by Ace Atkins
As I ducked back behind the headstone, I heard the quick pop-pop-pop of an automatic pistol. Vinnie and his pals had joined the party.
It was down to two of DeMarco’s shooters. DeMarco yelled and emptied the magazine of his Glock. He fumbled for a spare magazine in his cargo shorts. He was bloody and drained of color. He couldn’t have hit the broadside of a tow truck.
“Motherfuckers,” DeMarco said. “Lousy motherfuckers.”
It was quiet for a moment. The grass was thick and green where I lay. The headstone was for Antoinette M., only daughter of Erastus J. and Mercy C. Williams. She’d died in 1858 at only sixteen. Right now, she was saving my ass. I touched the headstone and inched forward, squeezing off two shots at Zimmer.
He returned fire as the big gnome from my car duck-walked up to me. He had a fat stainless-steel Taurus in his hand. With two of his guys down, he looked at me wild-eyed for directions. I yelled for him to get down. As he opened his mouth to say something, a bullet caught him in his head and jacked him onto his back in the grass.
Ex-cops: 2. DeMarco: 0.
Jackie’s last guy had joined him under the large statue. He pressed Jackie’s tank top onto his boss’s neck, Jackie’s face completely white now, as he muttered and cursed, not making much sense. Spit flew from his lips, pointing at me, as if the ambush had been all my fault. If I hadn’t insulted him, he’d be dead by now. Gratitude.
Another shot from the rifle whizzed past the monument.
Then a rapid succession of three shots. The cemetery was still. Either Vinnie, probably Vinnie, or one of his crew had taken out Roebuck and his hunting rifle. Now Zimmer was somewhere back from the road, making his way to where DeMarco and his man huddled under the statue of the woman reading with her son. I wondered if anyone had read to Jackie as a kid. Probably not.
From where I lay between two old headstones and over the rolling hills, I could barely make out the Mystic River. Zimmer and Roebuck would’ve hiked in from the road, probably parked at the seaport and followed the shore to the cemetery wall. With his partner out, Zimmer would have to follow the same path to escape. But he’d have to pass through us first. Everything was very still and quiet. Wind cut in off the river and rattled the branches of a plum tree in full bloom, flowers fluttering to the ground.
I heard footsteps on the gravel and turned to see Zimmer edging around DeMarco’s SUV with a shotgun. Jackie’s boy reached for his gun as Zimmer leveled the shotgun at them both.
I shot Zimmer in the chest. He dropped hard and fast.
I walked over to where Zimmer lay. He had on a sensible pair of khakis and a black windbreaker over a T-shirt. His mirrored sunglasses lay cracked and broken off his head, a very ugly wound opening up on his chest.
I swallowed and let out a long breath, looking down at him.
Over the rolling hills, I saw Vinnie Morris wave from atop the mausoleum where Roebuck had set up shop. He waved his arm toward me, to let me know all was well. From back toward the entrance, two of Vinnie’s guys walked toward me. One was the fat guy from the bowling alley, now carrying a sawed-off shotgun. His normal Hawaiian shirt had been replaced with an XXL black T-shirt.
“Motherfucker,” DeMarco said to me, in a whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
His guy looked about eighteen, thin-faced and lean, in a white T-shirt streaked with Jackie’s blood. His hands shook in front of him.
“Get it together,” I said. “I’ll help you get Jackie into the car.”
“He’s hurt,” he said. “It looks bad.”
“Probably,” I said. “But he won’t want to stick around here.”
We both picked up DeMarco and walked him to the SUV, placing him into the backseat, with him still calling me unpleasant names. I took that to be a good sign.
I walked with Vinnie’s guy across the cemetery to the rolling hills where several mausoleums had been built into the earth, each of them with a locked gate before the door. Vinnie had taken a knee on the hill, standing over Roebuck. He said Roebuck was alive.
I scrambled up the hill. Roebuck was on his back. The front of his gray shirt was now mostly bright red. Vinnie had made no effort to administer medical help.
“He’s fucking gone,” Vinnie said. “And we need to go, too.”
“Hold on,” I said.
I knelt beside the rotund old cop. The black baseball cap had been knocked on the ground and his bald head shone with sweat.
“Where’s the painting?” I said.
Roebuck just stared at me, his bright blue eyes staring right up at me as if he was about to speak. His lips moved, but he made no sound except hard, raspy breaths.
“Jesus,” Vinnie said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
As I stood back up, I noticed a silvery glint in the man’s hand. I pried up his cold, chubby fingers and found a single key. Roebuck closed his eyes and then opened them. Along the gravel road doubling back to the entrance, Vinnie’s other guy pulled the car around. Vinnie was already halfway to the Cadillac.
