by D. A. Keeley
Hammond looked at Hewitt. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Hewitt said. “You guys must’ve been building profiles on these guys for years. How does it fit?”
“After twenty-five years,” Hammond said, “I think it’s safe to say our profiles have been for shit. That’s pretty obvious.”
Hewitt smiled.
“Ted had a lot of art on his computer,” Hann said. “He was meticulous. Pictures in folders. His Internet Explorer history showed he was constantly reading articles related to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist and keeping up with the stolen artifacts’ values. And there’s at least one deleted email suggesting they are selling one painting.”
“Do you know which painting?” Peyton asked.
“No. It’s not named.”
“If the teenager is in on it,” Hewitt said. “It changes things.”
“We need to find them,” Hann said. “Frank, I think it’s time to bring the media in.”
“That’ll force their hand,” Hammond said. “Either drive them further into their hole or make them run. And after all this time, I don’t want the artwork damaged, if we can help it. Especially if you think this painting is all that remains.”
“It’s been twenty-five years,” Hann said. “The FBI has never been this close. Let’s splash the uncles’ faces on TV.”
“I agree,” Hewitt said. “It might be time to smoke them out.”
“Let me think about it and make some calls,” Hammond said.
“I’m going to the Donovan home before I go to the school,” Peyton said. “You okay with that, Mike?”
“Yes,” Hewitt said.
8:35 a.m., 7 Drummond Lane
Peyton was thinking she’d give her left arm to have a kitchen like this one. But she pushed kitchen envy aside and tried to focus on the situation at hand: Bohana, sitting across the island from her, eyes puffy and red, hand trembling as she held a pen, looked at her notes. Steven was beside her, rubbing her back.
“I’m trying to write things down,” Bohana said, “as I remember them—when Michael left, what Davey said—”
“Who’s Davey?” Peyton interrupted. She’d been writing on her iPad with a stylus.
“He’s Michael’s best friend. That’s where Michael went yesterday instead of school.”
“Have you talked to Davey?”
Bohana nodded. “Briefly.”
“Peyton, would you like tea?” Steven said.
“That would be great.”
Steven stood and went to the counter. The two women remained at the granite island. It was black with white specks; the track lighting overhead reflected off it.
“I talked to Davey briefly on the phone,” Bohana said. “He told me Michael left after lunch.”
That didn’t exactly jive with what Peyton had heard before. Who had said Michael left the friend’s home before dinner? It could be a difference of four hours. Someone had gotten the story wrong—or intentionally changed it.
“Did he say where Michael was going?”
“He didn’t know. I asked that right off.”
“Has Michael done anything like this before—gone off without telling you?”
“Never.” Steven sat down next to his wife again and put two cups of tea before the women.
Bohana was shaking her head.
“So his leaving was totally unexpected?”
“Of course,” Bohana said.
“Well,” Steven said, “maybe not totally … no, forget it. It was unexpected.”
“You hesitated,” Peyton said.
“It’s just”—Steven looked at Bohana—“Michael hasn’t been the same this year. Am I right?”
“It’s just the college-application process, Steven. It’s just the pressure. He’s the same great kid.”
“Bohana, even Ted said Mikey was cold toward him.”
“He’s never really liked your brother.”
“Why is that?” Peyton said.
“No idea,” Steven said. “Mikey and I used to hunt each fall. This year, Mike didn’t want to. He just didn’t want to engage with the family this year.”
“That’s an exaggeration, Steven,” Bohana said.
Letting the parents squabble over who was right would no doubt prove fruitless. Peyton moved on. “Bohana, where do you think his two uncles are?”
“I have no idea, Peyton. Why are you asking? Do you think he’s with them?”
“I have no theories. Is that what you think?”
“Don’t you dare put words in my mouth.”
“No one’s putting words in your mouth, Bohana. Your brother and brother-in-law are at the center of an FBI investigation. They disappear on the same day your son disappears. It’s a logical question. Some might say the thought that Michael is with them is a sound deduction. Any thoughts, Steven?”
“Mikey doesn’t like either uncle,” Steven said. “I can’t see him being with them. I think these are two different issues.”
“Yes,” Bohana agreed. “Michael is running from a problem—one he created, no less. He needs to return and accept responsibility for his actions.”
“Simple as that?”
Bohana nodded. She hadn’t touched her tea. “I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be?”
“I can be sure of it because I’m the boy’s mother.”
“There’s another way,” Peyton said.
“What way is that?”
“You’d know Michael wasn’t with them, if you knew where they were.”
“Is that what you’re accusing me of ?”
“Bohana, I’m not accusing you of anything. Please be clear on that.”
“I think it’s time for you to go now, Peyton.”
“Bohana, the woman is trying to help us.”
“I don’t think so, Steven.”
