“And you get rich.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. The paintings aren’t there. I talked to the contractor who remodeled the place a few years back and there’s no way—”
“Hey. Trane. We don’t care. Okay? We’ve had enough of your bullshit to last a lifetime. Now if you’ll hand me your badge and your weapon, you can be on your way. Men are working here.”
Coleman shook his head but complied.
“Melendez!” Weir called. One of the crime scene techs jogged over. Weir handed him Coleman’s sidearm. “Send this to the lab. Have ’em run ballistics against the slugs they pull out of Woodward’s head. And tell ’em to be prepared to hand it over to J. Edgar by this afternoon.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Coleman.
“You still here? This is a crime scene, citizen. Now fuck off.”
Coleman stared for a long moment but words wouldn’t come. He settled for a dismissive wave and ducked back under the crime scene tape. As he left the Gardner and headed down Fenway, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. He was about to select Jackie’s name when his cop brain kicked in and he thought better of it. Instead he took a right on Brookline and walked four blocks to the Cask ‘n Flagon. A twentysomething dude-bro in a tank top and backwards Red Sox cap was taking chairs down from the tables.
“Not open yet, buddy,” he said.
“Oh, that’s okay. I was just—is there a phone in here I could use?”
“You ain’t got a phone?”
“Well, yeah. But my wife checks it and I’ve got this hot piece of ass on the side…”
The dude-bro laughed and tossed his iPhone to Coleman. “Call’s on me, man.”
“Hey, I appreciate it.”
Coleman punched in Jackie’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Coleman.”
“Oh. I didn’t recognize the number.”
“I’m not using my phone. I’m already in enough trouble. We both are.”
“How’s that?”
“Woodward’s dead. Shot twice in the back of the head, just like White.”
“Wait, refresh my memory. Woodward is…the art detective?”
“That’s right. The art detective I was working with. Who until this morning, as far as I know, only two people knew I was working with. Me and you.”
“Meaning what?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Are we going to do this again? I tell you I had nothing to do with this and you say you believe me?”
“I’m a cop, Jackie. ‘I believe you’ is just what we tell people when we want to keep them talking.”
“I see. So all the times you said ‘I believe you,’ I shouldn’t have believed you.”
“Well, I wanted to believe you. Still do. All I know for sure is there’s another guy dead and I didn’t do it. But maybe I’m being set up to look like I did.”
“Meaning I set you up.”
“Not necessarily. But if the ballistics show my gun fired the bullets that killed Woodward, then I’m gonna be out of options.”
“So in this scenario, what? You sleep over at my place. I sneak out at night with your gun, kill this Woodward, sneak back in and put your gun back, then go on about my day because…why?”
“I don’t know, Jackie. I know both you and Woodward met with White. Maybe White was working both you and Woodward for leads on the Gardner stash. Maybe you were working with White and something went bad between you. But I’m not a prosecutor. I don’t care about motive, only means. Now maybe the ballistics come back and there’s no match and I just blew up what could have been a good thing between you and me for no fucking reason. But if they do match, I know two things for sure: I didn’t kill Woodward, and you and only you had the means to make it look like I did. So if you have anything you want to tell me, now would be a good time.”
“As a matter of fact, detective, I do have something to tell you.” Jackie sounded on the verge of tears.
“I’m listening.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
JUNE 24, 1946
“What is it about this place?”
Sergeant Higgins’ gaze drifted from the rear of the Charlesgate back to the smoking husk of the Bentley and finally to McCullough, the patrolman who’d called in what appeared to be a gangland slaying. The fire department had finally cleared the scene, leaving Higgins with the prospect of sifting through the ruins.
“Not sure what you mean, Sergeant.”
“I was just here a week or two ago. That pimp who slipped on a banana peel and cracked his melon. Open and shut, an accident. Except the old man got a stick up his ass on account of this supposed witness heard the departed jawing with another individual. Won’t rubber stamp it for me. Says to hunt her down and bring her in for further questioning. Well, of course this twist never shows her face again. No one’s seen her since that night. My guess, upon realizing she could no longer ply her trade here, she skipped town. All I had is an alias anyway. Dorothy Gale, like in that Munchkin movie.”
“There’s no place like home,” said McCullough.
“What’s that?”
“You know, from that movie. That’s what Dorothy says.”
“Well, there you go. This Dorothy probably decided there’s no place like home. Meanwhile, I get stuck with an open case file when it should have been put to bed right away. Well, the old man’s always had it in for me. And now this.”
“Yeah. A real mess, huh?”
“I guess I’ve seen worse but I’d have to think about it. So you and your partner there…”
“Pinkham.” McCullough spared a glance at his partner, who declined to make eye contact. He looked like it was taking every ounce of effort he possessed not to explode.
“Right. You were around front of the building when Antonio Marconi—excuse me, Tony Marko—and one of those fat fucks he pays to watch his ass pulled up in front and asked to access the building.”
“That is correct.”
“A request you and Officer Pinkham declined.”
