by David Hosp
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Broadark asked him. Liam had never heard the man express anger before. Anger wasn’t a soldier’s emotion. It clouded a soldier’s thinking. It was a bad sign.
“I’m getting the paintings back,” Liam replied. He moved past the man and into the living room.
“This was never part of the deal,” Broadark said, following him. “I never agreed to this.”
Liam stopped and turned, facing Broadark. He squinted at the other man, so close to him that the pits on his face looked like lunar craters. Liam wondered which of them had lost the greater degree of sanity. He supposed it didn’t really matter. “You didn’t agree to what, Sean?”
“Kidnapping,” Broadark replied. “The taking of innocents.”
“Innocents?” Liam laughed. “Those are high-minded principles for you to be expressing, friend. Have you never killed children?”
Broadark’s face twitched with rage. “Only when necessary, and never on purpose.”
“Not exactly an altar boy’s motto, is it?”
“I am serious, mate,” Broadark said. “No one approved this. I won’t be a part of it. I was sent to help you, but not in this.”
“I didn’t ask for your help. Just don’t get in my way.”
“That decision isn’t mine. I’m calling this in.”
“Fine,” Liam said. “Do you really think that anyone is going to give up a chance at this kind of money for one girl? If that was the case, the cause never would have carried on for this long. Don’t you understand? These paintings are our lifeblood. They’re our last chance.” Liam moved back into the kitchen.
Broadark stood there for a moment. Then he pulled out his cell phone. “The decision’s not mine to make,” he said. He started walking toward the front door.
Liam moved after him. “Okay,” he said in an even voice. “Make the call.” Even as he spoke, though, he was pulling his knife out of its sheath. He came up on Broadark from behind quickly. At the last moment, Broadark realized his mistake, and he began to turn. It was too late, though. Liam swung his arm over Broadark’s shoulder and drove the knife hard through the rib cage. Broadark stumbled and fell forward. Liam could see the man’s hand searching for his gun, and he dropped to one knee behind him, grabbing him by the forehead and pulling his head back, exposing his neck. “I warned you,” he said. Then he pulled the knife across Broadark’s throat. The cut was deep and effective, and whatever life was left in Broadark’s body deserted it instantly. He fell heavily on his face, his arms splayed out to the side. Liam quickly rolled him on his back and stabbed him once more in the chest to make sure that the heart was stopped. With the body in that position and no further heartbeat, it would limit the amount of blood that he would have to clean.
Liam stood up and took a deep breath. He walked over to the sink and ran some cold water, sliding the knife under the flow, watching as it turned from deep red to pink as the blood was washed down. Then he turned and looked at Broadark’s body. There was nothing to be done about it, he told himself. He was committed. His only option now was success.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Do you think he’ll come in?”
Porter was standing in the doorway to Hewitt’s office. Hewitt looked up from his work. “Finn’s client? Maybe. He’s making a mistake if he doesn’t. I’ve been reading up on our friend Mr. Kilbranish. I wouldn’t want this man after me.”
“No,” Porter agreed. “Nor would I. I don’t understand why they didn’t jump at the idea.”
“Particularly with you offering pardons you didn’t have any authority to offer.”
Porter shrugged. “I just said we could work something out. I didn’t make any firm offer of immunity.”
“You came close. And that was certainly the impression you gave them.”
“Maybe. Like the detective said, I didn’t misrepresent anything. If they misunderstood, that’s their issue. They know the rules of this game.”
“Fair enough,” Hewitt said. “I still don’t know whether their client is coming in. The question is: what do we do with him if he does?”
“That’s easy,” Porter said. “We use him as bait. We lure in Kilbranish, and we put together whatever information we get so that we can recover the paintings.”
“Bait sometimes gets eaten. Have you thought about that?”
“That’s not my concern.”
“It is if you run an operation with the man. His safety becomes your responsibility.”
“Technically, that’s true. But it’s hardly my main worry. There’s half a billion dollars out there in rare art. Art that has been missing for twenty years, kept from the public’s view. Art that could be used to fund all measure of criminal and terrorist activities. These are my main concerns. If the only collateral damage we suffer is the loss of the men who stole the paintings in the first place, I consider that a success.”
Porter was looking off into space, and he seemed almost serene. At that moment, it occurred to Hewitt how little he actually knew about the head of the Art Theft Program. “Kozlowski and Finn would probably disagree. I know their client would disagree.”
“That’s not my problem,” Porter responded. “My focus is on the artwork.”
“I don’t like this,” Sanchez said.
Stone was sitting behind the wheel of the unmarked police car. Sanchez was next to him, and they were parked outside Nashua Street Jail. They had tailed Finn from the hospital to the Gardner Museum to the Federal Building to Nashua Street. All that activity in just a few hours.
“Something’s happening.”
Sanchez nodded.
“At least we know we were right about the paintings. They wouldn’t have gone to the Gardner if it didn’t have something to do with the artwork.”
“So it seems,” Sanchez said. She cursed herself; there was so much information right in front of her, and yet she couldn’t put the pieces together. “Being right doesn’t mean much if it doesn’t lead to an arrest. We’re still two steps behind, and if we don’t catch up soon, something’s gonna go down and we’re not gonna be ready for it.”
