Among Thieves

by David Hosp

  “Was it him?”

  “Yeah,” Finn said. “We got a call from him within the last hour. He said she’s okay, but he’s only gonna let her go if he either gets the paintings or he gets you.”

  “Did you tell the cops?”

  “No. He told us that if we did, he’d kill her. She’s your daughter, though. If you think we should get the cops involved, we will. It’s your call.”

  “No cops,” Devon said. “He’s not the kinda guy who bluffs. He’ll kill her. I gotta deal with this myself. Can you get me outta here?”

  “Probably,” Finn said. “I’ve got a motion for a new bail hearing ready, and I can get it filed today. After the last hearing, it’s not gonna be cheap, but they’ll set bail.”

  “I don’t care what it costs. Just get me out. It’s me he wants. That’s her only chance. When do you think the judge will hear it?”

  “He’s got a motions session tomorrow. I’ll try to get it scheduled for then.”

  “Get it done. I gotta get outta this place.” Devon sounded deep in despair.

  “It’s the best I can do,” Finn said. “It’s not gonna be an easy hearing.”

  “Okay,” Devon said. “Finn, I’m worried.”

  “I know,” Finn said. The guilt ripped at him. “I’m sorry, Devon. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think that this could happen.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. All this is my fault.”

  “We’ll get her back,” Finn said with false confidence.

  “We will.” Devon sounded even less sure than Finn felt. “I’m gonna make sure we get her back.”

  The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum wasn’t far from the hospital. It covered half a block on Fenway Drive, next to Simmons College, just around the corner from the Museum of Fine Arts and Northeastern University. Across the street to the east was a patch of garden that was the last natural remnant of the swampy fens that had once covered much of the area west of downtown Boston.

  Finn had never been to the Gardner before, and he was surprised by its exterior. He was familiar with the larger Museum of Fine Arts, with its towering Ionic columns and broad marble staircase leading up from the sidewalk to the main entrance. He’d been to the Boston Public Library, with its imposing neoclassical facade, rising from the center of Copley like some great mausoleum. It seemed to Finn that such pomp was a necessary hallmark of cultural landmarks. The Gardner had none of it. From the outside, the museum begged for little attention. It had gray-brown stucco sides, set flush to the sidewalk, with a stubby steel door for an entrance that for its lack of pretension could have been admitting them to a college dorm.

  Finn and Kozlowski walked through the dark entryway, paid their admission fee, and walked into the main section of the museum. Upon entering, Finn felt transported. Before him was an enormous three-story indoor courtyard garden, roofed by a great glass ceiling allowing in all the sunlight of the day. Rustles of clover and ivy covered the ground surrounding an intricate mosaic that was centered under the transparent ceiling. Across the courtyard from the entrance, a large fountain with inverted Chinese fish-dragons was framed by an elaborate two-way staircase. About the courtyard were strewn various works—headless statues, urns, and obelisks—looking almost haphazard in their placement. And yet there was an order to it all, as though the informality of their selection and display was central to their purpose. Above, balconies set against huge arched marble windows observed the scene.

  “Nice,” Kozlowski said.

  “Yeah,” Finn agreed.

  The entire building was centered on the courtyard, with galleries and halls ringing the place on every floor.

  “I guess we should find out who’s in charge,” Kozlowski said. He walked over to an information desk, off to one corner of the ground floor. The woman there blended well into the place. She appeared to be in her fifties; her dark hair was streaked with gray. Her clothes were respectable, demure, and prim. They were neither expensive nor shabby. She was looking down at the desk, motionless. Finn wondered for a moment whether she might be part of an exhibit. Kozlowski walked over and stood in front of the desk. She must have seen him; he was too imposing a presence to go unnoticed. But she didn’t look up. “Excuse me,” he said in a polite tone after a moment.

  “Yes?” she said. She still didn’t raise her eyes, giving the impression that whatever she was studying was far too important for her to be pulled away at the first effort.

