UNLAWFUL DEEDS
By
David S. Brody
Unlawful Deeds
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by David S. Brody
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any
information storage or retrieval system, without the
permission in writing from the author.
Eyes That See Publishing
Westford, Massachusetts
To Kimberly,
in whose hands words
become works of art,
for inspiring this book
Also by the Author
Blood of the Tribe
The Wrong Abraham
The “Templars in America” Series:
Cabal of the Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book 1)
Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Book 2)
Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Book 3)
The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book 4)
The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Book 5)
Echoes of Atlantis: Crones, Templars and the Lost Continent (Book 6)
About the Author
David S. Brody is a Boston Globe bestselling fiction writer named Boston’s “Best Local Author” by the Boston Phoenix newspaper. A graduate of Tufts University and Georgetown Law School, he is a former Director of the New England Antiquities Research Association (NEARA) and is a dedicated researcher in the field of pre-Columbian exploration of America. He has appeared as a guest expert on documentaries airing on History Channel, Travel Channel, PBS, and Discovery Channel.
The first four books in his “Templars in America Series” have been Amazon Kindle Top 10 Bestsellers.
Soon after its release in 2000, Unlawful Deeds was a Boston Globe Bestseller and was ranked #1 on Amazon’s Massachusetts sales ranking.
For more information, please visit DavidBrodyBooks.com
Praise for Unlawful Deeds
“Best of the Coming Season.”
-Boston Magazine
"The action and danger are non-stop, leaving you breathless. It is one hell of a read."
-About.com Book Reviews
"Better than Grisham. A fabulous work."
-Gary Chafetz, Boston Globe 2-time Pulitzer Prize Nominee
"An enormously fun read, exceedingly hard to put down."
-The BookBrowser
“A searing murder mystery.”
-The Boston Phoenix
“Will keep you up even after you’ve put it down.”
-Hallie Ephron, author of Delusion
“David S. Brody: Boston’s Best Local Author”
-The Boston Phoenix
Author’s Notes
During this current period of ever-rising real estate values, it is hard sometimes to remember that Massachusetts—and, indeed, much of the country—suffered through a severe real estate bust that began in 1989 and continued well into the next decade. As a young real estate attorney during this period, I witnessed the carnage first-hand: Condominiums that sold for $125,000 in 1989 were auctioned at foreclosure for $25,000 only two years later. Fortunes were lost, lives ruined.
On the other hand, few people have forgotten the 1990 St. Patrick’s night theft of $200 million worth of art from Boston’s Gardner Museum. This crime, the largest art heist in world history, remains unsolved as of the publication of this second edition some 16 years later. The empty picture frames continue to hang in the Gardner as a somber reminder of the art world’s loss.
These two events—the real estate bust and the Gardner Museum theft—trigger the plot for this novel.
* * *
This second edition contains revisions and modifications from the original version. Specifically, the early portions of the story contain more details of Bruce Arrujo’s experience and background as an art thief, and fewer details of the intricacies of the real estate market and foreclosure procedure.
* * *
If you enjoy the characters in this story, you may be interested in reading Blood of the Tribe and The Wrong Abraham, which are sequels to this book.
SAILING INTO A STORM
CHAPTER 1
[August 16, 1989]
Bruce dumped the bag of cash on the hotel bed. He thumbed it, sniffed it, held it up to the light. Just as he had expected—counterfeit. Not even a particularly good job. He swept it onto the floor.
It was a bit insulting, actually. He was a professional art thief, could pick out the masterpiece from the mundane with a quick glance around the room. Did they think he wouldn’t notice? Idiots. His law school classmates were all brains and no balls. These guys were all balls and no brains.
He sat down and waited for the phone to ring. He had played it right so far, had anticipated they would try to screw him. Not that it made him happy—it was like suspecting your girlfriend was cheating on you, then finding out you were right. He would rather have just had the money.
Ten minutes, then a sharp chirp from the hotel phone. On the sixth ring Bruce lifted the receiver. A thick Asian accent hissed at him. “My boss is very angry, Mr. Arrujo. Where is the painting?”
“Nice try. Tell your boss he can have it when he pays me in real money.”
“Do you know who you are dealing with?”
All Bruce knew about the buyer was what Gus had told him—He’s the head of the biggest organized crime family in Hong Kong. But crime boss or not, the Manet was the last of their stash, and Bruce wasn’t giving it away for a bag of confetti. “Whoever he is, I take it he didn’t like the Mick Jagger poster.”
“Where is the painting, Mr. Arrujo?”
“Still here in Hong Kong. But hidden. If your boss wants the Manet, we’re going to do it my way this time.” He would need to be careful here—he was on their turf, and he had already humiliated them once. A game of cat-and-mouse gone bad was bound to be unpleasant for the mouse.
“Why should we trust you? You just delivered us a poster of a rock star.”
