by D. A. Keeley
“Let me get a cup of coffee,” Hewitt said. “Meet me in my office.”
“Ever eat at the Tip of the Hat?” Peyton asked Hewitt, when he sat down behind his desk across from Stan Jackman and her.
“As little as possible,” Hewitt said.
“Well, there’s a waitress there named Becky. Ted Donovan’s such a pain in the ass, she’s the only one who’ll wait his table. So she knows him a little.” Peyton told Hewitt about her interview with Becky.
“Paintings?”
“Yeah.”
Hewitt looked at Jackman, who nodded.
“Paintings?” Hewitt said again.
“She described one painting that Ted seems to look at a lot.” She smiled and turned her laptop so he could see it.
“That’s a painting of a sinking ship,” Hewitt said.
“Not sinking,” Peyton said. “Far from it. It’s called Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Rembrandt painted it in 1633, and it shows Jesus calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee as depicted in the Book of Mark.”
Hewitt was rocking back and forth gently, his hands clasped behind his neck. He stopped rocking and drank some coffee. “I’m not seeing things coming together here, Peyton. What am I missing?”
“You know how it goes. Sometimes it’s one big thing. Sometimes it’s a lot of little things.”
“That break a case open?” Hewitt said.
“Yeah. There are a lot of little things that are adding up. Ted Donovan earned distinction at Emerson College for his research into art. And he and Dariya were both journalism students. Who better to know how to find out where the paintings were, how much they were worth, and how to get them? They’re trained researchers, Mike. And Ted just flew to Ukraine a few weeks ago, but he never flew back. He was on a ship with Aleksei.”
“Planting Aleksei to allow Dariya into the country?”
“That’s what I believe,” she said.
“Why would he need to do that?”
“Not sure. It gets Dariya here, though.”
“And why does he need to be here?”
“This is where this gets really interesting, Mike,” Jackman said. “This is where we started high-fiving.”
Peyton said, “Both men left Boston in late March of 1990. We know that.”
“And?”
“Mike,” Jackman said and pushed a manila folder toward Hewitt, “take a look at this.”
Hewitt opened the folder. “Boston Globe articles.”
“From March 1990 until today,” Peyton said. “All about the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist. This is what we were doing all night.”
“You think Ted Donovan was connected to this?”
“Two men walked in there in the middle of the night on March 18, 1990, dressed as cops, tied up the two security guards, and walked out with nearly half a billion dollars worth of art.”
“And you think one of them was Ted?”
“I think Ted and Dariya might have been the guys,” Peyton said.
“Peyton, when people talk about ‘the crime of the century,’ this one gets mentioned.”
“I’m telling you, Mike. We need to get the FBI agents working this up here. A lot of little things add up, things Dariya and Ted have said. And the timing fits. They were both there, then they were gone. And Ted’s background makes this plausible. And, as journalists, they’d know where to find information on how to get in and out of the museum and even how to sell the stuff. And Dariya’s arrival tells us something.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’m right, they’re moving it.”
Hewitt looked down at the clips. “Thirteen works of art? Some of these things are five feet tall.”
“We need to look into this, Mike,” she said.
“Let me call Boston,” he said.
Peyton went back out to her desk and texted Tommy, glad—for maybe the first time—she’d gotten him an iPhone.
u up?
yes
She flipped to her recent calls and re-dialed his number.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Good morning, pal. Are you dressed?”
“Yes. And my teeth are brushed and my hair is combed and Gram is making pancakes.”
“Pancakes? She spoils you.” She tried to joke it off but couldn’t. Not spoiling, she thought. Just being responsible. By contrast, Peyton had worked a double shift, and the last breakfast she’d made her son had been a bowl of Cheerios with a sliced banana. “Sorry I haven’t been around too much the last couple days.”
“Gram says you’re really busy at work.”
“Yeah.” She looked at the bullpen. Three agents were fanned across the room. One was typing, another was reading pages from a folder, and the third was adding water bottles and granola bars to a field pack. “Too busy sometimes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Karate was good last night. I think I can win my next match.”
“Oh my god,” she said, “I totally forgot you had karate last night. Did Gram take you?”
“No. Stone.”
“Stone took you?”
“Yeah. He came over and told Gram you were busy and said he could take me. I need to go now. Gram wants to quiz me. Spelling test today.”
“I love you, Tommy.”
“I know. I love you too.” He hung up.
She slid her phone into her cargo pant pocket and couldn’t help smiling. For a single mother in law enforcement, it really did take a village.
And she was glad as hell Stone lived in it.
12 p.m., Razdory, Russia
Yevgeniy, the skinny man with the tattooed arms, was back. Nicolay didn’t think he liked him. Had a lot of trouble understanding him—gigahertz this, RAM that—but he had to admit the little man knew his way around a computer. The arrangement was cash.
