Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “So…your theory is that this Charles White is my Charlesgate perp? That seems like quite a leap.”

  “Maybe. But surely, Detective Coleman, you’ve encountered people who would kill for far less than five million dollars.”

  “So spell it out for me. You think this White made an appointment with the Charlesgate realtor and killed her for the keys to this…Mrs. Osborne’s condo, so he could search it for Donnelly’s contact info?”

  “Hmm. No, actually, that had never occurred to me. Why, was Mrs. Osborne’s condo searched?”

  “Never mind that. What did you think?”

  “That Mr. White believed the stolen art from the Gardner Museum might be hidden somewhere in the Charlesgate.”

  “Are you serious? For what, almost seventy years now? That place has been through three or four owners. As far as I know, it was stripped to the bone and completely remodeled when the current outfit bought it. That seems like an awful fucking long shot to kill someone over.”

  “Perhaps. But Mr. White grew very, very interested when I mentioned the reward. And even more interested when I estimated the current value of the stolen art.”

  “Which is what?”

  “North of two hundred million dollars. At a rough estimate, of course.”

  “Jesus.”

  “But still a long shot, I understand. Except that I went back to meet with Mr. White on April 24, the day after the murder was reported. I had seen it on the news and my suspicions immediately turned to him. But when I got to his office, his assistant, a Ms. Tucker, informed me that White had called her that morning to say he wouldn’t be coming in to work. That, in fact, something had come up and he was leaving his job. When she asked for an explanation, he simply hung up on her. I called again two days later to see if he’d had a change of heart, and once again this morning. Ms. Tucker assures me he hasn’t returned, nor has she heard from him at all since his initial call. I suspect if you were to investigate further, you would find his place of residence abandoned.”

  “Even assuming all this is true, it’s still thin from an evidentiary standpoint. But I don’t think you called me here to help me solve a murder. I think you were hoping I’d let something slip about my investigation. Something that might help you locate those paintings.”

  Woodward smirked. “Why not both? I see no reason we can’t help each other.”

  “So in this scenario, White disappearing without a trace, do you think there’s a chance he found what he was looking for?”

  Woodward raised an eyebrow and raised his glass. “That, detective, is the mystery.”

  JUNE 16, 1946

  “After calling in the 10-54, you returned to the premises and you and Officer Pinkham entered the museum?”

  “That’s right. We entered with our weapons drawn and began our search. After approximately twenty minutes, we found the security guard in the basement. Tied up, with a gag in his mouth.”

  “You untied him and removed the gag?”

  “Yes. He explained that he had opened the door to two uniformed policemen shortly after midnight. The officers claimed they were responding to a disturbance call, but after gaining admittance to the building, they quickly overpowered the guard and dragged him down to the basement, where they tied him up and gagged him. He heard a lot of commotion from the floor above, and estimated that he’d been in the basement for forty-five minutes when he heard gunshots.”

  Sergeant Higgins scribbled a few notes in his pad. He and his partner Sergeant Leonard had arrived on the scene ten minutes earlier, while Pinkham and McCullough were still searching the building. There was no missing the dead body, still wedged in the half-opened front entrance. Higgins and Leonard both recognized the departed immediately. Higgins inspected the body, fishing through its pockets and coming up with a wallet. He pulled out the driver’s license and laughed.

  “The legendary Dave T. You want to know his real name? Maurice Levine. Guy was a fuckin’ hebe, no wonder he called himself Dave T. Better get on the horn to headquarters. We need all his known associates rousted and questioned. I know that’s a long fuckin’ list, so let’s get started. And someone better wake up whoever’s in charge of this place, break the bad news to ’em.”

  As Leonard headed back to the squad car, McCullough and Pinkham emerged from the basement with the security guard in tow. Pinkham waited with the guard, watching as Higgins questioned McCullough. His stomach was growling. He’d never gotten his ham and cheese from Charlie’s.

  Higgins finished up with McCullough and headed Pinkham’s way. “Officer Pinkham?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Your partner says you found this gentleman bound and gagged in the basement? And no one else on the premises?”

  “That’s right. Excepting the dead fella in the doorway.”

  “Okay.” Higgins nodded to the security guard. “I’ve got a few questions for you, young man. Officer, you and your partner can be on your way.”

  “Thank you.” Pinkham nodded and headed for the exit, easing his way past the crime scene technician who was now examining the body.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “George Holloway, sir.”

  “Sergeant is fine. How old are you, George?”

  “Nineteen, sir…Sergeant.”

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “Since September. I’m a student at Boston College. I work here overnight three times a week.”

  “And you’re the only one here? You work alone?”

  “Yes. I work eleven o’clock to eight in the morning.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

  “No, it’s usually pretty quiet. I study, I patrol the grounds once an hour, make sure everything’s in its place. Easy money.”

  “So this museum full of priceless art is protected by you and you alone.”

  “Three nights a week. The rest of the week there’s another guard, Richie Sutherland.”

  “I see. Why don’t we take a little walk around here, see what’s what?”

