by D. A. Keeley
“Oh, you spilled your cup, sweetie,” she said. “There goes the security deposit.”
He tried to crawl toward her.
“Is the coffee too strong?”
She descended the stairs. As she pulled her coat on, she heard a soft thud overhead. She closed the door behind her gently and went out.
9:15 a.m., Garrett Middle School
“I like your new clothes,” Dariya said.
Aleksei smiled. “Bohana bought them.”
His father noticed how easily he smiled here. They were walking around the back of the school. The guidance counselor had called Aleksei to the office when his father asked to see him. It was in the mid thirties, but the sun was warm. Aleksei wore a blue winter coat; Dariya wore a leather jacket.
“Your hands are dry and cracked,” Dariya said.
“It happened when I was in the woods, Papa. I need to get back to class.”
“I just wanted to see you. Do you like your new school?”
“Very much. I’m learning a lot.”
“And the people?”
Aleksei shrugged. “How is Mother?”
“I’m getting her the treatment she needs.”
“What does she need?”
“Surgeries,” Dariya said. “Several.”
A boy and girl walked around the corner of the building, holding hands. Dariya saw them, thought of his own son, and wondered about Aleksei’s shoulder shrug and change of subject.
“Are you happy here?” Dariya asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“I want to see Mother. I want to know she’s okay.”
“She will be. You can stay with Bohana until I get things set up.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re moving to Switzerland after your school year.”
Aleksei stopped walking. “Leaving Ukraine?”
His father nodded.
“I just came here. Now we move again?”
“I’m here to conduct business. It will allow us to move, Aleksei. You need to trust me. In Switzerland, people don’t live the way we have had to. It’s beautiful. Mountains. Snow. And there’s no fighting there.”
“And Mother?”
“She’ll be well there.”
Aleksei nodded. “What do you need to do here?”
“That’s not your worry, son. Have you seen your cousin today?”
Aleksei shook his head.
“Do you have his phone number?”
11:11 a.m., Garrett Station
“I see you spruced the place up,” Frank Hammond said, entering the bullpen. Two other agents were with him.
Peyton saw a black Suburban parked outside.
“We don’t all have federal budgets,” Hewitt said, shaking Hammond’s hand. “Good to see you, Frank.”
And, to Peyton’s surprise, she thought Hewitt meant it.
“Aroostook County is always two months behind Boston in terms of weather,” Hammond said. “I’m freezing my ass off up here, again.”
“Welcome to The County,” Hewitt said.
Hammond was the FBI’s executive assistant director of the criminal investigative division. He worked out of a glass office in downtown Boston. He had a little more gray hair than he’d had the last time she’d seen him, but he still looked like a guy who ran 10Ks. He wore a Boston Strong T-shirt, jeans, and New Balance running shoes.
Hammond looked at Peyton. “I hear you might have some information I’d be interested in.”
“Are you the lead agent on the Gardner Museum heist?”
“I am now. It’s been twenty-five years. The lead agent has changed numerous times.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Peyton was at the whiteboard in the makeshift conference room. Hewitt, Hammond, Stan Jackman, and two FBI field agents, who looked far too young, fanned out around the picnic table.
“You guys hold all your meetings around picnic tables?” one of the young agents said.
“It’s also our break room,” Jackman said. “If you get hungry, I’m sure there are leftovers in the fridge.” He pointed.
The FBI agent smiled.
Hammond made introductions. The annoying agent was Steven Ramirez.
“Hope you don’t need me to go undercover,” Ramirez said. “Not a lot of brown people up here.”
“You have any agents in Boston who are housebroken?” Peyton said to Hammond.
“Yes,” Hammond said. “Ramirez doesn’t get out much.” Then to Ramirez, “Shut up.”
After Peyton’s debrief, Hewitt looked at Hammond. “You have the warrant?”
Hammond nodded.
“That was quick,” Hewitt said.
Hammond shrugged. “A lot of people have been looking for this stuff for a long time.”
“We going in hot?” Ramirez asked.
“No,” Peyton said. “The son and father probably won’t be home. And Ted Donovan is most likely at work. His sister-in-law might be home.”
“Ramirez can pick Ted Donovan up at his work,” Hammond said. “I’d like to interview him and would like your help, agent.”
“Of course,” Peyton said. She smiled politely but bristled inside. It was her case, after all. Except, she knew FBI and ICE had jurisdiction on a case with national and possibly international implications.
“Where’s Dariya Vann?” Hammond said. He was staring at Dariya’s name on the whiteboard.
“Wildcard,” Hewitt said. “We have no idea what he’s doing.”
“Armed? Dangerous?”
“We just don’t know,” Peyton said. “He doesn’t have a violent past.”
“That we know about,” Jackman added.
“That we know about,” Peyton concurred.
“Let’s roll,” Ramirez said. He was the first one out the door.
11:30 a.m., Tim Hortons, Reeds
“Where’s your husband?” Dariya said when Marfa approached the table carrying a large shoulder bag and a latte and sat across from the two men.
She nodded to Ted and said in English, “He won’t be joining us.”