“Where is it?” I said.
“Right here,” Roebuck said. “Down below.”
I took the bloody key and scrambled down to the narrow gravel path lined with mausoleums. Vinnie was yelling for me as I slipped the key into the lock and found it turned with a hard snick. I opened the gate and stepped inside the cold, airless room. It was much cooler under the earth than it was outside, and the air had a sweet, earthy smell. The morning light cut in from the doorway and spilled on the many names written into a marble wall. Only one of the crypts was open, a slot wide enough to fit a casket.
I didn’t have a flashlight and couldn’t see as I reached inside. I felt the cylindrical shape of a tube. I pulled it out and ran for the door. Somewhere in the distance, I head sirens. I ran to Vinnie’s Cadillac. The tube was as long as a rolled-up rug and had to lay between the front seats, extending all the way to the back.
Vinnie drove with me in the passenger seat and his two guys in the back, to where I’d parked Susan’s car.
“You think that’s it?” Vinnie said. “The fucking painting.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Be a shame if it was a poster of Donnie Osmond.”
“Fucking guys,” Vinnie said. “What was DeMarco thinking?”
“What he always does,” I said. “Nothing.”
“His guys dead?”
“Two of ’em,” I said. “Other drove him out.”
“How’s he?”
“He’ll make it.”
“What a shame.”
I got out and we switched the big tube to Susan’s car. I looked in my rearview for flashing lights the whole way back to Boston.
59
WELL DONE, SPENSER,” Marjorie Phillips Ward said.
“The incident in Mystic has been a great embarrassment to the Winthrop,” Topper said. “I think that should go on record before dispensing with any accolades to Mr. Spenser.”
“It could have been far worse.”
“Three men dead,” he said. “Including a former police officer. Two others were known members of organized crime.”
“Next time I’ll ask questions first and shoot later,” I said. “But you would have never seen the painting again.”
All three of us were seated across from each other in the Winthrop’s boardroom. Marj was dressed in black, with a green flowered scarf wrapped around her thick neck. Topper wore some kind of gray fringed poncho over a plaid shirt, his silver hair combed loose down his back.
“So much blood,” Marjorie said. “So much violence. I understand why the policemen were there. I have heard Mr. Roebuck’s hospital confession. But who were those two criminals? What did they have to do with the painting?”
“They belonged to the same group that stole the painting twenty years ago,” I said. “They believed they were entitled t
o the reward. I’ve explained it all to the police on multiple occasions.”
“Well,” Marjorie said. “They won’t see a nickel of it.”
Topper turned his round black glasses toward me. “Locke is dead,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“I was with him.”
Topper cleared his throat. He rested his hand on the edge of the boardroom desk, pursing his lips, staring at me.
“So he knew you’d recovered The Gentleman?” Marjorie said.
I nodded.
“Did it give him much comfort?” she said.
“As much as it could,” I said. “It was a very long night.”
She told me she was very sorry. Topper remained silent. He tapped at the screen of his cell phone, momentarily glancing up with boredom.
“His medical expenses will be paid,” she said.
I nodded.
“And all of yours as well,” she said. “But I would like to speak to you in private about the matter of the reward.”
I smiled. I leaned back in my seat and shifted my gaze to Topper and Marj.
“The matter isn’t as straightforward as you might expect,” Topper said. “It has yet to have a full inspection by our curators. And we have many legal issues to work out regarding the safe return.”
“I figured,” I said. “You’re not exactly a straightforward guy.”
“I don’t have time for such nonsense,” Topper said. “I have a meeting in less than an hour. The press will need to be notified, events explained, and the news of The Gentleman’s return celebrated. Give him the check for his expenses and send Spenser on his way. I would rather not have him involved. And he is not to speak to the press.”
I looked down at the cane in his hand. He noted my gaze on the silver handle, met my eyes, and then turned away.
Marjorie stood up and we walked out of the boardroom and the Winthrop offices and into the gallery. It was just after-hours and the lights shone on plants in the plaza and into the large hallways to the galleries. We bypassed the Red Room, where The Gentleman once hung, and rounded the marble staircase into the central garden and then down into the basement. She pushed through a series of metal doors with a security passkey until we entered a large space filled with racks loaded with paintings and sculptures. In the center of the room, The Gentleman in Black stood on a large easel, back in its gold frame. Paintbrushes and a magnifying headset sat on a nearby workbench.