“Of course. He said he’d left a piece of personal property inside. We told him to take it on the arches in not so polite terms.”
“And how did he respond to that request?”
“Not well. Mr. Marko informed me that he had friends in high places who would see to it that I spend the rest of my law enforcement career handing out parking tickets.”
“Unfortunately, some truth to that.”
“I figured as much. But I didn’t become a cop to do the bidding of gangsters. If the people in charge don’t like it, well, I guess I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“We need more with that attitude, McCullough.” Higgins glanced over at Pinkham, whose hands were clenched into tight, reddening fists. “So after making these statements, did Mr. Marko and his goon take their leave?”
“We thought so. But clearly they pulled around the block, entered through the alley, and proceeded to gain forced entry through this back door.” McCullough indicated the service entrance, which stood partway open. The lock assembly hung loosely from the splintered doorjamb. The door had been forced by a crowbar. McCullough knew this because he’d forced it himself after the Mullens blew up the Bentley but before the firefighters arrived on the scene.
“Right,” said Higgins. “So we can assume Mr. Marko and his associate gained entry, either did or did not retrieve the piece of personal property—given what’s left of the car, we’ll probably never know—and got back into the vehicle. But they never made it out of the alley.”
“All I know, Pinkham and I are standing out front drinking our coffee, counting the minutes until this guard-the-henhouse detail wraps, you don’t mind my saying, and all the sudden we hear this enormous explosion. We run around back here and there’s an inferno like you wouldn’t believe—hell on earth. Ain’t that right, Pink?”
Pinkham offered a tight nod and gritted te
eth.
“It’s odd,” said Higgins. “I mean, first thing that comes to mind, this is a Mullen job. They’ve had a beef with Marko, and Guinness bottle bombs are their specialty. We may never prove it and personally I could give two shits if the micks and mooks want to blow each other up, long as no innocent bystanders get hurt. But it does puzzle me a little bit.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, let’s say it was the Mullens. How did they happen to know Marko was going to pick tonight to retrieve his personal property? It’s almost like they were tipped.” Higgins sneaked another look at Pinkham, who was studiously examining his shoes.
“I dunno,” said McCullough. “Maybe Marko was set up. Maybe the Mullens sent someone to let him know he better get whatever needed getting out of this here building tonight. Like it might not be here tomorrow.”
“It’s possible. Actually, that’s a pretty good guess. I tell you what, Officer McCullough, you may have a mind for this kind of work. I don’t see you guarding this empty building for much longer. Bigger and better things in your future.”
McCullough smiled. Pinkham did not.
***
By morning, word was out. The bodies would never be positively identified—there wasn’t enough left to identify—but the circumstantial evidence could hardly be refuted. Marko was dead. And that was bad news for Violet, who had spent the entire night in the office at the Prince Street Social Club waiting for the boss to return and make her rich. By the time she saw the first rays of dawn through the office window, she was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. Something had gone wrong.
The way Joey saw it, it was simple. Whore shows up at the social club, tells the boss something that gets him up off his ass for the first time in weeks. Boss never comes back. Boss was set up by whore. Whore has to die.
The sausage grinder threat had been a hollow one. Who would want to contaminate a perfectly good sausage grinder with the body of a lowlife whore? No, Joey had other ideas. Shortly after 7 a.m., he entered the office.
Violet stood. “Finally. I’ve been here all night, no one has talked to me—”
“Easy, lady. You hungry? Want some breakfast? Coffee?”
“No, I just…where is Mr. Marko? We made a deal.”
“Yeah, about that. See, I think that deal is off the table. Mr. Marko, he never came back from where you sent him. Matter of fact, way it looks to me, he was set up to never come back. Would you know anything about that?”
Violet’s heart caught in her throat. “Of course not. Why? What happened?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. Your worries are over.”
“Whatever this is, I swear, I didn’t have anything to do with it. You can ask…” She trailed off.
“I can ask who?”
Violet had no answer for that.
“That’s what I thought. Now, I don’t know if you pulled this stunt to get in good with the Mullens, or you were with them all along, but it really doesn’t matter. Whatever they may have promised you, you’re never going to get it.”
“No! I don’t know the Mullens! This has nothing to do—”
“Save it for St. Peter, if that’s the way you go. You’ll know pretty soon. Let me explain exactly what’s going to happen. I have a very sharp knife I use only on special occasions. It was a gift from a butcher down on Salem Street. I love this knife. I’m gonna take this knife and I’m gonna start cutting things off you. Fingers. Toes. Ears. There’s gonna be a lot of screaming—from you, not from me—so we’re gonna do this down in the cellar. I’ve already got plastic laid out because it’s going to be messy. When I’m done, when there’s nothing left of you bigger than a ribeye from Rossi’s, I’m gonna keep a souvenir. You have nice eyes, so I’m thinking an eyeball.”
Violet wanted to scream but nothing would come. That didn’t last. Joey did exactly what he said he’d do. When he was done, there was no one left on earth who knew where Vermeer’s The Concert could be found.
