by Ace Atkins
“No,” I said. “He said he’s made peace with his enemies. He enjoys a nice cigar, drinking Barolo. Did you know he took one of those Perillo tours to the Old Country?”
“If I had to take a river cruise with a bunch of white hairs, I’d have to shoot myself.”
“I’ve followed the El Greco from the heist,” I said. “It went from DeMarco’s crew, into a hiding spot with Benny Barboza, and then into the hands of the Morelli brothers after Barboza’s demise.”
“And how the hell did Famous Ray end up with it?”
“As you know, Ray was Jimmy Morelli’s right-hand man,” I said. “Jimmy didn’t want to touch it. Says it’s bad luck, only it sounded much scarier in Italian. Famous Ray tried to fence it with a local crook named Devon Murphy. Murphy says they didn’t have any takers and Famous Ray skipped town with it when he got into cahoots with you guys.”
“I can’t lead you to Ray Russo,” Epstein said. “You’re a solid guy. I trust you. But putting you in direct contact with a man with a price on his head violates a few rules.”
“But you could get him the message?”
“The message being ‘Where’s the fucking painting?’” Epstein said.
“Exactly.”
“He won’t say.”
“I figured,” I said.
“And we can’t pressure him,” he said. “Our witnesses get our protection, do their thing, and then we start them off in a brand-new life. As far as most people are concerned, Ray Russo doesn’t exist anymore. The names of witnesses, particularly Mob witnesses, are a highly guarded secret within the Bureau.”
“I understand,” I said.
“But you still want me to slip him a message?”
“Yep.”
“Can you promise me that anything you learn would be between you and Famous Ray?” he said. “You can’t share a word, a hint, with Jimmy Morelli or any of his pets.”
“I do solemnly swear.”
“The Winthrop job,” Epstein said. “I can’t say I’m surprised it would circle back to Ray. He’s a real fast talker. I can ask the local office to send out one of Ray’s handlers, make an inquiry about the painting.”
“You know where to find me,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Epstein said. And hung up.
I stood up from the bench and Pearl trotted at my side. A detective’s best friend.
47
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Marjorie Ward Phillips invited me to breakfast at the Taj hotel. That I’d just worked out and happened to like the Taj perhaps played in my acceptance. I also wanted to see where the Winthrop stood if I recovered the painting, that being a long shot now that the last man standing had been given a new name and identity. We had a better chance of locating Jimmy Hoffa or D. B. Cooper.
“You’ve been treated rather poorly, Spenser,” she said, before we’d even been able to order. “I want to make things right with us.”
“Breakfast is a start.”
“Please,” she said. “Is it too early for a drink?”
I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock.
“Not from where I’m sitting,” I said.
We sat in the back of the café by a plate-glass window facing Newbury Street. She ordered us two Bloody Marys. I was surprised to have heard from her and even more surprised by her friendly demeanor. Her attitude and body language couldn’t have been more different from that on her visit to my office with Topper and Marston. She looked tired, drained of her posturing.
“We were so close,” she said. “Damn it.”
“I heard the paint chips checked out.”
“You can never be completely certain,” she said. “But yes.”
“Although your man Marston told me different.”
“He’s not my man,” she said. “That’s Topper’s hire and his problem. Right now he wants us to give part of the reward to some local hoodlum who claims he can steal the paintings back for us.”
“Jackie DeMarco.”
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“I know Jackie,” I said. “And he can’t get the painting back for you. He had nothing to do with Alan Garner and doesn’t know who has the painting now.”
She studied my face. “But you do?”
I didn’t answer. The waitress brought over two Bloody Marys. I looked forward to replenishing my vitamins. Henry had taken me through a long and somewhat arduous workout. I drank some and studied the menu.
“Can you get it?”
I shrugged.
“The reward is still in play.”
“I’m getting tired of hearing about the reward,” I said. “The museum has seemed to operate more with a stick than a carrot.”
“That’s Topper,” she said. “Not me.”
“It has been both.”
Marj pursed her mouth, nodded. Her grayish-blue eyes trained on me as I downed a healthy portion of the Bloody Mary.
“Is it your feelings?” she said. “Or your professional pride?”
“It’s more of an insult on my intelligence,” I said. “I want your word that Locke will be taken care of.”
“He isn’t well, you know?”
I nodded. The waitress sauntered up and I ordered two poached eggs over hash. I’d been getting the same thing since the Taj had been the Ritz. Now I had heard it was going to be called something else, but I’d still order the same.
“What do you know beyond what Mr. Marston has told us?”
“Everything,” I said.
“About the whereabouts of the Goya and the El Greco?”
“I’m close to the El Greco.”
“How close?”
“I know who ended up with the piece,” I said. “Now I have to find them.”
“And from your reputation, I know you are very good at finding things.”
“If I do, I’m sure they will expect a reward.”
“Naturally.”
“And Locke,” I said. “I want the exact terms as outlined by Miss Fiore.”