“So, what do we do?” Stone asked. “You want to pick up Finn and Kozlowski?”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t do any good.” She took an exasperated breath. “What do we know?”
“I checked with the hospital,” Stone replied. “They said the Krantz woman was brought in early in the afternoon. It looks like she was the victim of an attack, but she wouldn’t give the doctors any information about what happened.”
“And Finn and Kozlowski went straight from there to the museum.” Sanchez’s head spun.
“Right. I talked to the director there briefly. He wasn’t at all happy to see me, by the way. He said they were asking questions about the robbery twenty years ago. Wouldn’t tell me much more.”
“And from there, they went to the feds.”
“Right. Looks like they went up to the eighth floor. Unless we want to make an official inquiry, we’re not gonna know who they met with, but I can take a guess.”
“Hewitt.”
“That’s my bet. I heard he and Kozlowski worked together back in the day.”
“Were they close?” Sanchez asked.
“It’s Kozlowski,” Stone said. “I don’t think he’s the type to really bond, but word is they worked well together and they got along.”
“And now they’re back here at the jail.” She tried to do the math, but none of it added up. “What the hell,” she said. “Could they be working with Hewitt?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“But why? Unless they’re all in on something together.” She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to relax. “Hewitt worked organized crime back when Whitey ran things and Connolly was giving him information. That was the same time when the museum was hit. Koz was a cop back then. Great reputation, great connections, but a pain in the ass to everyone. Now Finn represents Malley—a thief who worked for Bulg
er back then. And all this started with the murders of two of Bulger’s men who themselves may have been involved in the theft.” She opened her eyes. “It can’t be, can it?”
“Whatever it is, it’s moving,” Stone said. He nodded toward the front steps of the jail. “Here they come.”
Sanchez looked over and saw Finn and Kozlowski hurrying down the steps. They weren’t talking, and other than glancing quickly at the traffic as they crossed the street, their eyes were focused forward. Whatever was happening, it looked as if it was going to happen fast. They reached the other side of the street and climbed into the convertible they had parked across the street at the rehabilitations hospital.
“What now, boss?” Stone asked as the convertible pulled out of the parking lot.
“Follow them,” she replied. “They’re our only solid lead right now.”
“How is Devon doing?” Lissa asked. She looked better, but only marginally. She was sitting up in the hospital bed, and she had fresh bandages on her head. The cuts on her face were still pronounced. Kozlowski was standing against the wall; Finn was sitting on the chair next to Lissa’s bed. The door was closed.
“Not good,” Finn said. “He’s worried about his daughter, mainly. I think he also knows what giving himself up to Kilbranish means, though.” He looked out the window. The sun was nearly down, and the suburbs to the west glowed with the last of the sun’s efforts. It made for quite a contrast, as they sat in the grimy hospital room with its stink of disinfectant, death, and disease.
“Do you think he’ll go through with it?” Lissa asked. Her hands worried the blanket on her lap absentmindedly.
“I think so,” Finn said. “She’s his daughter.”
“He’s only known she existed for a year or so,” Kozlowski pointed out skeptically. “He may try to skip.”
“I don’t think so,” Finn said. “Devon was never a great liar; he’s not smart enough. He talks about her like she’s his last hope in the world. I think he’ll do whatever he can to protect her. I think he genuinely cares about her.”
“There’s caring, and then there’s caring,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t know that a year is enough time for him to lay down his life for her, daughter or not.”
“Your child hasn’t been born,” Finn said. “What would you do to protect it?”
Kozlowski shifted on the wall, and Finn could see the muscles tense underneath his jacket. “Don’t compare me to Devon,” he said quietly.
“Fair enough, I’m just saying I think I can read him on this. In any case, we’re not going to let him out of our sight once he’s out of jail tomorrow. Where he goes, we go. Period. If he tries to run, I’ll tie him up and deliver him to Kilbranish myself.”
“We should have protected her,” Lissa said. “I should have protected her.” She pulled so hard at the blanket, Finn thought it might rip.
“It’s not your fault,” Finn said. “We didn’t know.”
“We knew enough,” she replied.
He nodded. “Maybe we did. But then it’s all our faults. We’ll get her back.”
“You have a plan?” she asked.
Finn laughed bitterly. “Not really. I called in a favor at the clerk’s office and got Devon’s new bail hearing put on the calendar for tomorrow. That’s the best I could do. First we have to get him out—and after his little charade the other day there’s no guarantee that’s going to happen. Once we get him out, we wait for Kilbranish to call.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’re not really going to give Devon up to this psychopath, are we?” Lissa asked. “There has to be another way.”
Finn looked up at Kozlowski. “Maybe there is,” he said. Kozlowski nodded. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably,” Kozlowski said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Finn said.
“What?” Lissa demanded.
“We give him the paintings,” Kozlowski said.
She looked back and forth between them. “We don’t know where the paintings are. Do we?”