He kept the eyeball for about a week. One night while having drinks with Frankie Pot Roast at the social club, Joey slipped it into his friend’s glass. “Oh! Frankie! There’s an eyeball in your highball!” They both had a good laugh over that one.
OCTOBER 24, 1986
I was about to knock on the door to #311 when I decided it might be a good idea to prepare Shane for what was about to happen.
“I should tell you, Mrs. Coolidge is a little out there.”
“Meaning what?”
“She’s kind of mixed up. Like she thinks the CIA is after her, you know. She might be schizophrenic or something. But she’s been here a long time, she knows a lot about the building, she’s seen ’em come and go. If we can keep her focused, there’s a chance she could help us out.”
“I dunno, kid. Sounds kinda like a waste of my time, and I don’t have time to waste.”
“I understand that, but we’ve come this far, put in all this time and effort. We shouldn’t give up on the paintings until we’ve exhausted every resource.”
“Fine. Let’s talk to your crazy friend.”
I nodded and knocked on the door. As before, a long moment passed before the door opened a few inches and suspicious eyes peered at me from behind the chain lock.
“Hi, Mrs. Coolidge. It’s Tommy Donnelly.”
“I can see that.”
“I brought a friend with me, he’d love to meet you.”
“Is he a sex maniac?’
“Not at all.”
“That’s too bad.” She closed the door. I could hear her unlatching the chain.
“I think she was joking,” I said.
“I picked up on that, kid. Thanks.”
The door opened and she motioned us in. Shane’s demeanor perked up at the sight of the boxes forming a narrow path from her doorway to her cramped living quarters.
“Whatcha got in all these boxes?” he asked.
“Why would I share such personal information when we haven’t even been introduced?”
“This is Shane Devlin,” I said. “Do you recognize the name?”
“Some reason I should?” She gestured to her threadbare orange couch. I stepped aside and let Shane deal with the springs digging into his rear end.
“No reason,” he said. “I used to hang around here some, but it was before your time.”
“You don’t look like a cop to me.”
“I’m not a cop. Where’d you get that idea?”
“You look like you just escaped from prison.”
“You’re not far off, lady.”
“Mrs. Coolidge.”
“Mrs. Coolidge. So now that we’re introduced, you feel like telling me what’s in all these boxes?”
“Books. All full of books and I’ve read them all.”
“Just books, huh? Nothing else?”
“Why? You think I keep my sexy underwear in there?”
“That doesn’t really interest me. I’m interested in something I left behind in this building. About forty years back.”
“A dead body? They cleared them all out a long time ago.”
“What else did they clear out of here?”
“Evidence. The secret files. The film cans.”
“Evidence of what?”
“The conspiracy, of course. See, it all started when this place was built in—”
“Mrs. Coolidge!” I shouted louder than I’d planned, but I had little interest in letting her get sidetracked on one of her wild tangents. “That’s not what we’re looking for.”
“Well, what are you looking for? King Tut’s tomb?”
“Close,” said Shane. “Some nice paintings I had to leave here back when I had to go away from a while. Did you ever hear anything about those?”
“Oh, sure. They came for those a long time ago, too.”
“Who came for them?”
“That’s classified.”
Shane rolled his eyes. Clearly he wasn’t planning to spend a lot more time humoring Mrs. Coo
lidge.
“It’s okay, Mrs. C,” I said. “He’s got clearance. I checked him out myself.”
She eyed him skeptically. “That true?”
“Yeah, of course,” he said. “I’ve got all the clearances.”
“I’d ask you the password but they change it every day.”
“Yeah. It’s a real pain in the ass. So tell me: Who came for the paintings?”
“The Kennedys, of course. That’s what it was all about. The Mob stole the paintings. The Kennedys got ’em back. They blew up the Mafia don right back here.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the Pit and the alley beyond. “You can look it up. Oswald was a patsy. Sirhan Sirhan, too. It was Mob retaliation. The paintings are still hanging in the White House, but only five people know where to find them. The second Richard Nixon tried to burn them but he got caught. That’s why he had to resign. Watergate was a distraction.”
Shane smiled and leaned forward. “That’s all very interesting, Mrs. Coolidge. I wonder if you can think of one reason I shouldn’t take one of these useless couch cushions and smother you to death with it?”
“Excuse me?”
I managed a nervous laugh. “He’s just joking, Mrs. C.”
“I’ve heard worse threats from better men.”
“I think we should be going. Shane?”
He stood, looming over Mrs. Coolidge, smiling with no mirth. “Yeah. I think we should.”
I shrugged apologetically at Mrs. Coolidge as Shane stepped past her, back into her self-made corridor of boxes. I followed him to the door and out into the hallway.
“You trying to make a jerk of me, kid?”
“No, of course not. Listen, I warned you—”
“Then why did you waste my time?”
“I—I genuinely thought she might have some real information. I knew there would be some gibberish, but I thought there might be some truth, too.”
“Oh, there was some truth. There was a Mafia don got his ass blown up in that alley.”
“What? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Why would I have?”
“Well, what happened? Did he know about the paintings?”
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