“Thank you for speaking English.” Ted smiled. He liked looking at this woman named Sonya. He could smell her perfume over the aromas of donuts, coffee, and lunchtime soup.
“I want to be sure we are all clear on where we stand,” she said.
Dariya was alright with the husband bowing out. He was a Putin sympathizer. Dariya looked around. A couple men at other tables sat quietly, reading newspapers. It seemed odd, the atmosphere so different here: People were relaxed. No one looked scared.
“There a reason why he won’t be joining us?” Ted asked her.
She sipped her latte. Dariya saw her lipstick mark on the glass as he slurped his black coffee.
“For one, he didn’t exactly find your friend, here, amiable.”
Dariya said, “So you’re handling transaction?”
“That’s how it looks,” she said.
“And money? You have our money?”
“I have it,” she said. “And the painting? I’d like to see it.”
“It’s magnificent,” Ted said. “I’ve studied art for most of my life. There’s nothing like it.”
“And it’s been authenticated?”
“Of course,” Ted said. “We took it ourselves.”
“And you can prove its authenticity?”
Ted turned to Dariya. “Have you discussed this with her before?”
Dariya shook his head.
Marfa recrossed her legs and bobbed her ankle. She smiled at him.
“Like I said, we took the painting. I’ve had it for twenty-five years. I study art, always have. It’s the real thing.”
“We don’t need tal
k about twenty-five years ago,” Dariya said. “No one needs to know about that. Just now. Just sale.”
“I’m paying a lot of money,” she said. “I’d like to know it’s authentic.”
Ted laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s a lot of money,” she said again.
“Lady, if you find a stolen Rembrandt that thieves have had officially authenticated,” Ted said, “fucking call me. We took it. The last thing I’m about to do is call someone in to examine the fucking thing. On the contrary, I’ve been hiding the thing for half my life. That’s why we’re selling this to you for a fraction of what it’s worth.”
“I want to see the painting,” she said.
Dariya was leaning back, arms folded across his chest. “And we want to see money.”
“Fine.” She reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew her a black laptop with a red sticker, opened it, and turned it for them to see. She pointed as if tutoring them. “Here are your accounts. They’re empty. Here’s my account.”
Dariya was silent.
Ted said, “Holy shit.”
“Now I want to see the painting,” Marfa said.
“We’ll call you,” Ted said.
12:15 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane
“What is that?” Bohana said. She was standing in the front door.
Hammond explained the details of the federal warrant again.
“Bohana,” Peyton said, “I know this is a lot to take in, and that it comes on the heels of a long night, but you need to let us in. Let’s make this as painless as possible.”
“I’m not leaving my house.”
“You don’t need to, ma’am,” Hammond said.
Peyton saw Bohana look at Hammond’s black FBI jacket.
“This is like a TV show,” Bohana said. “A black SUV, the FBI jackets, men wearing rubber gloves, putting things in paper bags.”
“We need to go to the third floor,” Hammond said. “Will you open the door for us?”
“That’s my brother-in-law’s apartment.”
“Yes,” Hammond said, and Bohana looked at him, a realization crossing her face.
“This is about Ted?”
“We need to go to the third floor, ma’am.”
The apartment was small, a three-room efficiency. But it was neat, clean, and had nice furnishings. It also had an air duct near the ceiling that Peyton saw Hammond staring at. He moved closer and examined the wall-mounted temperature setting.
Drawers opened and shut, the closet was quickly searched, soil samples were taken from shoes, and Ramirez, wearing an LA Dodgers cap, went to work on the computer, turning it on and finding it to be password protected. He closed the laptop and bagged it.
“Frank,” a young blond agent said, “come take a look at this.” Her name was Sally Hann. She wore glasses with green and orange frames and had freckles.
They had pulled the sofa away from the wall.
Hammond examined the carpet beneath the sofa. A large spot was flattened. “Something in a heavy box was here for a long time,” he said. “Measure the spot.”
Hann nodded, went to work, and told him the dimensions.
Peyton, Hewitt, and Jackman stood back and watched the feds work.
“You can’t take my brother-in-law’s computer,” Bohana said. “That’s personal property.”
Hammond took his cell phone off his belt. He looked at Hewitt. “It’s Ramirez.” Then to the phone, “Go, Steven.” He listened, eyes running to Bohana. When he clipped the phone on his belt again, he said, “Mrs. Donovan, do you know where your brother-in-law and brother are?”
“No idea. First the school calls to say Michael is off somewhere playing hookie, and now this.”
“Michael didn’t show up at school today?” Peyton said.
“I told him he’d have to meet with the guidance counselor and probably write a letter to the University of Maine. I think he’s avoiding both.”
“Can I talk to you?” Hammond said to Peyton and Hewitt.
They followed him out of the efficiency and down the stairwell.
“We’ve got a problem,” Hammond said. “Ramirez can’t find Ted Donovan. He never went to work. Didn’t call in sick.” He pointed up the stairs to the apartment. “His sister-in-law will tell him about this. So now we have a serious flight risk on our hands.”
“Shit storm,” Hewitt said.