“I want to read emails on this computer,” Nicolay said.
“That could take forever,” Yevgeniy said. “Want me to search for something?”
Victor was upstairs sleeping. He’d slept a lot these past few days, and that worried Nicolay. The eighty-one-year-old never seemed hungry either.
“There are three different email accounts on this computer,” Yevgeniy said.
“I’m only interested in the girl’s.”
Nicolay was amazed at the speed with which Yevgeniy’s hands worked on the keyboard. They seemed to float across it.
“Is there anything in particular you want me to search for?”
“Anything having to do with money or travel,” Nicolay said.
The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Three-year-old Anna ran into the room pushing a doll in a tiny stroller. The stroller slammed into the wall near Nicolay and overturned, the doll spilling onto the floor.
“My doll is hurt,” Anna said. She lifted it to him.
Nicolay took the tiny doll in his massive hands and kissed it, his white beard sweeping across the plastic face. “There, there. All better.” He handed it back to the little girl.
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said and went out.
Yevgeniy smiled and watched the girl go. When Nicolay turned back, he said, “I might have something” and pointed at the screen.
Nicolay put his reading glasses on. He looked at the airline receipts. “Can you tell me who bought those?”
“The name on the receipt is a man.”
Nicolay saw Pyotr’s name on the receipt. They were divorced. Was she traveling to see him? “Are there any emails from him?”
“A bunch.”
“Any recent?”
“Two days ago.” Yevgeniy opened the email. “It’s directions.”
“To what?”
Yevgeniy told him.
Nicolay leaned back and thought about that. What did it mean? “Print that email out,” h
e said. “I need you to reopen the file you opened for me the last time you were here.”
“The financial stuff ?”
Nicolay nodded.
“I showed you how.”
“Well, I can’t do it. I need you to do it.”
It took Yevgeniy all of two minutes. “It looks different,” he said.
Nicolay reached into his pocket and retrieved cash. “That’s all,” he said. “You may go now.”
When the door closed behind Yevgeniy, Nicolay replaced his reading glasses and leaned close to the computer screen. Yevgeniy had been correct.
The account looked very different now.
“Victor,” Nicolay said, “I think there’s a problem.”
Victor was in the leather chair near the bed. The old man’s head rolled toward him. Nicolay saw liver spots beneath Victor’s thin hair; his eyes were watery and looked tired.
“What kind of problem?” The blankets were pulled nearly to his chin as he lay in bed.
“Financial.”
Victor felt a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before.
Nicolay crossed his legs, admiring his freshly polished shoes. “What is Marfa getting you?”
“The gift of a lifetime.”
“And you’re paying for it?”
“Of course I’m paying,” Victor said.
“And you gave her access to your accounts?”
A fist clenched Victor’s chest. “Why do you ask? She did the hard part—she found it.”
Nicolay pointed to the space on the wall across from the foot of Victor’s bed. “A painting?”
“A Rembrandt, Nicolay. Not a painting.” The old man’s pale face colored, his breath quickened, a little boy’s excitement flashing in his eyes. “A fucking Rembrandt.” He coughed and struggled to catch his breath.
“Lean back. You’re breathing hard, Victor.”
“It’s the one I’ve loved since I was a boy. I think it’s his greatest work—symbolic and religious and hopeful. It’s everything I love in Rembrandt. It’s been underground for years, but Marfa found it.”
Nicolay pursed his lips. “Marfa found it? There’s a little Dimitri in her after all.”
“No. Dimitri was a businessman. She’s got an artist’s eye. Always had it. Even as a little girl. Remember that afternoon I told you about? At the Louvre? Even then she could spot great works. She should go to America, maybe become an art critic.”
“I think you insulted her, Victor. How much will the painting cost?”
“Not nearly what it’s worth. It’s worth five times what I’m paying.”
“A good investment.”
“It’s not about that.”
“What, then?”
Victor pointed to the space on the wall. “About owning a piece of greatness and beauty. That’s all. I don’t have much time. It’s all I’ve asked of her.”
“You’ve asked more than that,” Nicolay said.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s more like you than you know, Victor.”
“You always say that. You know how I feel about that. This life’s no good for her. I don’t want it for her.”
Nicolay knew it was no use. He was torn. He loved the girl like a daughter, but Victor had taken him in at fifteen. Victor had provided for him on several levels, giving him a home, replacing the father he’d lost, and promising him an inheritance.
“And Marfa has access to the accounts?”
Victor looked at Nicolay.
“Are you okay? Victor, your face looks red. You’re breathing hard.”
“My chest is a little tight this morning. You’ve mentioned the accounts three times. What is it?”
“The other day, you said you had a bad feeling.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a problem, Victor. But I don’t want you to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
Victor struggled to sit up in bed.
“Don’t,” Nicolay said. “You’re out of breath. Lie back.”
