by David Hosp
“Do I have your word?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You have my word.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Lissa and Kozlowski got married a month later. The ceremony, such as it was, took place in City Hall, that great monument to Brutalism in the center of nine acres of cold brick and cement. Finn wondered whether Lissa and Koz had considered the symbolism. Probably not. Their minds weren’t drawn to such mischief in the way his was.
It was just the four of them. Finn served as best man and Sally as maid of honor. The officiant, a young woman who worked as an assistant clerk for the city, was a justice of the peace. She held a laminated card in front of her eyes and chopped through sterile questions with all the emotion of a telephone operator. As she ticked through the ceremony intended to bind the lives of the people before her, Finn couldn’t help hearing her voice as he had thousands of times before: “For English, press ‘one’ now; para espanol, apreiete ‘dos’ ahora.”
That was okay with Finn. In reality the Commonwealth had no power to tie Lissa and Koz together. That decision was theirs alone. Whether the union was blessed or consecrated or legally binding was bunting and little more. If they were solid together, the rest would take care of itself. If not, no piece of paper—not even one signed by an assistant clerk of the City of Boston—would do them any good.
When the questions had been read and the answers given, the woman said, “That’s it. If you got fifty dollars, you’re married.”
Kozlowski and Lissa looked at each other. Finn couldn’t tell whether they seemed different. “Do I kiss the bride?” Kozlowski asked.
The assistant clerk shrugged. “I guess. Long as you got the fifty dollars.”
Finn dug into his pocket and pulled out three twenties and handed them to her. “I got it,” he said. “You can keep the rest.”
The woman took the money and stamped two forms in triplicate. “You want the receipt?” she asked Finn.
He shook his head.
“Now?” Kozlowski asked.
“Yeah, now,” the woman replied.
Finn watched as Kozlowski and Lissa leaned into each other. They seemed awkward about the kiss, even after living together for nearly a year. Finn wondered whether everything had changed, and worried briefly that they might not make it. As soon as their lips touched, though, he could see both of them relax and they melded into each other, all tension gone.
The assistant clerk left before the kiss was over. “Congratulations,” Finn said.
“Thanks,” Lissa replied. They took the escalator up from the basement. The building’s interior made its facade look cozy. When they got to the main floor Lissa said, “Shit.” Looking at Sally, she corrected herself. “Shoot. I left the marriage license on the counter.” She looked at Finn. “Come back with me?”
“Sure,” Finn said. He looked at Sally. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be here.”
On the escalator down, Lissa said, “She seems to be doing okay.”
Finn nodded. “I think she is. She’s got her good days and her bad days. The good outweigh the bad at this point.”
“I’m glad,” Lissa said. “How are you doing?”
Kozlowski stood in City Hall’s cavernous lobby, waiting for Finn to return with his wife. My wife, he thought. The reality staggered him. He’d given up on the notion of marriage years ago. He’d figured he was past the point where anyone could fall in love for the first time. He’d been wrong.
The girl was there with him, standing a few feet away, looking at him. He tried to avoid her gaze, but found it difficult. He couldn’t figure out why she was staring. It took a minute before he realized he was smiling. “What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she said. “I didn’t know you smiled.”
“I don’t.”
“Me neither. You should do it more. The scar doesn’t look so bad.”
He grunted. After a moment, he said, “So, how are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Finn treating you okay? Making sure you get enough to eat?”
“He’s okay,” she said. “He doesn’t seem like a perv.”
“High praise.”
“I don’t mean it that way. I mean it’s good. It’s just weird.”
“What is?” he asked.
She thought about it. “I never had a normal life before. I’m not used to it.”
He looked her up and down. She was wearing a dress. Her feet were still covered in her heavy black boots, but it was the first time he’d seen her in anything other than sweats. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said.
“You think?”
He nodded. “I can usually tell. You keep the right people around you, you’ll do fine.”
She seemed to accept it. “You’re gonna be okay, too,” she said.
“You think?”
She nodded. “Just put the toilet seat down. Devon never caught on; I almost fell in a couple times. He said he was too old to change. Don’t be like that. Don’t be too old to change. You leave the seat up, you’ll lose her.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
She looked toward the escalator, and Kozlowski had the impression she was looking over to see whether Finn was coming back. He’d disagreed with Finn about taking her in while they figured out what to do. Now, though, he thought it had been good for her.
“I’m fine,” Finn said. Looking at Lissa, he could tell she was skeptical. “I’m serious.” No decisions had been made regarding Sally, but she was still staying with Finn. They both knew that the time was approaching when they would have to figure out something permanent.
She frowned. “It can’t go on like this, boss. You know that, right?”
“I know. Did I mention that you look great?” She did, too. As promised, she hadn’t worn white. She was a realist, not a romantic.
“That’s nice of you. I feel like shit.”
“Morning sickness ends after the first trimester, right?” he asked. “You must be there almost.”