Hammond nodded. “That’s what this is turning into.”
“You have BOLOs out on both men?” Peyton said.
Hammond nodded. “That flattened spot on the carpet matches the approximate size of the painting you’re talking about.”
They went back into the apartment.
Bohana was waiting for them. “What is this about? What are you accusing them of ?”
“We just have some questions we’d like to ask them.”
Bohana turned to Peyton. “He’s lying. Peyton, what’s going on?”
“We just need to talk to Ted and Dariya,” Peyton said. “That’s really all. Once they help us make sense of a few details, all this goes away.”
Bohana looked at her. “What details?”
“I can smell your soup from here,” Peyton said. “The whole house smells great.”
“You can’t do this,” Bohana said. “Do you know that? You can’t just come into someone’s home and take their personal belongings.” She pointed to the bags. “Those are Ted’s shoes, his laptop.”
“The sooner we can speak to him and clear this all up,” Hammond said, “the sooner he can have everything back.”
Peyton was studying Bohana’s face. Her expression said Bohana knew Hammond was lying, which Peyton knew would lead to problems.
12:30 p.m., 31 Monson Road
Michael looked at his phone, which had just vibrated. The text was from Aleksei. He hadn’t expected that.
The school had called his mother to report him absent, and his mother had called (straight to voicemail, he’d made sure) twice and texted three times urging him not to skip the meeting with the guidance counselor at one. Then his father had gotten in on it, leaving two more voice messages. No word, though, from Uncle Ted.
He’d been at Davey Bolstridge’s since he ran, and now the boys were sitting on living room chairs watching ESPN.
“It’s cool that you took the day off to hang with me,” Davey was saying. “You see that LeBron highlight? It was sick.”
“Yeah.” Michael was looking at the floor. Davey’s home was maybe a third the size of the Donovan house. The living room furniture was worn, the carpet stained. Michael saw the way Davey looked around the Donovan home any time he visited. The last time he’d been over, he’d asked how big the flat screen was in the great room. Looks like a movie screen, Davey had muttered.
“Jaspar pissed on that spot on the carpet,” Davey said. “The other two stains are him as well.” He pointed. “Every time it thunders, Jaspar pisses on the carpet. I think my father will shoot him when I’m gone.”
“Man, stop talking like that.”
“Isn’t that why you came today? Spend time with me before I’m gone?” As if the thought triggered it, Davey flinched in pain. “Motherfucker, that was a bad one,” he said. “Sometimes it feels like a knife right in my side.”
“Dude, I’m so sorry I fucked up and got busted. Now I can’t help you.”
Davey was breathing hard, but he waved that off. “No, man. No biggie. Shit just happens. I hope the U-Maine thing works out. And thanks for coming. It’s cool that you wanted to hang out. So that’s all, huh. Just to hang, not because I’m dying?”
“Yeah, man. Just to hang.”
“Dude, you looked like you ran a marathon when you got here. Why’d you park in the back?”
“Because it’s plowed, and I wanted to leave the driveway clear
for your parents.”
“Nice of you. Mom will probably invite you to eat with us.”
Michael was staring at the text: are u around? need help w/ something @ school. can u wlk nxt door?
What did Aleksei need? Aleksei thought he was in the high school around the corner from the middle school.
“My mother will be home around four,” Davey said. “I’m not hungry, but she’s making spaghetti, if you want to stay.”
“Thanks, dude. I need to take off for a little while, though.” Michael stood up. “Things are a little rough at home. Can I sleep here tonight?”
“Of course. Where are you going?”
That was a good question, Michael thought.
1:45 p.m., Logan International Airport, Boston, Mass.
Nicolay toted one duffle bag and stood at the rental counter.
“Is a compact car okay?” The small man behind the counter had dreadlocks. Nicolay always wondered about dreadlocks. Crazy Americans. How did he wash his hair?
“I’ve got a Ford Focus.”
“I don’t feet in that,” Nicolay said.
“Fit?” the young guy behind the counter said. “You want something bigger?”
“Yes,” Nicolay said. “In hurry.”
“Okay. I have a Camry, but it’ll cost twice as much.”
“Fine,” Nicolay said. He handed the clerk a credit card. If he charged things, he’d have at least until the end of the month before creditors discovered there was no money in the accounts. Selfishly, he also knew his inheritance, which Victor had discussed with him numerous times, was tied to those accounts. So this was business, but it was also personal on several levels. After all, he’d been the one to start the funeral arrangements. That job should have been Marfa’s; she was Victor’s sole living relative. But she was gone, and Nicolay figured she’d lost that privilege anyway. Victor always said he wanted to be cremated, so that was what Nicolay had done. The ground in the St. Petersburg cemetery was frozen; the service to place the urn in the ground would have to wait until June.
“Would you like to fill out a form to become an advantage member and save ten percent?”
“Nyet. No.” Nicolay pointed to his watch. He didn’t have time for this. He was tired, the past twenty-four hours were a mad dash, and he was meeting someone in the Common in thirty minutes. The man would have something for Nicolay that he needed but hadn’t been able to bring on the plane.