“I know she’s your attorney,” she said. “But she’s quite an unpleasant woman.”
“Only to those who are unpleasant to her.”
Marj stirred her drink, eyeing me. “This whole business with the board and Topper has really worn me down,” she said. “I’m afraid that if I don’t reclaim at least one of the paintings, they will fire me before I’m due to retire.”
“The board not showing commitment to their word?” I said. “I’m shocked.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “Now where has the person gone? When can you talk to them about terms to return The Gentleman? First those goddamn letters and then the cloak-and-dagger with Mr. Garner and then now this. I don’t really think my nerves can handle much more of this business.”
“Drink up,” I said, raising my glass.
Across Newbury Street, I watched a gray sedan pull to the curb, a man inside looking in the direction of the café. He wore a baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses. It was hard to see his face. If I excused myself from Marj, I might sneak up on him and get his new license plate. But he’d probably see me and drive off before I could cross the street. I continued to wait to see if he got out from behind the wheel.
“Spenser?” Marj said.
I nodded. My Bloody Mary was gone. My strength halfway returned.
“You are not all you appear.”
“Down deep, I’m really a Native American princess.”
“When I first met you, I thought you were a thuggish brute,” she said. “Just another thick-necked detective who thought art was nothing but a lot of nonsense.”
“And then you heard me sing.”
“Sadly, no,” she said. “That wasn’t it. I see how much you care about Locke, and finding what’s been stolen because you do what you’
ve promised. You understand the meaning and value of this art.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I also don’t scratch the furniture and am completely housebroken.”
“It’s more than that,” she said. “So many so-called men I meet are either like Topper with disdain for anything that isn’t gilded or grilling out sausages on game day.”
“I happen to be an aficionado of fine sausage.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “I’m trying to say you actually understand why art matters beyond just monetary value.”
Our food arrived. Large Marj and I barely spoke as we ate. As she reached down to cut into her eggs, she actually smiled at me. Over her shoulder, I watched the silver sedan pull away from the curb and drive away from Newbury toward Arlington. I watched it go.
“Is there something the matter?” Marj said.
“Not sure,” I said.
She stared at me, fork in midair, as if she didn’t understand me.
“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective,” I said.
48
AS THE FORMER HEAD of the BPD burglary squad, I was betting dinero to donuts that Bobby Wright might know something about an old fence like Ray Russo. I called ahead to Wright’s security company, and again he agreed to meet with me outside the Quincy Market.
It was late afternoon, nearly four o’clock, by the time I made it through the early traffic. Wright waited for me in the rotunda this time, leaning against a standing table and checking his iPhone. He had on jeans and a red golf shirt with the insignia of his company on the pocket. His lean black face lit up with a smile when he saw me.
We shook hands and walked into the Market, searching for a decent cup of coffee. The Market was still crowded and we had to weave ourselves through the tourists and office workers.
“You found that old painting yet?” Wright said.
“Getting close.”
“Don’t say that,” Wright said. “Not until you’ve got the goods in hand.”
“I am curious about a guy named Ray Russo.”
Wright laughed. “Damn,” he said. “Famous Ray is mixed up in all this shit? Should’ve known.”
“I heard besides driving Jimmy Morelli, he also was a fence.”
“Big-time fence,” Wright said. “Not a lot that Famous Ray didn’t sell out back of his shop in the North End. For a long time he stole restaurant equipment. He’d double deal, back and forth, slick as goose shit. He’d sell some new place all kinds of kitchen equipment and then two weeks later steal it back. He’d do the same to the next guy. And so on and so on.”
“I have it on solid authority that Ray ended up with the paintings from the Winthrop.”
“Ha,” Wright said. “That is a true fix, isn’t it? With Ray turning evidence for the Feds and then performing a disappearing act.”
“It definitely complicates matters.”
We walked over to the Starbucks counter and ordered two coffees. After we doctored our coffee with our preferred additives, we continued back into the Market. It had grown hot outside, and the Market, while crowded, was nice and cool.
“Any chance of you working with the Feds?” he said. “I’m sure they’d jump on taking the credit for someone else’s detective work.”
“Working on it,” I said. “But if Ray is settled into his new life and new identity, do you think he’d step forward for something like this?”
“Famous Ray may be not so famous now,” he said. “But he sure as hell will pay attention to any of that reward money.”
I nodded and drank some coffee. A woman walked past, holding a young girl in her arms and yelling at a young boy who’d dashed ahead to the cookie counter. He had his face pressed flat against the glass as his mother snatched him by the shirt. The smell of the warm cookies had proved too much.
“I don’t hold up much hope for the Feds,” I said. “I’d need to find someone outside the Morelli family who Ray trusted.”
“Someone who might know where he’s gone?”
“Exactly.”
Wright stopped cold and took a sip of coffee. He brushed off a little foam from his thin mustache and nodded in thought. “You talked to Fat Freddy yet?”
