“I might be a little more subtle about it.”
“One more question.”
“Okay.”
“Do you still think all this ties in with the Gardner robbery?’
“Maybe. Maybe White found something out. Maybe he did kill that girl to get those keys, not to stalk you but to get into some other part of the building. Because he believed those paintings were still here. Maybe he was using your condo as his home base, knowing you were out of town. Maybe he had partners. Maybe he was holding out on them and they found out. Maybe they killed him.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.”
“That’s what my job usually is. A whole lot of maybes.”
“You’re good at your job, aren’t you?”
“Only when they let me do it.”
They ordered in from Bertucci’s and Coleman spent a couple hours coaching Jackie for her inevitable grilling at the hands of the FBI. They watched an episode of Game of Thrones until Jackie grew tired of his relentless questions about who was who and what was going on, then retired to the bedroom for what Coleman would later remember as the single greatest night of sex in his entire life. He slept so soundly afterward, he didn’t even stir when Jackie left for work. He didn’t wake up until the Standells blared from his phone at 10:30 in the morning.
“Coleman,” he mumbled.
“This is Detective Coleman?”
“Like I said.”
“This is Bernie Hahn from Robertson Renovation and Remodel.”
“Well, I don’t need any remodeling done and I’m on the nocall list for solicitations, so…”
“No, you called me. I had a message waiting when I got back from vacation. Something about the Charlesgate renovations a few years back?”
Coleman sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Oh. Right. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“What did you want to know?”
“You were involved with turning the Charlesgate into condos?”
“I was. I oversaw the whole remodel. We tore that place down to the timbers inside.”
“There must have been a lot of junk in there, piled up over the years.”
“You better believe it. Total nightmare.”
“Anything valuable? You know, stuff dating back to the building’s days as a luxury hotel?”
“Sure. Stuff from every era. It was like a goddam archeological dig.”
“And what happens to all that stuff? Does it just get taken to the dump, or…?”
“Depends. If it’s just crap, sure, we haul it off. If it looks like it might be worth something, it gets set aside and a rep from the auction house goes through it. If he thinks it’s junk, we dump it. If not, he catalogues it and warehouses it. When we’re done with the building, they auction all the good stuff off.”
“And that’s what happened in this case?”
“Sure. It would have all been auctioned off a few years ago.”
“So this auction house would have a list of every valuable recovered from the Charlesgate?”
“Yep. You can probably still find it on the web. I’ll text you their info.”
“Great. Anything stand out in your memory? For instance, do you remember coming across any paintings?”
“Sure, there were paintings. All kinds of decorations and little artsy doodads. They’ll all be on that list.”
“Understood. One more thing. You say you tore Charlesgate down to the rafters. Is there anywhere in the building where something might still be hidden? You know, from before the renovations?”
“I don’t see how. Then again, that was a pretty weird place. You’d tear down a wall and find a whole corridor you didn’t know was there. Guys were getting lost in there all the time. We heard all kinds of stories about the place being haunted, and some of my guys actually believed it. But once we got it all torn down in there…no, I can’t think of any way something could still be hidden in there.”
“And that includes downstairs in the stables or whatever?”
“Oh yeah. That was a project, but we converted those into living units and storage space. There was a tunnel leading out of there back in the day, but it’s all sealed off now. And everything was cleaned out of there, just like everywhere else in the building.”
“Makes sense. Okay, I’ll check out that auction house. I appreciate your time, Mr. Hahn.”
“You got it.”
Coleman ended the call, then scrolled through his contacts to his wife’s cell number. He hit Send and listened to it ring three times and go to voicemail as usual.
“It’s me,” he said after the beep. “We’re still playing phone tag, probably because neither one of us really wants to talk to the other. But I need to see Alicia. I ain’t gonna be no absentee father and she ain’t gonna grow up thinking my punk-ass cousin is her dad. So call me back.”
He slammed his thumb down on the red bar and dragged his ass out of Jackie’s bed. He wandered out to the kitchen, where he found half a pot of coffee waiting for him and a key on the counter. A note under the key read: “Lock up when you go. xoxo Jackie.” He filled a coffee cup, sat down and checked for the text from Hahn. It was there, along with the link to the auction house website. He clicked it and searched the site, but didn’t have any luck finding lists from previous auctions. Not that it mattered; it’s not as if he expected to find Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee listed for bidding. Obviously if some reputable auction house had recovered the stolen Gardner art, it would be back in the museum now.
The whole Gardner thing was starting to feel like a wild goose chase anyway. He had enough on his plate without trying to track down some longshot lottery ticket. Woodward, the art detective, had never called him back the day before. He decided to place a courtesy call just to let Woodward know he was dropping out of their little treasure hunt. He found the number in his contacts and hit Send. It rang twice and then:
“Hello?”
“Mr. Woodward? It’s Detective Coleman.”
“How ya doing, Coltrane?”
Coleman winced. “Carny? Shit, I must have dialed you by mistake.”
“No mistake. You called your friend Woodward all right.”
“What? Why the fuck are you answering his phone?”
