by David Hosp
“Good. Get it planted, and keep an eye on them. Let me know if anything happens.” Porter hung up without waiting for a reply.
Hewitt looked at his phone. He had the distinct feeling that Porter viewed himself as fully in charge of the investigation now, and thought of Hewitt as nothing more than a glorified gofer. It hadn’t been that way at the start. Porter had come to Hewitt and asked a favor. He said he had a solid lead on the Gardner case, but needed to keep the investigation closed. He said there was a chance there was a breach in the Art Theft Program unit, and he wasn’t willing to risk losing the Gardner paintings over it. He even offered to share the credit for any success they had. Hewitt was beginning to get the impression that the amount of credit that would actually come his way would be minimal.
He picked up the cardboard cup of coffee he’d bought at noon and took a sip. The coffee was cold and stale, and he almost spat it out. He grimaced; he’d have thought by this time in his career he wouldn’t be sweating his balls off on a stakeout. Looking around, he spied a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. He needed to take a leak and get a new cup of coffee. Before he could do either of those things, though, he had a job to do.
He reached into the glove compartment and took out a small black box the size of a cigarette lighter. Turning it over on its side he flipped a switch, and checked to see that it was working. He opened the car door, got out, and walked up the street, toward where the giant Caprice was parked. When he got alongside the rear bumper he pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and let it slip out of his hand and drop to the curb. As he bent down to pick it up, he quickly slid the little black box under the car’s rear fender. He stood up and walked across the street toward the Dunkin’ Donuts.
Stone and Sanchez were in their unmarked car a block up the street from Devon’s apartment, facing west. “What do you think?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know anymore,” Sanchez replied. “What the hell are they doing in there?” It was nearing six in the evening, and they’d been at the apartment for close to an hour. Sanchez had one of the guards at the courthouse let him know when the hearing was over. They’d waited outside and followed Finn and Kozlowski from the courthouse.
“Maybe the paintings are in there,” Stone said. Sanchez couldn’t tell whether he was kidding.
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Can you imagine? Half a billion dollars’ worth of art in a shithole like that? Chances are the rats would have gotten to the paintings anyway. They’ll come out all full of holes. Hopefully it’s that shitty modern art and it won’t matter.”
“If the guy who did Murphy and Ballick finds these guys, everyone in there will come out full of holes,” Sanchez said. “Keep your eyes open.”
“Oh fuck,” Stone said.
“What is it?”
Stone pointed up the street past the apartment. It took a second for Sanchez to see what he was talking about. Then she saw him: a tall black man in a dark suit and sunglasses, heading toward them. “Hewitt,” Stone said. He stopped next to Kozlowski’s car and bent down to pick up something that had fallen out of his pocket. “GPS?”
“Gotta be.” They watched as Hewitt stood and crossed the street, headed into the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Shit,” she said.
“How the fuck did he get here?”
“He must have followed them too,” Sanchez said. “Goddammit.”
“What do we do now?” Stone asked.
She thought about it for a moment. “Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing,” she said. “I don’t think he’s seen us, and we know he’s gonna be tailing them from a distance using the GPS. As long as we follow him, we can keep up our surveillance of Finn and Malley, and at the same time we can get some idea of what the feds are up to.”
“You still don’t trust them, do you?” Stone asked.
She looked at him. “Never have, never will,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
No one in Devon’s apartment felt much like talking. Their only discussion concerned the plan to swap the paintings for Sally.
There wasn’t much to it, really. Calling it a plan at all might have been generous, but it was the best they could come up with on such short notice. Finn’s office was, they decided, the best place to make the exchange. It was the kind of a place where it would be quiet enough at night that people would mind their own business. At the same time, it was close enough to a decent neighborhood that if gunshots were fired, the police would be called quickly. That might make Kilbranish think twice about opening fire.
The call came in to Finn’s cell phone at six exactly. The phone was sitting out on an empty wine box that served as a coffee table, and the three of them were staring at it as if it were some supernatural charm. They all jumped when it rang. “He’s punctual,” Finn said. He picked his phone up and answered on the third ring. “Finn here,” he said.
“Mr. Finn, do you have an answer for me?” Kilbranish asked.
“I do,” Finn said. “We’ve got the paintings.”
He could hear Kilbranish’s breathing get heavier on the other end of the line. “So, Devon was planning on crossing me,” he said. “Devon made a mistake.”
“He did,” Finn said. “We’re gonna correct that mistake tonight, though.”
“Yes, we are. But if he crossed me once, he’ll do it again. How am I supposed to trust you?”
“You don’t have a choice,” Finn said. “If you want the paintings, you’ll trust us, Mr. Kilbranish.” He said the name with emphasis.
“Very good, Mr. Finn,” Kilbranish said after a moment. “You know who I am.”
“I do. I only tell you that because if anything goes wrong, I’ve written a letter that I’m giving to a colleague of mine. The police and the feds and Interpol will know who and where you are within hours. So things better not go wrong.”
“That’s all up to you. I want you to put the paintings in a car and send your client to meet me,” Kilbranish began.
“No deal,” Finn said. “We’ll do this our way.”