  The museum’s interior was built around a large central courtyard, rising four stories to a skylight ceiling that bathed the room in moonlight. Lush plants—palm trees, colorful orchids, and other tropical flowers—provided a serene, contemplative setting for a variety of sculptures surrounding an ancient Roman mosaic. A fountain burbled at the far end of the room, flanked by staircases. “Nice,” said Higgins. “I’ve never been in here.”

  “It’s beautiful. And quiet, like I said.”

  “So what exactly happened tonight to disturb the quiet? From the beginning.”

  “Like I told the officers, I was reading in the atrium when I heard a knock at the front entrance. That was unusual. We have a gate, as you know, and I’m sure it was locked. There’s a window there next to the entrance, and when I looked out, I could see two police officers standing outside the door.”

  “And you let them in?”

  “They said they were responding to a disturbance call, which didn’t make any sense, because I hadn’t heard a thing. I told them that, but they said they had to check it out anyway. So I let them in. And no sooner were they in the door than the two of them grabbed me, one by each arm. Then a third guy pops up, he must have been crouched out of sight. Not dressed as a cop. He told them to take me to the basement and tie me up. One of the guys holding me asks where the fuck the basement is…excuse my language, but that’s an exact quote.”

  “It’s okay, George. I want you to be exact.”

  “Right. So the third guy tells them how to get to the basement. He definitely seemed to be in charge, and evidently knew his way around.”

  “And this third guy. Is he the dead body back there in the entryway?”

  “That’s him.”

  “And you’d never seen him before. Never met him.”

  “Of course not! I’m a college student, like I said. I don’t run around with criminals.”

  “Take it easy,
kid.”

  “Sorry, I’m just a little…oh, no. No!” Before Higgins could register what was happening, George broke into a sprint, heading for the right-hand staircase leading to the second floor.

  “Kid!” Higgins took off after him, reaching for his weapon. When George reached the staircase, he knelt on the first step and swept up what appeared to be sawdust from another stair. He turned to face Higgins and held out the handful of dust, a stricken look on his face. Higgins caught up to him.

  “Kid, it’s a very bad idea to run when a law enforcement officer is questioning you.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just…look at this.” George rubbed his fingers together and tiny flecks of canvas and paint fluttered from his hand and drifted to the floor. “Do you see? Do you know what this means?”

  “Fill me in.”

  “A painting has been damaged. At least one. Do you know how amateur art thieves operate? They cut the paintings right out of their frames. Sergeant, we have to check the rest of these galleries. Who knows how many priceless artworks those animals have defaced?”

  “Who cares? Kid, I’m investigating a murder here. When Robbery gets here, you can answer all their questions about what painting is missing from where. That’s none of my concern.”

  George stared at him, slack-jawed. “Sergeant, these artworks are irreplaceable.”

  “So is that mug lying dead in the doorway. I personally wouldn’t want to replace him, but it is my sworn duty to investigate the circumstances of his sudden demise. And you’re my only witness.”

  “Sergeant, I told you, I was tied up in the basement.”

  “Two men wearing BPD uniforms took you down to the basement. And tied you up with what?”

  “They had rope with them. And a rag they stuffed into my mouth, and electrical tape they used to hold it in place. They were prepared.”

  “Sure. But devil’s advocate, if you were working with them, it would be in your best interest to be discovered bound and gagged in the basement, right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think that way. I’m a college student. I’m studying business and finance, for Christ’s sake. I grew up in a fishing village on the North Shore. I don’t know any criminals! But I think you think I’m some kind of accomplice. So I think I better not answer any more questions without a lawyer.”

  Higgins laughed. “You’re paranoid, kid. Like I said, I was just playing devil’s advocate. I gotta exhaust all the possibilities. You want a lawyer, that’s your business. But in my experience, which is quite extensive, innocent people don’t ask for lawyers. Guilty people do.”

  George swallowed hard. “I know what you’re trying to do. And I’ve told you everything I know. I’d like to search the rest of the building and see what else is missing.”

  “Knock yourself out. Robbery should be here any minute. One more question, though. You told Officer Pinkham you heard a commotion, followed by some gunshots. Tell me exactly what you heard. I mean, assuming you can answer that without your attorney present.”

  “I heard shouts. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard something heavy crash to the floor. Then gunshots— three, I think. Then a scream.”

  “You heard the gunshots before the scream?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s interesting. Our dead friend there wasn’t shot. And there was no gun found on or around his person.”

  “What can I tell you? I heard what I heard.”

  A distant voice called. “Higgins! Where are you?”

  “Over here!”

  A moment later, Sergeant Leonard jogged into the courtyard, out of breath. “Some fuckin’ night. We caught another body, over Beacon and Charlesgate East. And we got an APB on a cop killer. Anonymous tip came in and it checked out. Uniforms found two bodies in the trunk of a Crown Imperial parked at South Station. One of ’em not yet identified, but the other is an MTA cop.”

  “Jesus. Must be a full moon. What about the APB?”

  “Car is registered to a Jacob Devlin, Somerville. War hero, it turns out. Couple minor beefs as a juvie.”

