by Ann Hood
“Exactly what did they steal, professor?”
“That was a puzzler,” Val said. “Most of the value was in two large oils, Vermeer’s The Concert and Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, but they also took several lesser pieces including the ku, five drawings by Degas, and a finial that once stood atop a flag carried by Napoleon’s army.”
“Why a puzzler?”
“Because they passed up dozens of priceless paintings—masterpieces by Raphael, Rubens, Michelangelo, Botticelli—many of them small and easily portable.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Either the thieves were rank amateurs or they were working from a shopping list supplied by an interested buyer.”
“Your best guess?”
“Amateurs.”
“Why?”
“Because they cut several paintings from their frames, damaging the edges. A professional art thief would have known better.”
“Let’s say they were amateurs,” the fat man said. “Let’s suppose that until they read about the robbery in the newspapers, they had only a vague idea of what they had. Only then did these two jerkoffs figure out the loot was so famous that it would be next to impossible to find anyone crazy enough to buy it.”
“Okay,” Val said.
“Let’s also suppose they found out from the newspapers that the art was going to fall apart unless it was stored someplace with temperature and humidity controls. What do you think they’d do next?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m betting they’d turn to someone they could trust,” the fat man said. “Someone who had a way to keep the art safe and hidden until such time as it could be returned.”
“Makes sense,” Val said. “Are you saying that time is now?”
“Let’s suppose I am.”
“Why?”
“Because the thieves can no longer be charged with the theft. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“Why not just give everything back, then?”
“Because anyone holding it can still be charged with possession of stolen goods.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“There’s also the matter of the five million dollars the museum has offered for their return.”
Val raised an eyebrow.
“What I propose, Professor Sciarra, is that you serve as a go-between to get the art back where it came from. Do this service for me and 10 percent of the reward money is yours.”
Val flashed on what five hundred thousand dollars could buy. A luxury condo on the East Side. A new Ford Mustang to replace his aging Toyota Celica. The freedom to tell Higgerson to fuck off.
“Why me?” Val asked.
“Because you know the art world and the people in it, because you have experience with this kind of thing, and because I have always had the utmost respect for your family. As a Sciarra, you understand why we need to keep the authorities out of it.”
“I see. May I examine the rest of merchandise, then?”
“What for?”
“So I can satisfy myself that you have it and that it’s still in good condition.”
“Well, it’s not here,” the fat man said. “I suppose I could arrange a viewing . . .” He paused to think it over. “But it would be hard to set up, and I don’t see the need for it. Just take my word that I can deliver.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thanks for coming, professor. I’ll get back in touch in two weeks.”
The fat man rose and extended his hand. Val pulled himself from his chair and shook it to seal the deal. In the silence, he heard the faint clanging of a bell. It sounded like the one at Grace Episcopal. He glanced at his watch and saw that it had struck three minutes before the hour. Yes, he thought. He was still in Providence.
Moments later, as he was being tugged blindly out the front door, he heard the click of high heels on the sidewalk.
A woman’s voice: “Hungry yet?”
A man’s voice: “Famished. Let’s walk down the block to Andino’s.”
He wasn’t just in Providence, then. He was on Federal Hill.
* * *
That evening, after a blind, hour-long ride back to Brown, Val drove home, fired up his laptop, and scrolled through the Providence Dispatch archives. Forty minutes later, he stumbled on a three-year-old article about the arrest of Domenic Carrozza, fifty-two, of Providence, on suspicion of conspiracy to extort protection money from the city’s strip clubs. The story identified him as a capo in the Patriarca crime family, still called that even though Patriarca himself was long dead and buried. The story was accompanied by a photograph of a man being led away in handcuffs from an impressive Victorian condominium building on Slocum Street in Federal Hill. It was the fat man. A little more research showed that he’d beaten the charge, and that he was still living in the same condo.
Val bookmarked the stories, logged off, and then said, “Shit!” Too late, he realized he was better off not knowing any of this if he should ever be questioned by the authorities.
* * *
Val drove to the Fenway section of Boston three days later for a meeting at the Gardner. The museum’s security director, a former Secret Service agent named Percy Twisdale, walked him past the two huge, empty frames where the Rembrandt and the Vermeer once hung and then led him to a spacious meeting room.
“Have you had an opportunity to examine the stolen art?”
“I was shown only the Shang Dynasty ku.”
“And you believe it to be genuine?”
“I’m not an expert in that field, but it appeared to be, yes.”
“May I ask the circumstances under which you examined it?”
Val ran it down for him: the mysterious phone call, the muscle, the hood pulled over his head, and the long drive to an undisclosed location, leaving out the fact that he had a good idea where he’d been taken.