“Almost. They say it’s different for everyone, though. And you’re changing the subject.”
“I am.”
“You can’t do it,” she said. “Not anymore. A kid isn’t like a girlfriend. You can’t string them along forever while you make up your mind. Kids can’t defend themselves the way we can.”
“Have you met Sally?”
“Oh, please, Finn. Can you even see the way she looks at you? You’re like her hero. She looks at you like a lucky kid looks at their father. She looks at you like maybe she’s gonna have someone in her life who’s gonna look after her. Take care of her. The way her parents should have. You need to recognize that. You need to see it and deal with it. Because if you let it go any further—if you let her get comfortable—and then you cut her loose… God help you.”
“I know,” Finn said. “I’m still trying to figure it out. I thought having her around would be a pain in the ass. I thought I’d hate it. Truth is, I don’t.”
“Great. Just realize what you’d be getting yourself into. Once you’re really in, there’s no going back.”
Finn nodded. “I’ll get it figured out.”
“Soon,” Lissa said. She looked at him for another moment as they headed back to Kozlowski and Sally. “Is there anything else bothering you?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “What else could be bothering me?” He wondered whether she would ask about the paintings. He wasn’t sure what he would say. She didn’t ask, though; she simply stepped up on tiptoe, pulled down on his shoulders, and kissed him on the forehead. He was grateful; he wouldn’t have enjoyed lying to her.
Chapter Forty-Three
He’d kept his word to her for a couple of weeks: he’d given up on the investigation into the stolen artwork. He tried to keep the promise longer, but the questions swirled in his mind. What he knew and what he suspected danced together seductively until he was obsessed. And so, on his own, at night, he would surf the Internet for every scra
p of additional information he could get—about the Gardner robbery and anyone who might have had anything to do with it. When that wasn’t enough, he tapped some of the other private investigators he sometimes used for jobs not worth Kozlowski’s time. He kept his obsession hidden from Lissa and Kozlowski.
On the Friday afternoon before the Fourth of July, a week after Lissa and Kozlowski got married, he pulled his notes together and went over them one final time. There was no way for him to avoid it anymore. With a heavy sigh, he placed the call. Then he walked outside, climbed into his car, and drove to the museum.
As he walked through the front door, he half expected alarms to go off and security guards to rush at him accusingly, as if he were the reason the paintings had been lost again. It didn’t happen, of course. The woman at the front desk didn’t even notice him as she took the twelve-dollar admission fee. There was a security guard walking by, and he glanced at Finn, nodded politely, and moved on.
Finn climbed the staircase slowly. The place didn’t feel the same as it had when he and Kozlowski first went there. The theft had been theoretical to him then. A myth. The events of twenty years earlier hadn’t affected his life yet. Now the robbery felt personal to him; it seemed an affront in the most intimate sense.
He turned the corner at the top of the stairs and headed down the hallway to the Dutch Room. There was no one there; the place was dead. The paintings on the wall seemed to mourn the empty frames that hung alongside them.
He walked over and stood in front of the spot where Vermeer’s The Concert had once hung. He’d never seen it for himself; he’d only seen photographs, but he’d watched documentaries where people wept in remembrance of its beauty. He wondered whether he would have felt the same way, or whether he would have passed by it without notice; perhaps even uttered some crass joke at the absurdity of the homage others paid it.
He stood there for a long while, losing all sense of time.
“It is difficult to let go, isn’t it?”
He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room, but recognized the voice. “It is,” he said.
“I understand. Perhaps better than anyone.”
Finn turned around. Sam Bass was sitting in the same chair where Finn and Kozlowski had first seen him, sleeping like the dead. He looked worse now. He’d lost more weight, and the sides of his tattered jacket hung from his shoulders like curtains from a rod. His skin was graying, and his eyes had receded even further into their sockets. “I read about you in the papers,” he said. “I’m sorry this didn’t turn out better.”
“Me too,” Finn said.
“I’d give almost anything to have the paintings back here, where they belong. Where people could enjoy them, marvel at them.”
“A little girl lost her father. She’d give anything to have him back, too.”
Bass nodded. “I read about her. She was the one you were trying to save, when you came here? I’m very sorry for her.”
“Her name is Sally,” Finn said. “She’s remarkable.”
“I’m sure she is.” The old man scratched at the thick layer of patchy gray stubble covering his chin. “Did you see them? The paintings? The papers said that they had disappeared again, but they said they were there in Charlestown all along. Did you see them before they vanished?”
Finn shook his head.
“Pity. You would have liked them. I can see you would have liked them.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose the police learned anything that might lead to their recovery.”
“Not really. Not that anyone is willing to discuss. I have my own theories.”
“Of course you do,” Bass said. “We all have our own theories.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to discuss mine with you,” Finn said. The man hesitated. Finn looked at his watch and saw that it was approaching five o’clock. “The museum closes soon. We could go someplace to sit and talk. I’ll buy you a drink.”