“Here’s the deal. I want the money wired to an account at Chase Manhattan Bank. You’ve got one hour, until noon. At 12:01, if the funds haven’t arrived, an associate of mine will drop the painting into a Federal Express box for delivery to Boston.” Bruce was lying—he was working alone. And definitely on his last job, despite Gus’ attempts to talk him out of an early retirement. “But if you do wire the money, once I’m safely at the airport I’ll call you and tell you where you can find the painting.”
“Hah! Do you think we are fools, Mr. Arrujo?”
“Not at all. But hopefully I’ve proved to you that I’m not one either. If you wire the funds, I have no reason to try to keep the painting. I have no interest in making an enemy of your boss, even if I will be half a world away. He won’t chase me for a measly $45,000, but my guess is he’ll hunt me down if I cheat him. So if you pay, I’ll deliver.”
A pause, during which Bruce heard some muffled consultation, then a response. “Okay. But no more tricks, Mr. Arrujo. No more rock star posters.”
* * *
Bruce stood in the departure terminal, a full head taller than his fellow travelers. He scrunched his frame downward, then stretched upward to scan t
he crowd. And quickly back down again. Down, up, down. Like a friggin’ jack-in-the-box.
He was pretty sure the crime boss would let him go—Bruce had left the Manet as promised, and $45,000 wasn’t really enough money to risk a whole scene in an airport. Unless the art-loving thug felt the need to save some face by rearranging Bruce’s.
But Bruce was more worried about the FBI. They had been watching him for four years, waiting for him to make a move. And here he was, moving.
His mind raced through the possibilities. Were the Feds waiting for him on the plane? That would make sense if they wanted to arrest him on American territory. But if that was their intention, why hadn’t they arrested him on the flight over to Hong Kong when he still had the painting?
Or maybe they hadn’t noticed him leaving the country, but then had alerted the Hong Kong authorities who were planning to arrest him at the airport before he re-boarded.
But he was just guessing. Bobbing and guessing.
One thing he knew: if he was going to jail, he’d be a lot better off in an American one. He bulled his way to the front of the boarding line, handed his ticket to the boarding agent, and jogged quickly down the causeway. He stepped over the threshold and onto the aircraft. One small step for Bruce.
Small step indeed—was he even on American territory? He thought back to his law school classes. In the air, he was pretty sure he would be, since Northwest was a U.S. carrier. But at the gate? This was a plane, not an embassy. Even so, could a Hong Kong policeman simply step onto an American plane to arrest an American citizen? Bruce pounded his thigh with his fist—he was fencing with shadows. He should have taken the time to research Hong Kong law.
He walked toward the back of the half-full plane, scanning for a pair of eyes darting to avoid his. Was Gus right, had they begun to lose interest in him because he’d been clean for four years? Because he lived the life of a starving student? Or did somebody just oversleep the day he flew out here and was now waiting for him on the return trip?
Bruce took a seat deep in the rear of the jet. Few Westerners would choose to sit in the smoky haze of an Asian flight, which would make spotting any FBI agents who were tracking him that much easier. He couldn’t escape from the airplane, of course. But he might have time to see them coming and make a rush for the bathroom. The thought of flushing $45,000 down the toilet nauseated him, but with no money and no painting, it would be tough to convict him.
Bruce thought about the bank checks stuffed into the hollowed-out heel of his hiking boot. He wasn’t thrilled about having them on his body—it had been bad enough traveling with the rolled-up canvas into Hong Kong, but at least the Hong Kong customs authorities had no reason to be suspicious of him. What if his name appeared in some U.S. domestic database that would red flag him when he attempted to re-enter the country? Maybe he should have just dropped the checks in a Federal Express envelope and taken his chances.
He sat, watched as a family with two young children settled into the seats next to him. Good—if the Feds were planning an arrest, they probably would have kept him away from children in the event of a scuffle. Or was he giving them too much credit? He shrugged, then fished a couple of hard candies out of his pocket and handed them with a tight smile to the mother.
Fifteen minutes passed. The plane began to back from the gate. Bruce stood and fiddled with his carry-on bag, glancing around the plane. Nobody moving toward him except a flight attendant motioning him to sit down. That was it for the crime boss, then—if his soldiers were on the plane, they would have tried to force him off in Hong Kong. Now it was too late.
He peered out the window. A heavy, windy downpour. Hopefully it would be a turbulent flight—his ocean-trained stomach might give him an edge over a queasy FBI agent.
The plane taxied, then stopped. They sat. Five minutes, then ten. Nothing. Bruce fidgeted, peered out the window in search of the delay. A queue on the runway? A weather delay? Police cars surrounding the plane? He saw nothing.
Maybe the flight crew had been ordered to stop, to return to the gate. Had he underestimated the Hong Kong police? Or the crime boss?
Finally the plane jolted ahead, then accelerated down the runway and lifted off the ground. Bruce sighed. At least he would not grow old in a Chinese jail.
But an American one was still a possibility. Bruce thought about the possible arrest scenarios.