“I see. And what of the other treasures?”
“I have been assured that they have been properly stored and remain in good condition.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“I don’t. I’ve merely been asked to serve as a middleman to negotiate their return.”
“And to secure the reward for the people you represent?”
“That is correct.”
“And have you been promised a share of the reward?”
“A small one, yes—and the satisfaction of seeing the masterpieces returned.”
“Why the cloak-and-dagger? Why haven’t these people contacted us themselves?”
“They’re worried that they could still be charged with possession of stolen goods.”
“I see. You will forgive me if I am skeptical of your story. We have had quite a number of false leads over the last twenty-three years.”
“I’ve read about that, yes.”
Twisdale gave him a hard look and drummed his fingers on the table. “If you can indeed procure the works, they will all have to be returned to us and examined by our experts to verify their condition and authenticity before the reward can be paid.”
“I understand.”
“So how do you suggest we proceed?”
“I’ve been told that I will be contacted sometime next week. At that time, I’ll explain your requirements and do my best to make the appropriate arrangements.”
Appropriate arrangements? Jesus. He was starting to sound like Charles.
* * *
Two mornings later, Val startled awake. Someone was hammering on his door. He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was just after six a.m.
He got up, pulled on a Dustin Pedroia Red Sox T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and padded barefoot to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw a frowning face topped by a baseball cap. He unlatched the security chain, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door.
“Valerio Sciarra?”
“Yes.”
“FBI.”
“I gathered that from the letters on your hat.”
“
We have a warrant to search the premises.”
The frowning man shoved a sheet of paper at Val, elbowed him aside, and walked in, followed by three more men wearing the same hat.
“Sit on the floor against the wall, please, and keep out of our way.”
Val did as he was told and watched the four agents tear the little studio apartment apart. They pulled books from shelves, dumped bureau drawers onto the floor, dug through his clothes closet, rifled through his kitchen cabinets, rummaged through his Frigidare, and even peered into the grease-caked oven.
When they were done, the agents gathered what they seemed to think was evidence—stacks of articles about art theft, Val’s laptop computer, and his properly registered firearms, a .380 Taurus ACP and a .50-caliber AE Desert Eagle. Two of them lugged the stuff out to the car. The other two pulled Val to his feet.
“We need you to come with us,” the one who seemed to be in charge said.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, but our superiors would like you to answer some questions.”
Val considered refusing, but that would make it look like he’d done something wrong. Instead, he was driven to the FBI’s satellite office on Dorrance Street, taken to a small interrogation room, seated in a straight-backed metal chair, and left alone to stew for two hours.
He was thinking about walking out when the door swung open and two men he hadn’t seen before strode in.
“I’m Special Agent Alex Burns of the Boston bureau of the FBI,” said the tall one in the pearl-gray suit. “And this,” he gestured toward the shorter one in a charcoal suit, “is Special Agent Francis Hanrahan of our Providence office.”
Burns took the chair across a metal table from Val and placed a leather briefcase on it. Hanrahan remained standing, his body tense as if ready for trouble. Neither offered to shake hands.
“So then,” Agent Burns said, “why don’t you begin by telling me why a Brown University art history professor feels the need to be heavily armed?”
“Heavily armed? It’s only two handguns.”
“True, but the Desert Eagle has enough stopping power to drop an elephant.”
“I’m ex-military. I like firearms.”
The agent snapped open the briefcase, removed a file folder, and shuffled through the papers inside. “Six years in the army, 75th Ranger Regiment, three tours of duty in Afghanistan.”
“That’s correct.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And you like firearms?”
“I just said that.”
“Where did you get the Desert Eagle?”
“Proline Firearms in Warwick.”
“It would have set you back nearly two grand. Isn’t that an extravagant expense for someone living on an assistant professor’s salary?”
“Brown pays well enough for me to afford it.”
Burns consulted the file again and said, “Huh. Eighty-two thousand a year. So why do you live in a rundown Federal Hill tenement?”
“I’m saving my money in case I don’t get tenured.”
“Seems odd that you’d splurge on a gun.”
“Not to me.”
“Okay, then. I see from your blog that you are an expert in stolen art.”
“It’s an interest of mine, yes.”
“In fact, last summer you assisted in the recovery of two stolen paintings, is that right?”
“It is.”
“Can you tell me how you were able to do that?”
“The Association for Research into Crimes Against Art, a group that I’m associated with, received a tip that the paintings were hanging in a private home near San Francisco.”
“Where did the tip come from?”
“It was anonymous.”
“I see. So what happened next?”
“I flew to San Francisco and met with the homeowner, who told me he had acquired the paintings in a private sale and had no idea that they’d been stolen.”