“Everyone wants your son to come home safely, Bohana. I hope you know that. I’m a mother too. If my son was missing, I’d be terrified. My heart goes out to you.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Bohana said.
“That’s unfortunate.” Peyton stood, rinsed her mug, and left it in the sink on her way out.
She’d just gotten behind the wheel of her service vehicle when the CB chirped. It was Hewitt.
“Call me,” was all he said.
CB radio transmissions were never private, so anytime something important needed saying, cell phones were used, despite the spotty reception in some areas of the region.
“Mike,” Peyton said, “I’m sorry I haven’t made it to Maude O’Reilly’s yet. I just finished up with Bohana and Steven Donovan.”
“It’s okay. I have some information for you. We found Michael Donovan’s pickup behind the high school.”
“He wasn’t in it?”
“No, but his wallet was there. It was empty.”
“Are you thinking robbery? Foul play?”
“Or the empty wallet was left as a distraction. There’s something else: Aleksei gave his cell phone to his father.”
“Why?”
“Dariya asked him for it. Aleksei apparently has no idea where his father is. But Dariya went to see him at school yesterday, about the time we were searching Ted’s place. He asked for his son’s phone.”
“Can you locate the phone?”
“It’s not on. The last transmission was a text sent to Michael Donovan.”
“When was that?”
“After Aleksei gave his father the phone, late yesterday afternoon.”
“It sounds like a family reunion,” Peyton said.
“Maybe. The FBI is going to give some of the story to the media.”
“Someone needs to go talk to Michael’s best friend,” Peyton said. “He was the last person to see hi
m.”
“You do it. Everyone else is in the field.”
11:30 a.m., Paradise Court
The woman his uncles called Sonya brought him a sandwich. No silverware. Just a plate. Michael didn’t know who she was, but she was pretty. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and he was tired.
“Your uncle told me you have the painting,” she said casually and sat across from him.
She had an accent a little like Dariya and Aleksei’s.
The kitchen table had a formica top and chrome legs. It reminded Michael of something he’d seen in a Johnny Rocket’s.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Uncle Ted had surprised him when he’d produced his cell phone. And Michael had panicked and run. He vowed not to panic again.
“Oh, I think you do,” she said. “Your uncle tells me you love art. That you’re going to college to study it.”
The sandwich was ham with cheese, lettuce, and tomato. Only a little mayo.
“Would you like to know why I want the painting?” she asked.
It was the first time any of them admitted part of the plan to him.
He chewed and swallowed, not answering, and took another bite of the sandwich.
“My father is a Rembrandt aficionado. And he’s an old man, dying of cancer.” She shrugged and looked down casually. “I just wanted to do something nice for him, to give him something he thought he’d never be able to have before he died.” It sounded believable, even to her.
“It wasn’t created to be owned.”
“What are you saying?” she said.
“You don’t have that right,” he said.
She pushed back from the table, crossed her legs, and looked at him. “I’m being lectured by a teenager?”
He only shrugged.
“How do you think the museum acquired it?” she said. “Isabella Stewart Gardner bought it. So spare me.” She stood and started toward the kitchen sink.
He turned to Ted. “Do my parents know?”
“About what?”
“Are they in on it?”
“No, Mikey,” Ted said. “Just me.”
“It was in their house for twenty-five years. And so were you.”
“You think it looks bad for them?” Ted asked.
Michael nodded. It was the first time he’d engaged in conversation with any of them.
“You’re worried about them,” Marfa said and put a dish in the sink. “You can help them by helping us. The sooner we get the painting, the sooner it’s out of your parents’ lives.”
He pushed the sandwich away.
“It’s up to you, Michael,” she said.
“You can’t hold me here.”
She stopped and turned back. “We don’t want to hold you here.”
In fact, he was a major problem for her. Ted and Dariya were a lot to deal with already. She wasn’t sure how the money-for-the-painting exchange would go, but her plan didn’t involve a financial transaction. It involved Ted and Dariya going the way of Pyotr. But this was a boy, no older than seventeen.
“We’d be happy to pay you for the painting,” she said. “But I must tell you we’re not going to play games for long, Michael. There are ways to get you to tell us where it is.”
“‘It wasn’t created to be owned,’” Dariya repeated. “Crazy. Everything can be owned. Everything has price. Everything.” He was across the room and turned on the TV.
CNN flashed Breaking News across the screen: Authorities claim break in quarter-century-old art heist. Manhunt is on. The news anchor promised an update momentarily.
“What?” Ted moved across the room. “What’s this?”
His face and Dariya’s were splashed on the TV screen.
“Oh my God!” Ted said.
“Nyet!” Dariya yelled.
Ted looked at Michael. “Look what you’ve done!” He started toward the teenager.
Marfa cut him off. “Everyone sit.” She turned to the TV. “Let’s see what they say.”
“We need to move,” Dariya said.