The easiest thing to do would be to simply wait until he passed through customs in Seattle. But from what he knew of the FBI, they did not play well with others. They likely viewed customs officials as little more than dog trainers playing with drug-sniffing canines. And why share credit for the arrest?
Or they could nab him as he disembarked. But then they would risk losing him in the bustle of the crowd. It was a small risk, especially because they probably did not view Bruce as particularly elusive or dangerous. But police were trained to avoid these types of chances.
That left arresting him while still on the plane, despite the children seated nearby. This was the strongest possibility, most likely near the end of the flight so they wouldn’t have to baby-sit him for ten hours. He wasn’t going anywhere, and they knew it.
If his guess was right, it made sense to stash the money someplace, then retrieve it after the plane landed. That way he wouldn’t have the money on him when he was arrested.
He motioned for the flight attendant and requested two cups of apple juice, then a cup of coffee. He waited.
There were six bathrooms in the plane, two in the front, two in the middle, two in the rear. A half hour passed. Bruce unfastened his seat belt and walked the length of the plane to the bathroom opposite the plane’s main exit. He glanced over his shoulder—nobody had followed. He locked the door and took off one of his hiking boots.
With a key, he pried off the entire thick rubber heel. He had hollowed out the heel before leaving Boston—it had gone unnoticed when he wore the boot through customs on his way into Hong Kong. Inside the heel were the five bank checks, wrapped tightly together. They were less bulky than cash, and since they were each less than $10,000 he wouldn’t have to do any paperwork to cash them. Bruce deposited the checks into a plastic bag, sealed it, and wrapped the bag inside a thick roll of toilet paper. He then took a stack of paper towels, dropped them into the toilet, and flushed. Water filled the toilet.
Bruce dropped the wrapped plastic bag into the toilet, pulled down his pants, and moved his bowels into the bowl, covering the bag. As he wiped himself, he smeared feces onto the toilet seat and sink area. The small bathroom immediately filled with putrid air. For added effect, he reached his index finger far down his throat and vomited his breakfast into the sink.
He washed his hands thoroughly, re-attached the heel to his boot with some super glue, closed the door, and walked back to his seat.
Eight hours until landing time.
Bruce studied the passengers around him. He concentrated on the Caucasian men seated in the rear section of the plane. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he guessed that an FBI agent would, in some way, look or behave differently than a tourist or a businessman.
Three hours passed. Nothing suspicious. The thirteen men he observed were either well-disguised or not FBI agents. Two were traveling with families. Two others worked on laptop computers, the newest toys of the private sector. Four were drinking alcohol. One had a cast on his arm. Two had facial hair. One was wearing shorts. Another had a pony-tail. If there was an agent on board, he was not seated in the rear section of the plane.
Or he was undercover. Or he was Asian. Or he was a she.
Bruce cursed to himself. This was ridiculous. Even if the agent came up and introduced himself, what difference would it make? Either they were going to arrest him or they weren’t. The money was hidden; there wasn’t anything else he could do about it.
He pounded his thigh again. He had scrimped and struggled and starved for four years just so he would never again have to expose himself to the threat of bei
ng arrested. So how did he end up here, in a plane over the Pacific, praying and scheming to avoid that very event? Because everyone in his life was either an idiot or an asshole, that’s how.
And Gus was both.
He replayed the conversation in his mind.
“Bad news, Brucie. I can’t unload the Manet. They’re watching me, and I’m not going to risk flying to Hong Kong right now just to save your ass.”
“Think again, Gus. I need the cash. And it’s your job to move the paintings. You’re going.”
Bruce had been counting on the money. He had just finished taking the bar exam, but his first paycheck wouldn’t come until two weeks after Labor Day. Before then he needed to catch up on his rent, get current on his credit cards and buy a couple of suits. He knew that his firm ran credit checks on incoming employees—the last thing he needed was for the firm’s partners to find out he was a deadbeat. He remembered one of the senior partners lecturing him during his final interview, speaking slowly so Bruce would be sure not to miss the word play: “We tolerate neither loose cannons nor loose canons, young man.” If the old geezer only knew.
But even more crucial was the $5,000 he owed to a loan shark. If his landlord evicted him, he could live in his car for a few weeks and shower at the firm. But the loan shark would break his thumbs. Or worse. Bruce was only a week late, and he was already sporting a gashed head and a couple of cracked ribs as a gentle reminder that payment was not discretionary.
Gus hadn’t sounded particularly concerned about Bruce’s money problems. In his mind, Bruce could just go knock off a Store 24 if he really needed cash that badly. “Sorry, Bruce. But the cops are watching me, and it doesn’t do either of us any good if I get nabbed. You may be broke but, hey, at least you’re not in jail.”
Bruce had heard, and not for the first time, Gus’ implicit threat to rat on him if Gus got caught. Bruce had long ago begun the process of divorcing himself from Gus, but he was stuck with him as a partner—for better or worse, as it were—until the Manet was sold. And probably for a while after.
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