“You don’t dictate terms, Mr. Finn. I do. I have the girl.”
“And I have half a billion dollars of stolen art. Art that you’ve traveled across an ocean after two decades to find. You have a girl I met a few days ago. Her father didn’t even know her last year.” As Finn spoke, Devon’s face turned white, and he got up, reaching for the phone. Kozlowski pushed him back down onto the sofa. Devon struggled for a moment, but the detective put a hand on his mouth, pushing the back of his head deep into the cushions. Physically, Devon was no match for Kozlowski. “If you think you have all the leverage,” Finn said into the phone, “think again. We’ll do this, but only on our terms.”
Kilbranish didn’t answer immediately, and Finn feared he’d pushed too hard.
“When and where?” Kilbranish said at last.
“Ten o’clock,” Finn said. “My office in Charlestown. You know where it is? We’ll have the paintings. We make the exchange, then you leave.”
The breathing was still heavy. “Just two of you,” Kilbranish said. “No one else.”
“Just me and Devon,” Finn agreed.
“If you cross me,” Kilbranish said, “I’ll make sure you die. I kill for a living. I’ll kill everyone you know. You understand that?”
“I understand,” Finn said. “If this goes the way it’s supposed to, you won’t have to worry. You’ll have the paintings, and as long as we’re safe, no one will ever know what went down.”
“I’ll be there,” Kilbranish said. Then the line went dead. Finn closed the phone.
Kozlowski let go of Devon’s face. “What the fuck!” Devon screamed as he jumped off the sofa. “Don’t touch me again!”
“Then don’t jeopardize this plan again,” Kozlowski said quietly. “You do anything that puts me or Finn or your daughter in danger, and I’ll kill you if I have to.”
Devon looked at Finn. “Why did you say that? Why would you tell him no one cares what happens to
Sally? If he kills her, I swear to God, I’ll kill you both!”
“Calm down, Devon,” Finn said. “I had to say that. I had to make him think that he has less of an advantage than he really does. It’s the only way.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ agree to this!” Devon yelled. “I didn’t agree to lose control!”
A police car went by the apartment, its siren blaring and its flashers casting colorful shadows through the windows in the living room. They all looked out nervously, and no one said anything until it had passed.
“None of us are in control anymore,” Finn said. “The most we can do is to try and manage this the best we can. And I don’t give a shit what you agree to, Devon, this is about one thing now. Getting Sally back. That’s it. You do what you’re told, and we’ll all get out of this alive. Just remember, this guy won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your daughter. Keep that in mind.”
“What did he say?” Kozlowski asked. “Will he be there?”
“He’ll be there,” Finn said. “He said if anything goes wrong, he’ll kill us all.”
Kozlowski stood up and took a deep breath. “Then I guess we’d better make sure that nothing goes wrong.”
Kilbranish hung up the phone at the house in Quincy and went straight to the door that led down to the basement. He had to move quickly; he wasn’t waiting until ten o’clock.
As he moved down the steps, he caught the stench. Broadark’s body had been there for more than a day. The basement was cool, but not cool enough to prevent decomposition, and it was clear from the smell that the organic processes had begun in earnest. A few more hours and the smell would make its way upstairs. By the time the next person entered the house, the body would be found in short order. That was fine with him, though. He had the place rented for the rest of the month. By the time anyone else came in, he’d be long gone. With luck, he’d be fighting again.
She no longer turned toward him when he came down the stairs. For the first day she’d jumped every time the stairs creaked. No more. That was normal. He’d had enough experience in kidnapping to recognize the signs of acceptance. It happened to all of them eventually, and it made his job easier—not only in that it made her less likely to try to escape, but in that it made her seem less human. It was easier to kill them once their spirits had been broken.
He moved over toward her and sat on the crate near her. He nudged her in the head with the muzzle of his gun. “It’s time,” he said.
At that, she turned her head and looked at him. He could see the terror in her face, and he could read her thoughts. She was wondering whether he was going to kill her now. Good, he thought. It was right that she remain frightened.
“I’m going to cut the tape on your hands. I’m taking you to your father.”
He reached forward and pulled the tape off her mouth. She still winced when it pulled the skin off around her lips, but not nearly as much as she had the first time. He had to give her credit for that, at least; she was no princess.
She worked her mouth in circles, testing its coordination as he cut the tape away from her hands. “Are you letting me go?” she asked.
“That depends on your father,” Liam said. “If he and his lawyer do what they were told to do, I’ll let you go.”
“If not? If they don’t do what they were told to do? What happens to me then?”
He said nothing, and continued to work at the tape, cutting it away from her feet now. He didn’t have the time to deal with this sort of melodrama. She sat up and rubbed her wrists. The skin around them had been torn completely away now; he figured she’d been testing the strength of the restraints. The same was true of her ankles.
“Tell me,” she said. “What happens to me if my father fucks up?”
He pointed his gun at her, holding it inches from her forehead. “Then you die. If you or your father or the lawyer doesn’t do exactly what I want, then I’ll kill you without even thinking about it. Do you understand that?”
She nodded.