“You believed him?”
“They were not particularly important works, so his story was plausible.”
“And then?”
“I arranged for him and his lawyer to meet with representatives of the museum to negotiate the return of the paintings.”
“Were you compensated for your role in this?”
“I was not.”
“I understand that the thieves were never apprehended.”
“That’s true. The names on the sales agreement proved to be phony, and there were no other leads.”
“So now, less than a year later, you are attempting to negotiate the return of the masterpieces stolen from the Gardner Museum.”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Did you get another anonymous tip?” the agent asked, ignoring Val’s question.
So he again described the mysterious phone call, the long drive with a hood over his head, and the meeting with a man he didn’t know—although he figured the agent must have already heard all this from the Gardner’s security director.
“Did you recognize the man?”
“No.”
“Are you aware that lying to an FBI agent is a felony?”
“I am.”
“So I’ll ask you again: did you recognize the man?”
“I did not.” It was not a lie because Val didn’t figure out who the fat man was until later.
“And where did this meeting take place?”
“As I already told you, I wasn’t allowed to take the hood off until they brought me inside.” Another evasion, but still not a lie.
“Did you look out the windows?”
“They were covered.”
“Describe the room to me.”
Val did so.
“Describe the man.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Would you be willing to look at some mug shots?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I identify him, and you pick him up, I won’t be able to negotiate the return of the masterpieces. They could be lost to the world forever.”
“Did this man you claim you didn’t recognize show you the stolen art?”
“Only the Chinese ku. I didn’t see any of the paintings or drawings.”
“Was the ku genuine?”
“I think so, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Do you know where the stolen art is being kept?”
“No.”
“Have you been promised a share of the reward money?”
“A small one, yes.”
“How small?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“So you have a financial incentive to obstruct this investigation.”
Val didn’t respond to that.
The agent shuffled through the file again. “The FBI has reason to believe that New England organized crime figures were involved in the Gardner heist.”
“I read that in the newspapers.”
“Your family, the Sciarras, have a history of involvement in organized crime.”
“Just my late uncle Rudy,” Val said.
“And your father.”
“My father? That’s not true.”
“He has a record of multiple bookmaking arrests.”
“Oh, right. I heard something about that. It was when he was young, before he had us kids. After that he got out of it.”
“Or maybe he just got better at concealing his illegal activities.”
“My dad was a bus driver, for godsakes.” With that, Val pushed back from the table and got to his feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Burns said.
“To work, but I’d like my firearms back first.”
“Not until we run ballistics tests.”
“What for?”
“To assure ourselves that they haven’t been fired at any crime scenes. It’s routine.”
Val headed for the door.
Hanrahan blocked it. “One last que
stion,” he said, breaking his long silence. “You claim you didn’t recognize the man when you met with him, but do you know who he is now?”
Val didn’t answer. He shouldered the agent aside and strode out the door.
* * *
The first thing Val noticed when he got to his office was that his desk drawers had been rifled through, the contents scattered on the floor. And his desktop computer was gone.
“The FBI was here, Val,” Charles said. “They had a search warrant, and they asked me a lot of questions about you. They talked to Higgerson too. What in heaven’s name have you gotten yourself into?”
Val didn’t reply at first. Instead he pawed through the debris and saw that his files on stolen art were gone. “What did they ask about?” he finally said.
“They were intensely interested in what you know about the Gardner Museum theft. I told them stolen art was a fascination of yours but that we hadn’t discussed it much. They also showed me a dozen mug shots and asked if I had observed you in the company of any of the people in them. I told them that I hadn’t.”
Val turned to leave.
“Val? Did you have something to do with it?”
“With what?”
“The Gardner robbery.”
“It was twenty-three years ago, Charles. I was twelve years old, for godsakes.”
“Where are you going?”
“My afternoon class starts in ten minutes.”
“Higgerson wants to speak with you.”
“He can wait.”
* * *
Thursday evening, Val was lying on his Salvation Army couch, drinking his third beer and watching the Red Sox–Rays game on his nineteen-inch flat screen, when his cell phone barked. He checked the number, didn’t recognize it, and answered it anyway.
“Professor Sciarra?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Mulligan. I’m a reporter for the Providence Dispatch. I’m working on a story about stolen art, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
“Not right now,” Val said. “I’ve got the Sox on, and Buchholz is about to take a no-hitter into the eighth.”
“No shit? Call you back later.”
Kelly Johnson, the Rays’ first hitter in the eighth, splintered his bat on Buchholz’s second pitch but managed to loft a fly that dropped for a cheap hit in shallow right field. Val threw his empty Budweiser can against the wall, and the cell barked again.