Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic

by Ace Atkins

  “JoJo and I had this big one for a while,” she said. “The scary-looking Spanish guy with the serious black eyes. Yeah, we had it. We hung it up at our place in Maine. He really loved that thing. He didn’t allow us to show it to everybody. It was a real special thing, like when he broke out the old Fabian records and the sambuca.”

  “Did you know it was stolen?”

  Angela laughed. She pulled together the silk top over her chest, where buttons couldn’t be buttoned.

  “Of course,” she said. “With those two brothers, not a lot wasn’t. But I didn’t know what it was, the connection to the museum, until I saw it in the papers a few years ago. When I asked JoJo about it, he told me to shut my freakin’ mouth and never mention it again. And being a good Italian wife, I didn’t.”

  The top buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned and offered a view of a lot of the enhanced cleavage. It was like trying to not stare into the sun.

  “Are you really a private eye?” she said, still playing with the apple in her hands. “Or just a crook?”

  I reached into my pocket and showed her my license.

  “Is that really real?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I traded ten box tops for it. Lucky Charms.”

  She smiled and set her bare feet to the ground. “So I can trust you?” she said. “As a real professional.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She touched her finger to her lips as if considering, and then patted my knee. I tried not to whinny and trot around the open field. “And you work for the museum?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean?” she said.

  “Right now I’m independent,” I said. “But if you help me recover the painting, it will go straight back to the Winthrop. You’ll be a hero.”

  “And the reward?” she said.

  “You’d get your fair share,” I said. “Although only one man has been able to produce the painting so far.”

  “Would he fight us for the money?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s dead. I was hoping you might explain what happened.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “Everyone gets dead with that painting. Did you know that? That’s why I wasn’t sad to see it leave. JoJo said the painting was bad luck. He said the guy before him died, too.”

  I placed the coffee cup back on the table. A brown horse had wandered up to the fence, staring at us as we spoke. I sincerely hoped he didn’t get involved with the Morelli brothers. The Mob and horses shared a bad history.

  “The police believe your late husband killed the previous owner.”

  “Huh,” Angela Morelli said, patting my knee again. She got up from the table and wandered up to the fence line. She offered a horse the apple in the palm of her hand. The horse took it.

  The sun was shining, a little steam rising off the edges of the pasture. The horse had finished the apple and was nudging her for more. I wondered if she might tell me more about her late husband’s business and the missing painting if I did the same. I followed her to the fence.

  “JoJo was a violent man,” she said. “He was raised that way, same as Jimmy. They did a lot of bad things. I know that.”

  “Did he ever tell you how he got the painting?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where it went?”

  We stood under a large sprawling elm. She walked up to me and placed a hand on my arm. She was a good deal shorter than me and had to crane her neck upward to look into my eyes. “I don’t know you,” she said. “Or if I can even trust you.”

  “Bonded and insured,” I said. “I also can perform one-armed push-ups and whistle while I work.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Don’t I look trustworthy?”

  “You look like a violent man, too.”

  “Not at all.” I shrugged. “I’m a real pussycat.”

  She smiled and took her hand off my arm. She walked back to the small patio and took a seat. I joined her and didn’t say a word, waiting for her to talk.

  “Are you married?” she said.

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “A shame,” she said. “All the good ones are either taken or dead. I loved JoJo. He took care of me and made sure I was taken care of after he was gone. I just want to make sure none of this comes back on his memory.”

  The sun slanted off the deck and across half of Angela Morelli’s face. She again brushed her bangs and looked right at me, squinting and pursing her lips.

  “I only want to find the painting,” I said. “The Morellis’ other business is separate.”

  “When JoJo got sick, he gave it to his brother for safekeeping,” she said. “He believed he was gonna beat everything and we would get it back. After he died, I asked Jimmy about it and he pretended like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Jimmy. What an asshole.”

  “You think he still has it?”

  “I was with JoJo up in Maine when he handed it over,” she said. “To one of Jimmy’s flunkies, Ray Russo. I drove with JoJo over to a Howard Johnson somewhere in Portland. JoJo had wrapped up the painting with packing blankets and duct tape. Ray had some kind of moving van. I watched him move it from the back of our Tahoe and into the van. I saw the whole thing. JoJo came back inside and ate a plate of fried clams and acted like it never happened.”

  “And the painting went to his brother?” I said.

  “Where else would it go?” she said. “JoJo and Jimmy. Thick as thieves.”

  “You think you might offer me an intro to Jimmy?”

  “After all the things he said to me at the funeral?” she said. “I’d rather eat glass than talk to that prick. Besides, he won’t talk about the painting.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s scared of it,” she said. “Thinks there’s too much blood on it.”

  “He may be right.”

  43

  I DROVE BACK DOWNTOWN to my office and worked through lunch on a detailed expense report for the Winthrop. Whether or not I found the painting, I expected to be paid. If the board didn’t agree, they could take it up with Rita Fiore. I knew several pit bulls with less tenacity.

  I had just closed the books and printed out the current invoice when Frank Belson and Captain Glass knocked on my door. I let them in and offered them a seat.