“Because I was standing here looking down at his dead body when his phone started to ring. Being the seasoned murder police I am, I decided to answer it and see who was on the other end. Imagine my surprise to hear your voice!”
“Shit. Woodward’s been murdered?”
“Yeah, I’m guessing that’s how he got these two bullet holes in the back of his head.”
JUNE 23, 1946
Marko watched the Public Garden drift past the window of his Bentley. He sat in the back seat. Paulie, the slightly larger of his two bodyguards, was driving.
“You sure this is a good idea, boss?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I thought we were laying low is all. This whole thing with the Mullens.”
“The day I worry about the Mullens is the day I find a new line of work. The Mullens worry about me.”
“Of course. It’s just, you know, you need me to pick up a rug, I’ll go pick up a rug. I’m capable of such a task without adult supervision.”
“That’s not in question. But this is a very special rug if what Miss Violet tells me is true. Now, it may not be true, but I’d like to see for myself. Because if it’s not true, I’m going to enjoy demonstrating to Miss Violet what happens when you tell stories to the wrong people.”
“Understood.”
“Just pull up across the street here and let’s take a look.”
Paulie turned right off Commonwealth Avenue onto Charlesgate East. He pulled up next to the park across the street from the building. “Looks like we got one cop standing out front. The doors are chained and bolted.”
“Got bolt cutters in the trunk?”
“Of course.”
“We may not need them. Let’s just have a talk with this guy fi
rst. You recognize him?”
“Seen him around, I guess. I don’t think we’ve had drinks together at the Parker House.”
“Well, he looks like a reasonable fellow. Let’s go have a chat.”
Paulie shut down the engine. Marko felt the Bentley’s suspension sigh with relief as Paulie squeezed out of the car. He came around to the passenger door and opened it for Marko, who stepped out, smoothing his jacket with both hands. The cop eyed them with uneasy suspicion as they crossed the street.
“Evening, officer,” said Marko.
“What do you want?”
“Hey,” said Paulie. “No need to take that tone. Do you know who this is?”
“Easy, Paulie,” said Marko. “Officer, I apologize for my friend. He’s worked for me a long time and as such he’s used to seeing me treated with respect. But it’s a big city and I’m sure you have concerns of your own.”
“I know who you are,” said the cop.
“That’s good, Officer…?”
“Pinkham. And I’ll ask you again. What can I do for you?”
“See that, Paulie? Officer Pinkham phrased it a little nicer. That’s really all we can ask. Here’s the situation, Officer Pinkham. I left a piece of my personal property here at the Charlesgate last week. I’ve been meaning to come by and pick it up but this is the first chance I’ve had. And lo and behold, it looks like you’ve got it locked up tighter than a nun’s asshole.”
“This building has been seized by the Boston PD. Any property you may have left inside is likewise now Boston PD property.”
“Ooh, that’s not the answer we were looking for, is it, Paulie?”
“Not even close, boss.”
“Perhaps we should clarify the matter for Officer Pinkham. We understand our request may pose an inconvenience for you while you’re standing out here protecting and serving the good people of our fair city. But we’re more than willing to compensate you for said inconvenience. Paulie?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Compensate the man.”
Paulie pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and began peeling them off one by one.
“Mr. Marko, it appears to me that you’re attempting to bribe an officer of the law. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But if I’m right, I have to tell you that’s not a very smart idea.”
“Peel off a few more, Paulie.”
Paulie peeled off a few more.
“Gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your vehicle and vacate the area. That’s not a legal parking spot.”
“Oh, my mistake, Officer Pinkham. I didn’t realize you were a meter maid.” Marko took a step closer. “I think you might want to reconsider.”
“Hey, fellas! Mind if I join the party?”
Marko glanced over his shoulder to the source of this last interjection. He saw another beat cop approaching, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. The cop jogged up the steps and handed one of the cups to Pinkham, shooting him a hot look as he did.
“The more the merrier, Officer…?”
“McCullough. I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, but it looked to be getting a bit heated and I thought maybe I could help smooth things over.”
“That would be very helpful,” said Marko. “As I was telling Officer Pinkham here, I left a piece of my personal property here last week and I’m simply asking for the opportunity to reclaim it. I realize the building has been seized by the police, but I don’t see any reason I should lose an item very dear to me just because the owners here failed to pay their taxes.”
“I understand, Mr. Marko. But out front here…it’s maybe a little too public. Prying eyes and all. Tell you what, why don’t you and your friend pull your car into the alley around back and we can take care of this there.”
“But, Danny—” Pinkham sputtered.
“Pipe down. Mr. Marko is a respected businessman in this town and if he has a piece of his personal property in here, the least we can do is accommodate him.”
Officer Pinkham had no response, but it was clear he didn’t approve of this development. Marko didn’t care.
“That’s a great idea, Officer McCullough.”
“Good. Pull around and I’ll meet you there, let you in the back way.”
Marko winked at Pinkham and followed Paulie back to the car. He watched with delight as McCullough chewed out Pinkham on the front steps of the Charlesgate. Paulie backed up and drove around the block, down Marlboro to Mass Ave, where he took a left. He drove half a block and threw it into reverse, backing the Bentley all the way down the alley and rear-ending at the Charlesgate.