  “South Station, huh? So this guy’s probably long gone.”

  “Probably. But if somehow he’s still in town, he’s never getting out alive.”

  OCTOBER 12, 1986

  When I got back to Charlesgate on Saturday night, I had a message waiting for me.

  “Some dude called for you,” said the Rev. “Said his name is Shane Devlin, and you should meet him at noon tomorrow at this address: 25 Evans Way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “I told you about the guy who just got out of jail I met at the Fallout Shelter, right? That’s him.”

  “Right on. Why was he in jail?”

  “He killed two people, including a cop.”

  “Oh…that’s cool.”

  “Really? So you’d have no qualms about going to meet this guy at some random address?”

  “Uh…not me, man. But you’re the aspiring journalist. I mean, you gotta figure Deep Throat was a pretty shady dude, but Woodman and Epstein still met up with him in some creepy parking garage.”

  “Excellent point as usual.”

  “You gotta look at the big picture. You want Dustin Hoffman to play you in a movie someday, these are the chances you have to take.”

  “I feel a lot better about this now. Good talk.”

  ***

  And so at noon sharp the next day I found myself standing in front of a boxy four-story building with an entryway flanked by two lion sculptures. Shane Devlin was already there waiting for me.

  “So did I check out?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. You checked out fine.”

  “Mind if I ask exactly what you checked out? And with whom?”

  “Look, your name’s Donnelly, right? Well, I had some problems with a couple guys named Donnelly in Walpole back in the ’60s. I just needed to make sure you weren’t related to those Donnellys.”

  “You could have asked. I’m from Maine. My father’s a lobster fisherman, so are my uncles. So was my grandfather after he got out of the Navy. We’ve got no relatives down here, and certainly no one you would have met in Walpole.”

  “Yeah, I know that now. No need to be so sensitive about it.”

  “You know, I checked you out, too.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. I looked you up in the Boston papers from 1946. So I know why you were in jail all that time. I just don’t know why you didn’t get the chair.”

  “Okay, so you know what I was convicted of doing. But that don’t mean you know what I really done.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a long story, kid. I’ll get to it. But right now, we’re going in here.” Shane gestured to the building behind us.

  “What is this place, anyway?”

  “Kid, I thought you were a college student. Don’t they teach you any culture? This is the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.”

  “All right. So…we’re going to look at art?”

  “For starters. And I’m gonna need you to pay my way in.”

  “Awesome.”

  “It’ll be worth it, kid. Trust me.”

  Between my student fee and my new friend’s senior discount, admission to the museum set me back twelve dollars I’d earmarked for a suitcase of Milwaukee’s Best. “This better be a great museum,” I said.

  “Kid, I got no idea whether it’s a great museum or not. You’re paying for a great story, remember?”

  “So what’s the story?”

  “Patience. I never had any myself when I was your age, but forty years in the can did wonders for mine.”

  We stepped inside and entered a vast courtyard flooded with sunlight from a full-ceiling skylight above. About a dozen other visitors wandered the grounds or stared intently at the statuary.

  “Looks about how I remember it,” said Shane. “Different plants, probably.”

  “That would be
my guess.”

  “Come on. We’re going upstairs.”

  I followed him to the second floor and into a gallery labeled the Dutch Room. A handful of patrons were gathered inside, all staring at the same thing. It took me a minute to realize what held their attention.

  “Is this supposed to be some postmodern art piece?” I asked. “It looks like an empty frame.”

  “It is an empty frame.”

  I squinted at it, sure I was missing something. “You’re serious. All these people are here to look at an empty frame?”

  “It wasn’t always empty. Haven’t you ever heard of the Gardner Museum heist?”

  “Maybe.” I vaguely recalled hearing something about it in the Introduction to Art History class I’d taken my freshman year, but as was my policy at the time, I hadn’t paid much attention.

  “That frame used to hold a painting called The Concert by an artist named Vermeer. Supposedly, it’s the most valuable stolen painting in the world.”

  “Vermeer.” Now that sounded familiar. It was the only word I’d written down when I thought I was taking notes on my interview with the occult expert, Timothy Sprague.

  “Yeah, Johannes Vermeer. Seventeenth-century Dutch painter. Probably best known for Girl with a Pearl Earring.”

  “Listen to you. I wouldn’t have taken you for an art expert.”

  “Heh. Well, I’m not an expert. But I’ve had a lot of time to brush up on the subject.”

  “Forty years. You said.”

  “Yeah, and I did a lot of reading in those forty years. Not much fiction. I don’t really care for mysteries, stuff like that. But history, yeah. And art history…I had a special interest. And newspapers. I followed this case, the Gardner heist, very carefully.”

  “Why?”

  “That night I supposedly plugged that cop, like you read about? Well, that was the same night this place was robbed.”

  “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  “It’s no coincidence. You know where this is going, don’t ya? The night they found those people in the trunk of that car, I was right here. Robbing this place.”

  I laughed, only because I didn’t know what else to do. “That’s some alibi.”