  “With what I have to say, I’d rather stand,” Glass said.

  “My client chairs are very comfy,” I said. “Ask Frank.”

  Belson wore a pained expression but took a seat anyway. He was disheveled as always, smelling strongly of cigars. Glass was in her ever-present pantsuit, black with a green blouse, and no-nonsense black shoes. She leaned against my file cabinet as I returned to my desk.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Spenser,” she said.

  “My girlfriend is a therapist,” I said. “She’ll help me deal with your disapproval.”

  Frank leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. I set my feet up on the edge of my desk.

  “You lied to us,” she said. “I can understand you lying to me. But lying to Lieutenant Belson? Haven’t you two been friends for a long time?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I touched up my hair. I thought it made me look younger.”

  “You didn’t tell us Alan Garner showed you the painting,” she said. “You told us about the incident in the Common, seeing him on surveillance and all that, but nothing about your midnight ride to Winchester.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I didn’t know it was Winchester. How did you know it was Winchester? I am genuinely impressed.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Belson said. “We were straight with you and we expected you to be straight with us.”

  “I have a certain obligation to my clients.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Glass said. “Who do you think told us about your adventur
e with Garner? He showed you The Gentleman in Black and gave you paint chips to prove it was authentic.”

  “I heard they didn’t check out,” I said. “So all of this doesn’t matter much.”

  Glass shoved my shoes off the table. “It matters a great deal to us,” she said. “It shows us that you were holding something back. You used to be a cop until you went into whatever business it is you do.”

  “That business that I do well.”

  I thought I saw Belson smile. It flickered on his face for a moment but then quickly disappeared. Glass moved back to the file cabinet and leaned against it with her shoulder. She let out a long sigh. Belson straightened up and rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I needed to see how it played out,” I said.

  “With Garner dead?” Glass said. “How the hell was that supposed to work?”

  “If it was known he had the painting, then the crazies would have really come out,” I said. “Do you broadcast all you know about an investigation?”

  Glass swallowed, eyes narrowing. She pointed a very long finger in my direction. “You don’t think this was a grand omission?” she said. “I’ve worked murders for junk that isn’t worth fifty bucks. How much is this goddamn painting worth?”

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty to seventy million,” I said. “If it were taken to a legitimate auction.”

  “And the fact that our victim had possession of this painting within twenty-four hours of his murder doesn’t mean something to you?” she said. “I thought you were a real hotshot.”

  I set my elbows on the desk and stared at her. “My ego bruises easily,” I said. “Please be delicate.”

  “We’ve been chasing our tails, Spenser,” Belson said. “For fuck’s sake. It took us most of the day to find out where Garner had taken you.”

  “Just for the hell of it, how did you find out?”

  Belson opened his mouth. But before he could answer, Glass said, “That’s none of your business,” she said. “We have our job and you have yours. Maybe if I peed standing up, you and I could exchange information at the urinal.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s how Frank and I met. We’ve done it so long, he doesn’t even splash on my foot anymore.”

  “Who said the paint chips didn’t check out?” Glass said.

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Perhaps I was misinformed.”

  “They checked out,” Belson said. “Same type of painting. Same era and some other kind of scientific shit.”

  “What you saw was legit,” Glass said. “Besides his boyfriend, you were the last person to see Alan Garner alive. And when you did, he just happened to show you a priceless painting. I’d say that makes you a pretty good suspect.”

  “Really?” I said. “You think I killed Garner and took the painting? Why didn’t I just go ahead and kill him when he showed it to me?”

  “Hell of a motive, Spenser,” Belson said. He grinned just a bit.

  “Best one we have,” Glass said.

  “Then arrest me,” I said.

  “Not yet,” Glass said. “Just what were you doing with Jackie DeMarco yesterday at his place in Southie?”

  I shook my head. I was really beginning to hate my lack of privacy these days. First Paul Marston and then Boston Police Homicide. I wondered if they’d been charting my bowel movements as well.

  “We’re old friends,” I said. “We shared a pizza. Had some laughs.”

  “You killed one of his guys two years ago,” Belson said. “He must’ve gotten all that straight with his priest. Forgiveness being his thing and all.”

  Glass walked up toward me and took a seat beside Belson. She crossed her legs and turned her chin to the side as her eyes wandered over me. I smiled back at her.

  “Did Garner represent DeMarco in this?” Glass said.

  “I can’t say,” I said.

  “Christ,” Belson said.

  “Did DeMarco’s old man steal the painting?” Glass said. “And all these years later, he’s wanting to cash in?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Damn it, Spenser,” Belson said. “What the fuck can you say?”

  “Pound for pound, Willie Pep may have been the best boxer in history,” I said. “And note for note, Ella Fitzgerald could outsing Caruso. And between you and me, I don’t think the Pats have a chance in hell of going back to the Super Bowl.”

  “It’s like that,” Glass said. “Right?”

  “Jackie DeMarco isn’t involved,” I said. “Although he’d really like to be.”