  “Can we talk to the manager?”

  With the question, her gaze was drawn upward, and she looked directly at Kozlowski for the first time. Her head remained at a downward angle, as if she was still deciding whether he merited a shift in her actual body position. “Manager?” she said. “No. We don’t have a manager. We have a director.”

  “He’s the person who’s in charge?”

  “He is.”

  “Is there any chance we could talk to him for a moment?”

  This time she seemed to latch on to the we, and she craned her neck at an angle to get a line of vision around Kozlowski, examining Finn. She took only a quick look, and didn’t seem impressed. “Can I ask why?”

  “We have a couple of questions about the art theft.”

  With the mention of the robbery, her posture straightened. Her brow knit itself tightly and her eyes narrowed angrily. “We don’t answer questions about the theft,” she said. “Not ever.”

  “Never?”

  “Not ever.”

  Kozlowski’s voice became serious. “My name is Kozlowski,” he said. He took out the leather billfold in which he kept his private detective’s license and held it up. It had his picture and looked official. He kept his eyes on the woman’s and she took only a glance at the identification. “We’re chasing down a lead in a more recent crime that may be related. It would be helpful if we could talk to him just for a moment.”

  The look on the woman’s face soured even further. “What additional information could you people need beyond what we’ve provided over and over again? It’s been twenty years, do you really think there’s anything more that anyone here has to say to the police?”

  “Please, ma’am,” Kozlowski said. “It will just take a moment of his time.”

  She shook her head in frustration, but picked up the phone and punched in three digits. She turned away from the two of them as she spoke, and her voice was swallowed up in the enormity of the marble lobby. Then she turned around and hung up the phone. “It will be a few minutes,” she said. “He’s very busy.”

  “I’m sure, ma’am.”

  “He said you can wait for him up in the Dutch Room, if you wish.”

  “The Dutch Room,” Kozlowski repeated. He turned and looked at Finn. “The Dutch Room.”

  Finn gave him a blank stare.

  The woman let out a condescending sigh. “Up the stairs to the right,” she said. “It’s where the Rembrandts and the Flinck used to hang before they were stolen.”

  “Ah, the Dutch Room,” Kozlowski said.

  Finn nodded. “Of course, the Dutch Room.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  She was still shaking her head as the two of them walked up the stairs. She probably would have been muttering as well, if it wouldn’t have struck her as an unpardonable breach of etiquette.

  The second floor was just as breathtaking as the first. It, too, was built around the huge courtyard, and it consisted of a series of gallery rooms lined up one after another, each looking out through ornate balconies down to the garden below.

  They turned right at the top of the stairs and walked along the hallway to a large arched doorway that led into a huge room paneled in dark wood. It had towering ceilings and antique chairs upholstered in heavy fabric. The walls were covered in green silk and lined with large dark oil paintings, many of them portraits. The faces of the long-dead peered out from their places on the walls. For some reason, Finn felt as though they were judging him; it made him feel depressed.

  In a few spots
there were empty frames hanging on the walls. The frames were, admittedly, works of art in and of themselves. They were heavy, ornately carved works painted in gold leaf. And yet, left alone, without the canvas and paint, they seemed sad and out of place.

  Finn was about to ask Kozlowski about the empty frames when he noticed a man sitting in the corner of the room. He was propped up in a wooden chair, his head leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. Finn looked at Kozlowski and motioned toward the man. He wondered whether the man was dead, and walked over quietly to take a look.

  He was old—Finn was guessing in his seventies—and his clothes were battered. His jacket was heavy wool, a half season too late, and the threads were fraying at the lapels. The elbows looked shot through. The man’s face was gray and his eyes were sunken back into their sockets, surrounded by dark skin. It took a moment for Finn to see the man’s chest moving ever so slightly, giving at least the suggestion of life. Finn waved his hand a few feet in front of the man’s face.