“Your life is in your father’s hands.”
He watched her as it sank in; watched her digest the information. For a moment there was a flicker of hope in them—just an inkling of the spirit he had seen in the first day or so. Then it vanished, and her eyes went flat again. He wondered why, but in the end it didn’t matter. It was no concern of his.
“We’ve got to get back to the office in Charlestown,” Kozlowski said. “If it’s just gonna be you and Devon, I need eyes in the place.”
“What are you gonna do?” Finn asked.
“Wire the place up with cameras,” Kozlowski said. “Every corner, every square foot of the office. Right down to the toilet. If this asshole takes a leak, I want to see what he’s got hidden in his pants.”
“How long will it take?”
“Half hour. Forty minutes, tops.”
“Okay,” Finn said. “Let’s get it done.”
They put Devon’s money back in the bag in the bathroom ceiling—they’d figure out what to do with that later—and headed back out to the car. The three of them piled in and Kozlowski pulled out, headed back to Charlestown.
Two minutes later a nondescript American-made sedan with federal plates pulled out, following the electronic tail attached to Kozlowski’s car. Another thirty seconds later an unmarked Lincoln spun a U-turn and fell in line, following the FBI.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Liam sat in the van up the street from the lawyer’s office at seven o’clock. Had he been sure the paintings were in the offices already, he’d have considered storming the place, but there was no way to know. Besides, it was still light out, and the area was busy enough that a full frontal assault would likely draw attention. Even if he couldn’t go in now, he wanted to make sure he knew exactly what was going on in the hours before the exchange—who was there, who was coming, who was going. And so he waited, and he watched. As he’d noted many times before, information was the most valuable commodity in his line of work; right now, he needed as much of it as he could get.
As near as he could determine, there were only three people inside the offices: the lawyer, his partner, and Devon Malley. At the sight of Malley, Liam felt the bile rise in his throat. All of his feelings of anger and betrayal now centered on this one man. Bulger had fled Boston before he’d been able to deliver the paintings. Murphy and Ballick—the only others who had been involved in the heist—were dead. That left only Malley as the object of Liam’s rage. The only logical conclusion was that Malley was selling the paintings for himself. Taking what rightfully belonged to Liam’s cause. Were it not for the chance to get the paintings back, and to provide the funds necessary to continue the struggles at home, he would have gotten out of the van and killed the man with his bare hands. It would have been satisfying, but it wouldn’t have accomplished the mission. He looked back into the van’s cargo hold. There were other ways to make sure his true revenge was taken.
She was in back, bound with tape again by both wrists and ankles, gagged and secured to the side of the van, covered with a swath of heavy canvas. He was being careful with her; she’d done all that he’d ordered, behaved as a pliable bitch, eager to please her master. But underneath, he sensed a deep well of determination that put him on edge. He would not take her cooperation for granted. As much as he hated the offspring of the man who had stolen from his great cause, he had respect for her strength. That respect, however, would not prevent him from making her the instrument of his revenge.
He turned back to watch the lawyer’s office again. The blinds were closed, and as the light faded outside, he could see loose shadows betraying movement inside. Something was happening. Perhaps they were moving the paintings into place; perhaps they were setting a trap for him. There was no way to know for sure, but he would find out somehow before he went in. He had more experience in these sorts of dangerous situations than just about anyone in the world. He would prevail.
As he sat there, his mind picked momentarily over a lifetime spent
at war. He knew no other way but hate, and if the hate died, he would cease to exist. He’d gone all in when he killed Broadark. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now; if he didn’t get the paintings back, he would be killed by his own, and the cause for which he’d given his life—for which the lives of his entire family had been taken—would die as well. Even if he managed to secure the paintings and get them back home, he might be killed. He’d gone that far over the edge. He could accept that, however, as long as the hope remained that the struggle would continue. As long as the battles raged, he felt that he and his family would live on in some small way.
He shook his head, bringing himself out of his ruminations. He needed a clear head to do the job ahead of him. He’d worry about the rest once his task was completed.
He looked back again at the canvas lump in the back. She hadn’t moved; hadn’t made a sound. That was good. She gave him the leverage he needed.
It took Kozlowski nearly forty-five minutes to get the office set up. He moved quickly, but with deliberation, making sure that all the tiny cameras in his arsenal were placed so that they were fully hidden, but still gave him maximum visibility. As he stalked his way about the office, Finn and Devon sat in the main office, fidgeting.
“What’s taking so long?” Devon asked. No one answered. “It’s fuckin’ pointless. You think he’s not gonna kill us all anyways?”
“Think happy thoughts. What makes you say that?” Finn asked.
Devon shrugged. “Just a feeling I have. He doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy who lets bygones be bygones. If he feels like somebody’s fucked him, he’s gonna even up the score.”
Kozlowski paused and looked around at Devon. “Thinking that way’ll get everyone killed. We go into this with our eyes wide open and one goal—getting your daughter back. You do what you’re told, and there’s a good chance that everyone’s walkin’ away from this. I’ll be watching it all go down from just out back. If I get the feeling that things are slipping away, I’ll be in here faster than you can believe.”