“Remember that guy’s name, Pinkham. He don’t seem to want to be friends.”
“I’ll remember.”
McCullough came around the corner just as Paulie and Marko stepped out of the car.
“Paulie,” said Marko. “Remember what we were trying to give Officer Pinkham back there? Give that to Officer McCullough with a couple hundred more on top.”
Paulie counted off ten bills, folded them and passed them to McCullough, who smiled and pocketed them. “This way, gentlemen.” Paulie and Marko followed him to a rear entrance. “The front door, the chains and all that, it’s mostly for show. The news photographers eat that shit up. This one, I just need to find the right key…”
McCullough tried four or five keys before hitting on the right one. The door swung inward, revealing a service entrance leading to the grand ballroom, unused since the Depression.
“I assume you gentlemen can find your way from here?”
“We can. Thank you very much, Officer McCullough.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll give you a couple hours before I come back to lock up.”
“That should be plenty of time.”
“Oh, and you better take my flashlight. The electricity has already been turned off.” McCullough unclipped the flashlight from his belt and handed it to Paulie. He watched them enter the building and close the door behind them, then walked back to the phone booth at the corner of Marlboro and Mass Ave to make a call.
***
Inside the Charlesgate, Paulie flicked on the flashlight. “Where we going, boss?”
“Downstairs. Let’s go through the ballroom here, see if we can’t find the lobby. I’ll know my way from there.”
It took a bit of trial and error and some backtracking, but eventually they found their way to the lobby. Marko directed Paulie to the stairs leading to the basement. Once down there, they again wandered a bit before finding the door to the stables. Marko tried the knob. It was locked.
“Knock it down,” he told Paulie.
Paulie got a lumbering start and slammed his shoulder against the doorjamb. The door cracked and splintered but didn’t quite give. He repeated the process. On the third try the door gave way, nearly causing Paulie to pitch face-first into darkness. He caught himself in time and Marko followed him into the stables.
“Jesus,” said Paulie. “It fucking reeks in here.”
“Second stall on the right she said.”
Paulie walked ahead and flicked his light at the aforementioned stall. “There’s a rug here all right.”
“Good news. Let me take a look.” Marko kneeled and rolled the rug open. “Move that light closer.” Paulie did so. The image of a ship tossed in a storm came into focus. “Bingo. This is it.”
“Jesus. You smell that?”
“Yeah. It stinks. Help me with this.”
“One second.” The stall went dark as the beam from Paulie’s flashlight swept across the opposite wall.
“Come on, Paulie, quit fucking around.”
“Holy shit. Boss, take a look.”
Marko stood, cracked his knuckles, and followed the beam of light to a stall deeper in the stables. “Jesus Christ.” He bent down to examine the dead body Paulie had found. It was a woman. Her face was unrecognizable but Marko was pretty sure he knew who she was. He leaned in and unbuttoned her shirt. He pulled it open, exposing h
er breasts.
“Ah…whatcha doin’, boss?”
“Bring that light closer.”
Paulie did so. Marko fingered the dead girl’s left nipple. He saw scars surrounding it. Scars from bite marks. His bite marks.
“Dorothy Gale,” he muttered.
“What’s that, boss?”
“I said I can’t wait to get back home and thank Miss Violet for all her help. Let’s get that rug and get the fuck out of here.”
They dragged the rug back up the stairs, through the ballroom and out the service entrance to the alley. Maybe forty-five minutes had passed since they’d entered the building. They loaded the rug into the back seat of the Bentley. Marko climbed into the passenger seat and Paulie got behind the wheel, the suspension once again groaning beneath his weight. He started the engine, slipped it into gear and headed for Mass Ave. He never got there. Headlights flashed ahead. A black Mercury Eight was parked at the end of the alley, blocking his way.
“What the fuck is this?” Paulie leaned on the horn. The Mercury didn’t budge.
“Oh shit.” Marko ducked below the dashboard. He fumbled in his jacket for his pistol as a cacophony of gunfire, breaking glass, and the big man’s dying screams filled his ears. He looked up to see Paulie torn to shreds in the driver’s seat and realized he had curled himself in the fetal position on the baseboard. Unacceptable. No way were they going to find him like that. He sat up and peered over the top of the dashboard. Two men were walking toward him, each holding a bottle in one hand. The bottles were stuffed with flaming rags.
Marko raised his gun above the dashboard and emptied the chamber, hitting nothing. The Mullens tossed their Molotov cocktails through the shattered windshield. The car, the Mob boss, his dead henchman, and a priceless collection of stolen art were engulfed in a hellish fireball. It would have made quite a show for anyone with a window view on the east side of the Charlesgate, but there was no one left to see it.
OCTOBER 24, 1986
My father didn’t miss a beat as he loaded another newly repaired trap into the scuffed and muddied flatbed of his beat-up Ford pickup. “Didn’t realize college was so dangerous you’d need a gun.”
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