“No,” Finn said. “We don’t. But I think we may know who does.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Devon’s second bail hearing was scheduled for two-thirty on Friday afternoon. Finn arrived at one o’clock to talk to the clerk to make sure Devon would be called first. He didn’t want to take any chance that an earlier case would get bogged down and Devon would be returned to jail without the issue even being heard. It was a little tricky; he was calling in a serious favor from the clerk to set the schedule. Still, he had made it a practice of treating all the clerks at the courthouse well—a trick he’d learned when he first started out as a public defender—and they appreciated it. Judge Platt’s clerk had been predisposed in Finn’s favor ever since he’d given him his Red Sox tickets on the first-base line so he could take his son to a game on his birthday. It wasn’t a bribe, strictly speaking; there was no quid pro quo, and Finn would never ask for preferential treatment on the substance of a case. It did allow him to cut some corners on procedural issues, however. There was no question that what he was asking now would burn the last of any goodwill the tickets had earned him.
Kristin Kelley, the assistant district attorney who had argued at the arraignment, was not in the courtroom that morning, which was a blessing. Instead, the young man who had been with her was there, along with a woman who appeared even younger than he. Just looking at her made Finn feel old, but he banished the thought and focused on the argument at hand.
Judge Platt entered the courtroom at nine twenty-five, looking as bored with his existence as ever. “Call the first case,” he grumbled after everyone was seated.
“Case number 08-CR-2677, Commonwealth versus Devon Malley! Come forward and be heard!” the bailiff shouted.
Devon was brought in. He was wearing his prison fatigues, and he was chained at the wrists and ankles. Platt had his head down and was looking through case files as Devon entered, and it took a moment for him to look up. When he did, though, his forehead wrinkled in disgust. He called his clerk over to the bench, and they engaged in an animated discussion for a moment before the judge waved him away.
Platt turned his attention to Finn. “Mr. Finn, so nice to have you back in my courtroom,” he said. “Are we going for two out of three falls today?”
“No, Your Honor,” Finn said. “Before we begin, my client would appreciate the opportunity to address the court briefly, if possible?”
Platt glared at Devon. “That so, Mr. Malley?”
Finn nudged Devon. “Yes, Your Honor,” Devon said.
Platt crinkled his nose, as if he smelled something offensive. “If you must, go ahead,” he said.
Devon cleared his throat. Finn had rehearsed the speech with his client the night before, but still his palms were sweating as Devon began. “First,” Devon said, “I want to say I’m sorry to Mr. Finn, my lawyer. He and I have known each other for a long time, and I got mad at him the other day. I shouldn’t have hit him, and I’m very sorry about that.” Devon paused, looking at the judge. Finn searched for any change in the man’s demeanor, but could sense none.
“Second,” Devon continued, “I want to say I’m sorry to the bailiffs and the others who were in the courtroom the other day. I know what I did put them in danger, and I don’t have any excuse for that.”
“Is that it?” Platt asked.
“No, Judge. I want to say I’m sorry to you. This is your courtroom, and I disrupted it.”
“You disrespected it,” Platt interjected.
Devon nodded reluctantly. “I didn’t mean it to have anything to do with you, Judge. I didn’t mean to show disrespect, but I understand that that was how it looked. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re goddamned right it won’t,” Platt grumbled. His voice had no conviction, though, and Finn could sense that he was slipping back into h
is habitual disinterest. “Mr. Finn, I believe we were discussing bail when your client interrupted us, is that right?”
“That’s correct,” Finn said.
The young assistant district attorney stood. “If I may address this issue, Your Honor?” he said.
Platt peered over his glasses down at the man. “Mr. Hendricks, do you have anything to add that Ms. Kelley did not address the other day?”
“Only that in light of Mr. Malley’s outburst the other day—”
“I was here, Mr. Hendricks. If you are about to instruct me on the weight I should give that in determining bail, then zip it. You don’t need to remind me of Mr. Malley’s behavior. Do you have anything else—anything new—to add?”
Hendricks’s mouth moved silently for a moment, as if he was willing the words to come. “No, Your Honor,” he said finally. “I don’t.”
“Didn’t think so,” Platt said. He looked at Finn. “Counselor, I assume you’ve been wandering these halls for long enough to know when to keep your mouth shut?”
“I have, Your Honor. Thank you.”
Platt looked at Devon. “Mr. Malley, at the time when you assaulted your attorney the other day, I was about to set a very low bail. Hell, I was even thinking about granting your release on your own recognizance. Now, because of your outburst, I am considering not setting bail at all.” The speech seemed rehearsed, but as the words came out of his mouth, Finn could feel the last of Platt’s anger slip out with them. His indignation was gone, and now he just seemed tired. He took a deep, weary breath. “Never mind; what’s the point,” he said. “Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars. Bailiff, call the next case.”
The courtroom broke into motion. The bailiff shouted out the case number of the next matter, and another defense attorney stepped up to the bar, putting his briefcase down on defense counsel’s table. Another bailiff moved over and took Devon by the elbow, and Finn stepped back from the table. Devon looked at him.
“Don’t worry,” Finn said. “I have a bondsman lined up. It’ll cost five grand to post. I’ve got the money ready, and I’ll cover it.”
