. This isn’t a guy who’s going to be stopped. Not yet.”
“I don’t want to think about what he’s done.”
Kozlowski said nothing for another moment. “How about you? You okay?”
“That’s what they say.” She looked down at her stomach. “They don’t know about the baby.”
“I talked to the doctor,” Kozlowski said. “The ultrasound will be freed up in a little bit. We won’t worry about it until then.”
“Right,” she said. “No point in worrying.” She looked up at him. He had the type of face that was difficult to read. Right now, though, his tension was plain. She squeezed his hand. “Maybe we were never meant to be parents,” she said.
“Maybe.” He looked out the window. The room faced to the south, out onto Route 93, which wound its way through Dorchester down toward the South Shore, toward the suburbs with their houses and their lawns and their picket fences. It was a world of domestic tranquillity neither of them knew or particularly wanted to know. And yet at the moment it was a world she envied with all her heart. “We’re still getting married, though,” he said after a moment.
“If the baby’s dead we don’t need to.”
He looked back at her. He wasn’t crying; she gave thanks for that. It wasn’t who he was. It wasn’t who she wanted him to be. “It’s not about need,” he said. “I want to.”
She took a deep breath, then nodded. The door opened, and Dr. Jeffson walked in with a nurse. He looked at them with the curiosity Lissa had seen on so many faces before; that wonder at the two of them together as a couple. She didn’t care. She knew what they were doing together; that was all that mattered. “The ultrasound is available,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Lissa looked up at Kozlowski and gave his hand another squeeze. “We are,” she said. “We’re ready.”
Finn was waiting downstairs in the lobby. He wondered whether he should have gone in to see Lissa. Normally there would have been no way to keep him out. There were few people more important in his life.
Nothing seemed normal anymore, though. He’d never felt like a third wheel with Lissa and Kozlowski until a few days before. They were a couple; he understood that. And yet they didn’t act like a couple. They didn’t cling to each other the way so many other couples did. Their relationship seemed built on stronger stuff than mutual dependence. As a result, his presence in the middle had never seemed to weaken it.
Things had changed. He had to give them a little more space now. When the doctor had pointed to her room and said that she could have visitors, Finn merely nodded to Kozlowski. “I’ll wait downstairs,” he’d said.
Kozlowski didn’t argue. Finn half expected Kozlowski to tell him to come in with him, just to make sure that she was all right. He hadn’t, though. “I’ll meet you down there in a little while,” he’d said. With that, he’d turned and walked down the hallway toward her room. Finn stood there for a moment, then headed toward the elevator.
He was sitting on a bench, trying to focus on Sally’s kidnapping, working through all the various ugly possibilities, when Kozlowski walked off the elevator forty-five minutes later.
Finn could tell nothing from Kozlowski’s face. The older man walked over to him, looked down. “We’ve got work to do,” he said.
Finn got up. “How is she?”
“She’s fine. They’re keeping her for a night, just to make sure.”
“The baby?”
Kozlowski nodded. “Still alive. Let’s go.” He turned and walked toward the lobby exit. Finn had to walk quickly to keep up. “We’ve got to get to this guy,” Kozlowski said. “He’ll kill the girl. He’s not just fucking around.”
Finn agreed. It was the only conclusion he’d come to about which he was sure. “Should we bring in the police?” he asked. “Maybe the FBI? It’s a kidnapping, so they’d have jurisdiction.”
Kozlowski shook his head. “I thought about it. This guy’s desperate. It’s not just about the money, there’s something else driving him. That means he’s unpredictable. The cops and the FBI work from a standard playbook that depends on predictability. We call them in, he’ll know, and he’ll kill her without even thinking twice. We need to get to this guy ourselves.”
“How?” Finn asked. “I’ve been sitting here, racking my brain, trying to come up with some way to find him, and I’ve got nothing.”
“We won’t find him,” Kozlowski said. “There’s not enough time, and he’s smart enough to be holed up in a place we’d never locate.”
“So? What do we do?”
They were out at the car, and Kozlowski was opening the passenger-side door. He looked over the roof of the car at Finn. “We find the paintings.”
“What?”
“He wants them,” Kozlowski said. “Why not give them to him?”
Finn blinked back at him. “Well, yeah. That sounds good in theory; in practice it seems a little unrealistic, doesn’t it?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because every relevant law-enforcement agency in the world has been looking for those paintings for twenty years and hasn’t come up with anything. That doesn’t even include all the journalists, private investigators, art houses, and every profiteer with any knowledge of art.”
“We’ve never looked for them,” Kozlowski pointed out.
“You sure you’re not being a little bit overconfident?”
“Probably,” Kozlowski said. “You got any better ideas? Maybe this will give us back some control. Besides, we have a better reason than anyone else to find them.”
“How do we even know that they’re still in Boston? In all likelihood they were sold a long time ago and moved out of the goddamned country.”
Kozlowski shook his head. “They’re here. This asshole helped steal these things almost twenty years ago, and he’s here, now. Not only that, but he seems pretty fuckin’ sure that someone here knows something. He’s smart, we know that much; and he’s careful. Careful enough to torture and kill a bunch of people and not leave behind anything that’s got him caught by the cops. A guy like that doesn’t make the kinds of moves he’s making after twenty years unless th
ere’s been some reason—unless he’s learned something concrete.”
Finn considered this. “Okay, that seems logical,” he said. “There’s only one problem with it. It assumes that a guy who’s running around torturing and killing people is rational. That may be a stretch.”
“It may be, but if we want to have any hope of getting the girl back, we have to make that assumption. If it’s wrong, then we’re fucked and he’s going to kill her no matter what we do.”
Finn started the car, let the engine run for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll buy all that for the moment. But I need to know one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Is this personal? Because of what he did to Lissa?”
Kozlowski took a deep breath. “He took the girl. The daughter of our client—a girl we were taking care of. He assaulted Lissa, and he could have killed my child before it was even born. It doesn’t get any more personal than this.”
Finn stared back at him. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. So where do we begin?”
“Where every investigation starts,” Kozlowski replied. “At the scene of the crime.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Finn made the call from the car. Sometimes being a lawyer seemed like a life strung together in a series of unpleasant phone conversations. Your parole was denied; the judge ruled against you; there’s a problem with the contract. Nothing in his experience, though, had prepared him for a call as difficult as this one.
“Devon,” Finn said. He stopped. He couldn’t figure out how to say it.
“What’s wrong?” his client asked.
Finn took a deep breath. “Sally’s been kidnapped.” Three words. The worst three words Finn had ever uttered.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Devon said after a minute. “How? When?”
“A couple of hours ago. From her school.” Finn could hear Devon suck in air like a drowning man pulled from the ocean.