Victor fought to position the pillows. His breathing was labored; the tightness in his chest turned to an ache. “Tell me, goddamnit.”
Nicolay uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “The accounts are empty, Victor.”
“Empty?”
“Are you saying she took my money?”
“Can you slow your breathing? You’re worrying me, Victor.”
“You called the banks?”
“Yes. It’s not a clerical error.”
“This is about the business. She’s angry. She’s never understood.”
“No,” Nicolay agreed.
“Have you heard from her?”
“I tried to call and text. Her phone is off or the number has changed. I’ll continue to try.”
Victor looked out the window at the overcast sky. A crow was perched on the powerline.
“You’re breathing hard, Victor. Lie back. I’m going downstairs to get water and to check on Anna and Rodia. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of everything.”
Victor watched the door close behind Nicolay. Marfa? His daughter? His money? His instincts had told him something was wrong. For so long, he’d survived on instinct and prediction. But when it came to his daughter, he hadn’t wanted to see it coming. The tightness in his chest worsened. The pain intensified and spread across his chest to his left arm. Marfa didn’t understand. Never had. His sandpaper breaths were labored, and he began to gasp.
Outside the window, the crow was still on the powerline. He wouldn’t think of Marfa this way. Not here. Not at the end. He thought of that glorious Paris afternoon at the Louvre, of the little girl looking at Carcass of Beef with awe and appreciation.
The crow flew away.
“The children are fine.” Nicolay closed the door behind him. “And I brought you water.” He took a step into the room and looked up.
And he knew.
“Oh, God. No. Not now. Not like this.”
He checked Victor’s arm for a pulse, which confirmed the fact.
Nicolay leaned over his dead friend and kissed the old man’s cheek. “Together for forty-five years.” He sat heavily in the leather chair. “Friend,” he said. “Father.” He looked at the old man, whose eyes were frozen in repose.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Nicolay said. “I’ll make it right.”
7:50 a.m., Garrett High School
Michael saw Uncle Ted’s pickup as he crossed the parking lot walking toward the school. The truck approached, and Ted rolled down his window.
“Got a minute to talk, Mikey?”
Cars and pickups drove past them. Uncle Ted was alone. That made the unexpected visit better. Michael didn’t trust Dariya Vann. He seemed to be angry all the time.
“Not really. School starts in a few minutes.”
“We need to talk, Mikey. Won’t take long.”
“About what?”
“We live under the same roof, Mikey. You really can’t avoid me. Get in.”
Michael looked at him. Ted pointed to the passenger door. Michael thought about it and finally rounded the hood and slid onto the passenger’s seat. Morning sunlight reflected off the dashboard, making Michael squint.
“What is it?”
“Were you in my apartment, Mikey?”
“I don’t have a key.”
“That isn’t what I asked. Something very important was taken.”
“Like what?”
Ted looked at Michael. “I think we both know.”
“Not me,” Michael said. “No idea.”
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle Ted.”
Ted leaned back, resting his head a
gainst the back of the seat. He exhaled loudly, reached into his pocket, and removed an iPhone, tossing it onto the seat between them.
“You left this under my sofa.”
Michael looked at his iPhone.
“Where is it, Mikey?”
Michael stared at his phone then looked up at Ted.
Ted smiled. “No harm done. I just want it back.”
Michael didn’t speak. He was staring at the phone.
“You want money? Is that it?”
Michael shook his head. “You don’t own it. No one can own it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t created to be owned. You don’t get it.”
“Listen—”
But he didn’t. Michael picked up his phone. What had he just said? What had he done? How could he have been so careless?
He opened the door and ran.
8:20 a.m., Paradise Court
Marfa hated the lighting in this damned 1970s bathroom. She was doing her hair in the mirror.
“I don’t trust either of them,” Marfa said over her shoulder. “Did you see how they looked at each other?”
“Yes.” Pyotr was on a chair near the window in a corner of the bedroom, sipping coffee.
“How do you like the coffee?” she asked.
“Strong. You made it differently.” He coughed. “It’s bitter.”
“You think?”
“You—” He didn’t finish.
She could hear him retch.
“I made it a little differently, yes,” she said. “You sound like you’re gagging, sweetie.”
She liked the way her hair looked. She went on to her mascara. If the formica countertop and ugly yellow backsplash weren’t enough, the single damned light made it nearly impossible to do her makeup.
Pyotr coughed. She heard the foot stool overturn.
“Marfa, help me—”
“Oh, I thought you liked strong coffee.”
“Please!”
“I think you do like it,” she said.
She moved the mascara brush slowly, lengthening her lashes. He was gasping now. She stepped back to examine herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw. The hacking in the other room grew louder. When she stepped out of the bathroom, Pyotr was on his hands and knees.
“The coffee!” he gasped. “You—”