“Fat Freddy?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Con man, bookie. Feds know him. He’s probably the son of a bitch who roped Famous Ray into turning away from the family. Even if you don’t get shit from him, you should meet the guy. Last I heard he was keeping the book somewhere on Revere Beach. If anyone knows what happened to Famous Ray, it’d be Fat Freddy. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Freddy kind of stands out.”
Wright held his hands out from his stomach to demonstrate Freddy’s incredible girth. He told me a few details on what he knew about him and where I might find him.
“If Freddy is the conduit to Ray Russo, why doesn’t Jimmy Morelli shake him down?”
“Because I know something Jimmy Morelli doesn’t know,” Wright said. “Morelli actually thinks he can trust Fat Freddy. I, on the other hand, based on years of detective work, know Fat Freddy’s true nature. And where he places his true allegiance.”
“Money.”
“Loves that money,” Wright said. “And Famous Ray, too. I guess ol’ Ray picked the right time to skip town. You’re the second guy wanting to know about him this year.”
“Don’t tell me the other was British and smelled like Louis the sixteenth,” I said.
“Nope,” Wright said. “It was a state cop working an old homicide.”
“The Benny Barboza murder?”
“Yep,” he said. “That’s it. The guy was retired but said he liked to work his cold case file in his spare time. I thought that was pretty crazy. The last thing I wanted to do after I left the department was work a bunch of old cases. Especially if I wasn’t being paid for it.”
“Was the guy’s name Zimmer?”
“Yep,” he said. “That’s him. Had another dude with him. Sears?”
“Roebuck,” I said.
Wright laughed and we descended the stairs out of the Market and back into the early-evening heat. “Come to think of it, they asked me a few questions about the Winthrop job, too.”
“They thought Famous Ray might be connected to the paintings?”
“I can’t recall if they connected the job with Ray or Barboza,” he said. “But there was definitely talk about the Winthrop heist. They thought I might have heard something before I left the job.”
“That’s funny.”
“How’s that?”
“I met those guys a few days ago,” I said. “They acted surprised Barboza might’ve been connected to the theft and pretty much dismissed it.”
“Either they got bad memories,” Wright said. “Or they’re yanking your chain, Spenser.”
“My chain’s been yanked plenty on this case,” I said. “It’s getting a bit sore.”
“Can’t even trust a cop,” he said.
“I don’t like it,” I said.
“Watch your back, man,” Wright said. “Too much money riding on finding that lost art.”
“You think I can reason with Fat Freddy?”
“No one ever has,” he said. “But give it your best shot and let me know how it goes.”
49
THAT NIGHT, VINNIE AND I parked across from a dilapidated one-story cracker box on Ocean Avenue in Revere. The pinkish paint was molting and chain-link fence wrapping the diminutive property sagging off the posts. The house had been built high off a concrete block foundation that served as a small basement. There were two entryways, one under the front stairs and one at the top of the stairs. All along the step railing, someone had hung wet T-shirts and swim trunks. Two pairs of the swim trunks looked as if they might fit an Indian elephant.
“Fat Freddy won’t talk to you.”
“So I heard,” I said. “But I c
an be very persuasive.”
“Not in the way that a guy like Fat Freddy needs,” Vinnie said. “He’s used to people trying to get tough. The guy spent most of his life shaking down people who owed the Morellis money and then keeping the book when he got too fat.”
“So he hasn’t always been Fat Freddy?”
“No,” Vinnie said. “He’s always been fucking fat. It’s just now he’s too fucking fat to leave this shithole. He’s not a good guy. He’s done some very bad things.”
“I’m shocked.”
“No,” Vinnie said. “Really bad things. He’s into teen girls. That’s why he likes to be this close to the beach, so he can sit his fat ass in a deck chair and watch all young girls in their bikinis. He’s a real sicko. I heard he once exposed himself to a nun. Who does shit like that?”
It was also obvious Freddy wasn’t one for yardwork. The little grass he had spread out high and ragged. Several trash cans were left overflowing at the curb right under a No Parking/Tow Zone sign. A lone chair sat in the middle of a backyard cluttered with old a/c units, broken bicycles, and a rusty propane grill. There was a worn path between the lone chair and the back door. Only the storm door was closed and you could see into the kitchen.
“I made some calls,” Vinnie said. “Your cop is right. If anyone knows how to find Famous Ray, it’s Fat Freddy.”
“The cop I know said Jimmy Morelli doesn’t believe Freddy would hold back.”
“That’s true,” Vinnie said. “Fat Freddy is Jimmy’s little fat fucking cannoli. He’s always been his blind side. Just look how Freddy’s best buddy turned on the family. Jimmy shoulda seen it coming.”
“They should’ve put on a vaudeville act,” I said. “Fat Freddy and Famous Ray. They’d have really pulled ’em in.”
“Oh, the Morellis had an act,” Vinnie said. “Not much singing and dancing. Just a lot of bleeding and screaming.”
I looked into the side mirror and down the long stretch of Ocean Avenue. I turned back and looked at the house and the street beyond.