She stood back to admire it, as we had when it had just been an empty gold frame. I had my hands in my pockets, waiting for her to tell me why my time hadn’t been worth the reward. I had never expected it, but I would have never refused it.
Marjorie reached over to turn some carefully placed lights onto the painting. And there he was, again, dignified and inquisitive in the stiff black cloak and frilly white shirt. The dark eyes stared down at Large Marj and me as he had to King Philip on down to Constance Winthrop. I felt a little satisfaction for a moment. But it passed. I didn’t have the same feeling I’d had at the warehouse with Alan Garner. Something was off.
“This isn’t the painting I saw.”
Marj gave a thin, sad smile. “And how can you be so sure?”
“The eyes,” I said. “They lack life.”
She wet her lips and crooked her head to examine The Gentleman. She turned to me and stared with a thin, forced smile and a small bit of new appreciation.
“Interesting,” Marj said. She turned and waddled toward the door. She straightened the silk scarf around her neck. “Your check is at the front desk, Spenser. Please turn out the lights and turn in your ID badge on your way out.”
60
YOU GOT TO BE SHITTING me,” Vinnie Morris said.
“I shit you not.”
“The painting is a fake and that fat broad doesn’t even care.”
“Haven’t you seen the news?” I said. “The art world is overjoyed. Marjorie Ward Phillips has been hailed as a hero before her retirement. Topper Townsend is planning a Spanish fiesta with all the tapas and sangria you can stomach.”
Vinnie and I stood across from each other at his bar atop the bowling alley. He hadn’t opened up for the night, and it was only us. Racks of clean glasses, cut-up limes and lemons, and fresh bottles of booze waited within Vinnie’s grasp.
“How far did you track Devon Murphy?” he said.
“Two days after Mystic, he boarded a plane for London,” I said. “From London, he flew into King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh.”
“Where the fuck is that?”
“Saudi Arabia.”
“Jesus Christ,” Vinnie said. “That little leprechaun tricked us all. DeMarco, those ex-cops. Even Alan Garner.”
“I doubt he tricked Alan Garner.”
“You think he killed him?” Vinnie said. “Because Garner knew he’d switched the painting?”
“Indeed I do.”
Vinnie nodded. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle. He uncorked the bottle and poured us both a healthy measure.
“Where’d you get this?” I said.
“Fell off a truck,” Vinnie said.
I drank some of the bourbon. It tasted much better than Fighting Cock or Old Crow.
“Heard anything about DeMarco?” I said.
“Yeah,” Vinnie said. “He’s convalescing down in Tampa. He claims he wasn’t even close to Mystic when that shit show went down. He told the cops that his two guys must’ve been working on a side job.”
“Stand-up guy.”
“Not many left.”
We clicked glasses.
“I got something for you,” he said. Vinnie reached into his pocket and dumped a handful of tickets out onto the bar. “Your reward. Free passes for bowling. I thought maybe you and Susan needed a night out or something. I know she gets tired of fancy restaurants and cocktails every other night.”
“What about shoes?” I said.
“Shoe rental is extra,” Vinnie said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Susan will be thrilled.”
He placed the bottle between us and turned on several neon signs against the wall. He flipped some knobs, and the speakers hummed to life as the CDs started to shuffle. He topped off the bourbon.
“You know, I don’t give a flying fuck about that painting,” he said. “It’s Murphy that bothers me. The guy tricks us, kills Alan, and then sells off that art for a million bucks.”
“Many, many millions.”
“I liked Alan,” Vinnie said, rolling the whiskey around in the glass. “He always treated me nice. He didn’t deserve what he got.”
“Murphy has to fly back sometime,” I said.
“I think you and me should be waiting on him when he gets back,” Vinnie said. “Ask him a few questions.”
“Yep,” I said. “Might let Belson know, too.”
The music cut on and began to play over the speakers. Vinnie tapped out a rhythm with the horns. Tony Bennett reached for the tree of life and picked him a plum. Vinnie hummed along with the music, staring out onto the expressway.
“‘The Best Is Yet to Come’?” I said.
Vinnie nodded. “You better believe it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Stephen Kurkjian for his outstanding book on the Gardner heist, Master Thieves. The book is by far the best on the subject and highly recommended. Also, thanks to Myles Connor, master art thief, for his time and patience in teaching me the tricks of the trade.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ace Atkins is the New York Times bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, the first two of which, The Ranger and The Lost Ones, were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel (he also has a third Edgar nomination for his short story, “Last Fair Deal Gone Down”). In addition, he is the author of
several New York Times bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times, a crime reporter for the Tampa Tribune, and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.
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