The old man studied Finn’s face. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I’d like that.”
They walked north, along the Fenway, and found a café a few blocks away on Brookline Street. The weather was fine, and they took a table outside. The waiter brought them a plate of bread and glasses of water. “Would you like a cocktail?” he asked.
“I’ll have a beer,” Finn said. “Anything on tap would be fine.” He looked at Bass. “You?”
“I have some health issues,” he said. “My doctor says I can no longer drink.”
“I’m sorry,” Finn said.
Bass looked up at the young waiter. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay if you have one.” As the waiter left, Bass closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. He looked even closer to death outside than he had in the darkened gallery of the museum, and Finn wondered how long it had been since the man had been out in the daylight. “Are you enjoying your youth, Mr. Finn?” he asked, his eyes still closed.
“I have my days.”
“Well, if I could offer you one piece of paltry advice, it would be to enjoy your youth. It passes quickly. Whatever it is you love, dedicate yourself to that. If you can do that faithfully, that is the key to happiness.”
Finn thought about it for a moment. “I’m still trying to figure out what I love.”
Bass laughed as though Finn had told one of the funniest jokes he’d ever heard. When his laughter died down, he said, “Give it some thought. I’m sure it will come to you.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward. “You said you wanted to discuss your theories about the paintings?”
“I did,” Finn said. “I…” The waiter brought their drinks. Finn sat back and let him put them down. Once he’d walked away, Finn began again, his voice lowered. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Paul Baxter.”
“Our illustrious director,” Bass said. He picked up his wine and held it under his nose, swirling it around as he inhaled deeply. “I can’t drink it anymore,” he said, “but I still enjoy the aroma of a decent chardonnay. What would you like to know about Baxter?”
“He started at the museum a month or so before the robbery?”
“That’s right.”
“What were his responsibilities at the time?”
Bass folded his hands in his lap. “He’s the director. He was in charge of the museum,” he said. “He had responsibility for the entire operation.”
“Yes, I know, but what does that encompass, exactly?”
Bass thought for a moment. “That encompasses everything. He had responsibility for the preservation of the place. He was in charge of maintaining the building, making sure the place ran smoothly, making sure everything was taken care of.”
“How about maintaining the art itself?”
“Of course,” Bass said. “He had people helping him, obviously, and there is a curator, but ultimately he was responsible for the preservation of all of the pieces in the museum.”
“And security?”
Bass nodded. “Security, too. After the theft, he oversaw a total overhaul of the security procedures and systems. He had new alarms installed and implemented new protocols for the security guards. In every way, he made sure that what happened that night could never happen again.”
“What about the finances? Was he in charge of those, as well?”
Bass shrugged. “The museum has a director of finances, but that person reports to the director. The financial health and sustenance of the place was ultimately Baxter’s responsibility.”
“That’s what I was guessing,” Finn said as Bass lifted his wine to his nose again.
“These are all pointed questions, Mr. Finn. Do you mind if I ask what they are all about? You don’t really think that Paul Baxter had anything to do with the robbery, do you?”
Finn shrugged. “It’s possible. The way I figure it, there are only a few people who could possibly have been involved—who could have helped to plan the robbery, and who could have also known where the paintings were hidden. Baxter’s one of the people at the top of that list.”
Finn shook his head. “Not at all.” He took a long drink from his beer. “Two of them were associates of Whitey Bulger’s. Mob guys. Vinny Murphy and Eddie Ballick. They were definitely involved in the robbery—they brought in Devon Malley to do the job. They partnered him up with a man named Liam Kilbranish.”
“The newspapers talked about the two of them,” Bass said. “They were killed, right?”
“That’s right,” Finn said. “Kilbranish was IRA. A hard-core case, and he came back to find the paintings. Speculation is that he wanted to start the troubles back up, but he needed money to do it. According to Devon, after the robbery, Bulger kept the paintings. He was supposed to get them to the IRA somehow, but he took off before that happened. Devon said Bulger told him that there were only three people who knew where the paintings were hidden. Bulger, Devon, and one other. The question is: who was the third? Because both Murphy and Ballick were in on the job from the start, it’s possible it could have been one of them.”
“But you don’t think so,” Bass observed.
“No, I don’t,” Finn said. “It’s pretty clear in the end that Bulger didn’t trust anyone in his organization. These two guys were fairly high up, and they had lots of other guys loyal to them. I don’t think Bulger would have risked giving them the chance to cross him. More importantly, Kilbranish killed them himself—tortured them—and if they’d known where the paintings were, he probably would have gotten it out of them.”
“You think?”
“He would have been very persuasive.”
“Who else, then?” Bass asked.
“There are two FBI agents who could possibly have been involved. They were both here in Boston at the time of the robbery, and they were both working on different aspects of the investigations into the Boston mob. So they could have developed the ties necessary. One of them, though, clearly didn’t know where the paintings were. I saw him the night everything went down, and he was out of his mind.”