  “He’s fine,” a voice said behind Finn. He turned to see a tall, trim man in his late fifties. He was wearing a tailored suit of charcoal-gray, a bright white shirt, and an azure tie with a matching pocket square. “Detective Kozlowski?” he asked, looking back and forth between the two visitors.

  “I’m Kozlowski.” He extended his hand.

  The man shook it, though there was a look of reluctance on his face. “I’m Paul Baxter. I am the director of the museum, as well as the chief curator.” Finn thought he detected a hint of the Old World in the accent. It could have been an affectation of the Boston Brahmin many well-heeled New Englanders took to, but Finn thought there was hint of Irish to it as well.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Baxter,” Kozlowski said. He motioned to Finn. “This is Scott Finn, my partner.”

  Baxter nodded to Finn, but didn’t walk over to shake his hand. “Is there news? We haven’t heard anything for days.”

  Kozlowski and Finn exchanged a look. “What was the last update you received?” Kozlowski asked.

  “Nothing. No update. The only information we’ve had was from the call I got from the FBI last week.”

  Kozlowski frowned. “You’ve heard nothing since then?”

  Baxter shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Who did you speak with the first time?”

  “Special Agent Porter.”

  “How much information did he give you?” Finn noted the care with which Kozlowski crafted his questions.

  “Not much,” Baxter scoffed. “Just that Interpol had received word that someone was trying to fence the paintings. That was it. No further information; just the request that we give them any information that we came into possession of to them. Honestly, I don’t know how you law-enforcement types keep your jobs. Twenty years, and I’m supposed to run this place effectively without basic information? I haven’t even told the board about this because there have been so many disappointments in the past. If they find out that I’m keeping this from them, I can’t even imagine the fallout.”

  Finn looked at Kozlowski with admiration. He’d been a great police officer, but his talents would also have made him formidable on the other side of the law. Without lying, he’d pulled an enormous amount of confidential information from Baxter.

  “I understand your frustration,” Kozlowski said. He looked at the man sleeping in the corner. “Would you prefer to discuss this someplace else?”

  Baxter glanced briefly at the zombie, then shook his head. “No, that’s fine. That’s Sam. Sam Bass. He was an assistant here forever. The museum gave him a pension two years ago, but he has no place else to go during the day, so we let him have the run of the place. He wouldn’t mention anything to anyone, even if he was awake; he knows that if he causes any trouble I won’t let him back in the place.” He raised his voice slightly. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

  The old man snorted and shifted his head; then he settled back into his slumber.

  Baxter ignored him. “What else can you tell me?”

  Kozlowski shook his head. “Not much. This is ultimately the FBI’s jurisdiction. Did they mention anything to you about a possible Irish connection?”

  Baxter looked unnerved. “No,” he said. “Why? Do they think there is some connection to Ireland?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kozlowski said. “If they didn’t talk with you about their information, I certainly can’t. As I told the woman downstairs at the desk, we are technically only investigating a different crime—the assault of a woman in South Boston. There is some suspicion that the assailant may be connected in some way with those who committed the theft here. Is there anything you can tell us that might help?”

  Baxter looked offended. “No. Of course not. If there was anything I could do to help, don’t you think I would have done it already? I had only been here at the museum for a few weeks when the theft occurred. It remains the only stain on my reputation.”

  The man’s tone was defensive, and Kozlowski’s eyes narrowed on Baxter. “You’d tell us if you had any additional information, wouldn’t you, Mr. Baxter?”

  The director looked as if he might swallow his tongue. His face nearly turned purple. “Don’t think I’m unaware of the speculation, Detective Kozlowski. Your colleagues on the police force and in the FBI have never been subtle in hinting that they believe that I might somehow be involved. I consider these speculations slander.” He took a deep breath and composed himself. Looking at both Kozlowski and Finn, he did his best to affect an air of dignity. “Now, Detectives, unless you have any additional information you can share with me, I have a great deal of work to do.”

  Kozlowski looked at him for a long moment. “Of course,” he said at last. “We’ll be in touch if there is anything else we can share with you.”