  “Bullshit,” Glass said. “You also went to go see Eddie Ciccone at Walpole last week. Ciccone was a known B-and-E man about the time of the Winthrop job and used to run with the DeMarcos.”

  “If I knew where to find that painting, it would be back on the second floor of the Winthrop,” I said.

  “Arrest him,” Glass said.

  “Captain,” he said. “Come on.”

  “Frank?” Glass said. “This isn’t a test. It’s a fucking order. When you got a dog that acts up, you slap him on the nose.”

  “Arf,” I said. I stood up and reached for my ball cap on the hat tree. “And what’s the charge?”

  Belson shook his head and held my door open wide. “I’m really not sure.”

  “Obstruction,” she said. “And for continually raising my blood pressure and pissing me off.”

  “Is that one new on the books?” I said.

  Belson nodded, reaching into his jacket for a half-finished cigar. He plucked it into the side of his mouth as he watched me lock up.

  “Can you hit the lights and siren on the way to headquarters?” I said, whispering to Belson as we moved down the steps.

  “Only if it makes you happy,” Belson said.

  44

  THE SIT-DOWN WITH BELSON and Glass was both long and unproductive.

  When Belson dropped me back at my office, I found Vinnie Morris waiting for me. He was parked outside the Restoration Hardware in the old Museum of Natural History and flicked his lights as Belson drove off. It was dusk and the downtown streets glowed with a soft, purplish light.

  I walked across Berkeley and leaned through his open passenger window. The sidewalks still radiated heat from the hot day.

  “You in trouble?” he said.

  “Cops wanted some crimestopper tips.”

  “You give ’em any?”

  “Just one,” I said. “Follow the money.”

  “Get in,” Vinnie said.

  “Where we going?” I said.

  “To follow the money.”

  We drove over to the North End, where Vinnie parked in front of the Daily Catch on Hanover. Jimmy Morelli’s smoke shop was a block over, on Prince Street. A wooden sign shaped like a cigar reading Amore hung outside. Vinnie walked in the front door and down into a basement. As we entered, the swell of smoke hovered at eye level. A lean old guy and two hefty men sat in a semicircle of leather recliners, watching ESPN. The two big guys fumbled to their feet when they saw Vinnie.

  Vinnie held up the flat of his hand. He opened his jacket to show his empty holster. The hefty men, one in a red tracksuit and the other in a baggy Ortiz jersey, turned to the old, slim guy. He had gray hair, a hangdog face, and a droopy gray mustache. Cigar in hand, he waved them back to their places and lifted his eyes to us.

  “Vinnie,” he said. “Been a long time.”

  “Jimmy,” Vinnie said.

  “Didn’t know you liked cigars,” he said.

  “I don’t,” Vinnie said. “They smell like dog turds to me. We came to talk.”

  Jimmy Morelli looked at me like I was a veal cutlet. I wasn’t sure whether to look tough or curtsy to an old Mafia boss. I decided to simply nod. Morelli placed a fat cigar back in his mouth.

  “Alone,�
� Vinnie said.

  Morelli snapped his fingers and Shamu and Free Willy got up to leave. Shamu wore his authentic Sox jersey loose over a wifebeater. Even with the loose material, I noted the bulge on his right hip.

  Jimmy kept staring at me, puffing on the big cigar. He finally broke into a smile. “I know you,” he said. “You’re fucking Spenser. Right?”

  Being such an eloquent bastard, I nodded again.

  “You killed Frank Doerr, back in the day.”

  I shrugged. “Frank and I disagreed on a few things.”

  “Fucking Frankie Doerr,” he said. “What a piece of shit. You killing him made my life a lot easier. Come on, sit down. You smoke, Spenser?”

  “I used to,” I said. “Gave it up for Lent.”

  “Lent’s over,” he said.

  He had me there. Morelli got up, walked to a side table, and handed me a cigar. I accepted it. When in the North End . . .

  Jimmy handed me a cutter and a lighter. I don’t think I’d had a cigar since I’d first started out in the business. I used to smoke when I had my office over in the Combat Zone. My windows hadn’t been painted shut yet.

  “Sorry to hear about Broz,” Morelli said, looking to Vinnie. “And now Gino. Not a lot of us left.”

  I took a seat in the leather grouping. I lit the cigar and took a puff. The basement shop was dim, decorated with a lot of framed prints of the old country and Cuba. The Coliseum at sunset, grapes ripening on the vine, virginal women rolling cigars on their thighs.

  “A friend of mine was killed last week,” Vinnie said. “Alan Garner. He worked for Gino for a long time.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “He promised Spenser here that he knew the whereabouts of some of the loot from the Winthrop Museum.”

  Jimmy Morelli’s slow, good-time smile faded behind a plume of smoke. His eyes were black and hooded. He reached to wipe a bit of tobacco off his tongue.

  “We were hoping you might know something about it,” Vinnie said.

  “About the guy getting killed?” Morelli said. “In case you ain’t heard, I’m retired. I’ve been out of the life for a long while. My wife and I just got back from one of those Perillo tours. Floated down the fucking river, drank Barolo, and talked about the beauty of life. That life I used to lead is over a long time, my friend.”