“No,” she said. “Let’s see what they say.”
Kate Bolduan was on CNN saying, “There may be a new development in a twenty-five-year-old case. According to sources, the FBI is in northern Maine looking into a possible lead …”
Marfa looked down at her Nokia phone. Another text from Nicolay. This one wasn’t asking about the account. This one was direct: Your father is dead. Call me, he had texted in Russian.
“You will tell us where it is!” Dariya shrieked and leapt at Michael, knocking him out of his seat.
“No!” Marfa yelled.
And everyone turned around to see her 9mm Glock.
“I’ve known Mikey his whole life,” Ted said. He helped Michael up. “I held him the day he was born. He’s a smart, rational guy. He’ll tell us where it is, right, Mikey?” He moved close to Michael, leaned, and whispered, “I don’t want them to hurt you. Just tell us.”
Marfa was staring at her phone. “Just don’t hurt the boy. I’ll be right back.” She picked the Nokia off the kitchen table and left the room.
“Where are you going?” Ted said.
“Don’t touch the boy,” she said, staring at the phone and walking outside.
11:35 a.m., WalMart Parking Lot, Reeds
Nicolay answered on the first ring. He was in the Camry, a guitar case in the trunk next to his bag now.
“Tell me about Father.”
“Why did you do it, Marfa? He loved you.”
“He loved Dimitri. Mother loved me.”
“She’s been gone a long time,” he said and thought, Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s what it’s all about—because she didn’t have a mother.
“I always wanted to please him. But it couldn’t be done. So I’ll beat him at his own game.”
“No you won’t, Marfa.”
“Watch me.”
“No one can beat him now.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
“He had a heart attack. I told him about the accounts, about what his only daughter did. It killed him, Marfa.”
“I don’t believe you. This is about the money. You want me to think it’s mine now anyway so I’ll come back. That’s what you’re trying to do.”
He smiled at that. Let her think that. She didn’t need to come to him; he’d come to her. His GPS said he was four miles from the address he’d found in her email, and the clear cell phone reception was nearly a confirmation.
“The money is yours,” he said, “but not all of it. And you know what I mean.”
“He promised you something?”
“Quite a lot, Marfa. I think we both know that.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Where are you?” He wanted to see how much information she’d give him. He also wanted to know what she was up to—why northern Maine?
“Far away,” she said.
“What are you doing? When are you coming for the children?”
“How much money did Father promise you?”
He told her.
“That’s out of the question,” she said.
“That’s a fair amount,” he said. “I worked for your father for forty-five years.”
“That’s too much.”
“Are you coming back for your children? They miss you.”
She hung up.
12 p.m., 31 Monson Road
When Davey Bolstridge opened the front door, he looked ill. Terribly thin with a sallow face. She feared Michael Donovan’s prediction—that his best friend was dying—was correct.
She introduced herself, and he invited her in.
She followed him to a sparse living room that reminded her of a bachelor pad. Davey’s laptop was plugged int
o the TV, and Blue Bloods was streaming. The sofa was tired, and the carpet had several large stains.
“Am I in trouble?” He sat on the sofa. He wore nylon athletic shorts and a faded Garrett High Baseball T-shirt that looked like he wore it often, but which hung off him as if two sizes too big. Clearly, he’d lost a lot of weight.
“Not at all,” she said, taking the Lay-Z-Boy across the room.
His blue eyes darted around the room, as if searching for help or waiting for something bad to happen.
“I need to ask you some questions about Michael Donovan.”
“You’re the Border Patrol agent who was in Houlton with him the other night, the one at the state police barracks?”
“I was there with him,” she said. “That’s correct.”
“He described you.”
“And what was his description?” She saw a faint smile cross his face but let it go.
“Is everything okay? His mom called here all freaked out last night. Mikey came here yesterday. He looked like he’d run a marathon when he got here.”
“Did he run here?”
“No, he drove. He said he’d just come to hang out. But, from what his mother said, it seems like he was in trouble. I don’t think he wanted me to worry. He knows I have my own problems.”
“You’re sick? You’re the one he was growing pot for?”
“Yeah,” he said and flinched. “They say it’s on my spine now. Hurts bad sometimes. Mikey was just trying to help me. He never once smoked.”
“I believe you,” she said. “He sounds like a good friend.”
“You really mean that?”
“Yes, why?”
“Not many cops would say that about someone who grew dope.”
She shook her head. “I’m not a cop. And I think you might be wrong.”
He sat in silence for a moment.
“Why do you think he looked so harried when he arrived here yesterday?” she asked.
“Harried?” He chuckled. “Never heard anyone use that word. Anyway, I don’t have a clue. And he parked behind the house. When I asked why, he said it was plowed, and he was saving the driveway for my parents. I thought he was just being nice.”
“And you don’t think that now?”
“I don’t know what to think.”