  “I look forward to it.” Baxter turned on his heels and left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  Kozlowski asked the question once Baxter had left the room. He and Finn were left standing there, taking in their surroundings. The empty frames hung before them like skeletons—sad reminders of the beauty stolen from the world.

  “About what?” Finn asked. “That he’s looking forward to hearing from us again? I don’t think so.”

  “No, about whether or not he was involved in the theft. He seemed awfully defensive. Did you notice the accent? Sounded Irish to me.”

  Finn chuckled. “Well, if an Irish accent is enough to convict someone of art theft, then half of Boston’s population needs to be in jail.”

  “Half of Boston’s population isn’t in a position to know everything about the security of a museum that houses billions of dollars of art. Half of Boston’s population doesn’t walk around in three-thousand-dollar suits.”

  “It was a nice suit,” Finn admitted. “I’m not sure it’d be enough to get a conviction, though.” He walked over to one of the empty frames. The walls were covered in a jacquard silk in a lush forest-green pattern, and the fabric showed through the neatly hung frame. If you didn’t know that a painting had been stolen from the spot, you might think that the frame was hung there in jest, or as some great cosmic riddle. “I wish he hadn’t left,” Finn said. “I had a few questions about the theft.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why haven’t they replaced these empty frames with pictures? They must have some extra artwork lying around here somewhere. If not, I’m sure they could buy some. Having these empty frames where the stolen art used to be seems macabre.”

  Kozlowski shrugged. “Who knows why? When you’re dealing with art—and rich people—logic doesn’t have to apply.”

  “They can’t replace the paintings,” someone behind them said. The voice came like an echo from the dead, crackling sharply from the back of the room and reverberating off the walls and high ceiling. Finn and Kozlowski turned.

  The corpse was awake now. Sitting up in the hard wooden chair at the back of the room, with t
he head no longer slumped to the side, but held aloft by a slender twig of a neck. The eyes were open, though still hidden deep beneath the shadow of a prominent ocular ridge. The skin, while still gray and dark under the eyes, was no longer slack. The eyes traveled slowly from Finn to Kozlowski and back again. “They aren’t allowed to replace the frames,” the corpse said.

  “Why not?” Finn asked, after a moment.

  “It was in Mrs. Gardner’s will.” The accent was unusual. It was Bostonian in origin, but muddled. Finn could hear the hard consonants of Southie or Charlestown or Dorchester, but there was also a mix of the extended vowels of upper-class Boston. It was as though a former accent had been painted over, but remained underneath.

  Finn looked at Kozlowski. “It was in Mrs. Gardner’s will,” he repeated. He looked back at the corpse. “Why?”

  The man rose from the chair, and Finn felt as though he were witnessing a resurrection. “Do you not know the story of this place?” he asked.

  “No,” Finn said. “I don’t.”

  “Well, you should,” the corpse responded. “If you plan on finding the paintings, you really should.” He looked at them carefully. “That is why you’re here, no? To try to find the paintings?”

  “You’re treasure hunters,” the man said. “I’ve seen hundreds like you in here in the past.”

  “No,” Finn replied. “We’re not.”

  “Well, you’re not the police, that much is clear. The police always show their badges the first time they meet someone. My name is Sam Bass,” he said. “As Mr. Baxter already told you.”

  Finn looked carefully at him. “You were awake,” he said. “The whole time, you were eavesdropping.”

  Bass dismissed the accusation with the wave of a hand. “At my age, it’s hard for me to tell for sure when I’m asleep and when I’m awake. You’ll learn that someday, if you’re lucky.” He looked around the great room. “I spend most of my time here, in the museum, and it all blends together—the time I’m awake, the time I’m asleep; the time I’m alone, the time I’m not. It’s like being trapped in an Impressionist painting, where all the lines are smudged and run into one another. Sometimes I can almost feel myself slipping into this place; becoming a part of it. It would be a nice way to go.”