‘All I know is the movie with Leonardo di Caprio,’ Stephen said.
‘It’s about a guy who came from nothing who becomes rich,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘It was something you said about the Hursts when we raided their apartment that got me thinking,’ Stephen said.
‘You were the one who said they were acting,’ Elisabetta said.
‘It was about their grip on reality, that they didn’t know what the truth was any more. And that would fit. Hurst is the master of invention. The whole Ivy League thing. Maybe he was an outsider, from a humble background who got to Princeton on a scholarship. And that’s why he has to keep up his routine. Tony Sanzio would have had no idea how astute he was giving Hurst the nickname the Great Gatsby in his diagram.’
‘Let me take another look,’ Elisabetta said.
‘What about these middle-ranking four here: the Lawyer, the Sales Rep, the Guardian, the Accountant. Is Sanzio being literal or ironic?’ Elisabetta said.
‘That I don’t know and I still haven’t managed to pinpoint a name for any of them yet,’ Stephen said. ‘Their role was to enable the boss at the top to function, which much to Hurst’s dismay isn’t him, because he doesn’t have the money, never has had. Hurst is forced to work for Don Corleone, at the top of the food chain, who must have been Giuseppe Russo.’
Elisabetta got up from her desk. ‘Not much is making sense to me this morning, but I’m willing to hear you out,’ she said, grinning. ‘More coffee?’
‘See this,’ Stephen said, pointing to the scribbled balance sheet he’d written of Hurst’s income and expenditure.
Elisabetta walked round to his desk, grabbed a chair and sat down next to him.
‘There’s the villa in Rome, the apartment in Geneva, a house in Cape Cod and a summer residence in the French Riviera. How many people would he have to employ to run four properties?’
‘Eight minimum, more if you include maintenance workers, gardeners and so on,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Then there’s the business. He buys looted artworks, pays the bare minimum and onsells for a big profit. But there’s people to pay off: the middleman, the looters, a team to clean up the antiquities, assistants, a driver. How is he doing all that on his own?’
‘His wife could be loaded.’
‘She’d have to be heiress rich.’
‘So what are you thinking?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘Or, it has to be someone else’s money in those offshore accounts. Hurst gets to use their cash to acquire big ticket items,’ Stephen said.
‘What else is going through those accounts? Money laundering?’
‘On a major scale. He’s got a business partner who cleans his money through the art business. Could be drugs, could be guns, could be anything.’
‘Hurst wouldn’t care where the cash came from, as long as his ego was massaged. He can boast how well he’s doing when the reality is, he isn’t doing nearly so well as he pretends he is.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Somebody who likes art.’
‘What’s the connection with McCarthy?’
‘This is where I’m struggling. Hurst is from Boston and McCarthy spent years there. They likely knew each other, moved in the same circles, met at gallery openings, that kind of thing,’ Stephen guessed.
‘Are you thinking Hurst knew Giuseppe Russo? Did McCarthy introduce them?’
‘McCarthy isn’t here to answer, but if we assume he did, it would have been mutually beneficial. McCarthy could leave for his job in Rome with a clear conscience if those two hit it off.’
‘Say Russo senior and Hurst decide to go into business together, setting up a looting operation in Italy which benefits them both. Do you think McCarthy knew, or suspected?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘I think he was paid off by Russo in gifts of artworks and was too afraid to ask where they came from. He must have figured out that they were tainted. That a gangster like Russo was never going to play by the rules,’ Stephen said.
‘And by then he was in way too deep. McCarthy must have thought he was safe at the Vatican, but he’d made a serious error of judgement when he hired Hurst,’ Elisabetta said.
‘By way of a thank you, Hurst then goes and betrays him. All McCarthy had in life was the church and the job he loved. How humiliated he must have felt to have to tell everyone he met he’d retired, when he was forced out. McCarthy was reported to the Vatican Museums. That someone had photographic proof he had Vatican artworks at home. Look.’
Stephen showed Elisabetta an email from Hurst inviting himself round to McCarthy’s place.
‘And according to your contact, McCarthy had never in all the time he’d been at the Vatican, invited a colleague to his home. They’d always met in galleries or restaurants.’
‘Talk about ruthless, McCarthy must have been furious.’
‘That’s what I thought. He was off work, recovering from a fall and Hurst takes advantage, giving an ultimatum that he must have his budget signed off,’ Stephen said. ‘McCarthy had no choice but to meet at his apartment.’
‘That was on the fifteenth. And when was he fired?’ Elisabetta asked.
‘Three days later when the Vatican police came and knocked on his door with a search warrant, seized the artworks and presented him with his letter of dismissal. It can’t have been a coincidence.’
‘Then Hurst goes on a buying spree. He acquires expensive, glamorous items for the Vatican. Some of them he already owned—they’d been looted to order. Some he buys with laundered money. With McCarthy out of the way, nobody was querying their provenance. Except he slips up. He allows Tony Sanzio his photo opportunity in front of the looted krater. And is betrayed by his own reflection in the picture.’
‘Exactly. When Russo senior died, Joe took over the looting business. McCarthy knew far too much about the family secrets. He was becoming a liability for Joe.’ Stephen said.
‘And the revival of the cold case into Joe’s brother’s death was the last straw. He must have found out that McCarthy was talking to Boston PD.’
Just then, a call came in on Stephen’s phone. He ignored it.
‘But nobody knew he was here. Even our colleagues wouldn’t have known. We made sure of that,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘That’s what I can’t work out either. They could have bugged McCarthy’s phone. Then they could have tracked him here.’
‘But that doesn’t explain how they knew that he was here to talk to Hannigan. He could have been here reporting a burglary or a stolen car,’ Elisabetta said.
‘And they wouldn’t have known that Hannigan was working on a cold case. That takes someone pretty skilled at intercepts.’ Elisabetta said.
‘A person or persons unknown working for Joe Russo. Whoever betrayed him had inside knowledge,’ Stephen said.
Elisabetta glanced up. ‘In here?’
Stephen shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility.’ He was non-committal. He didn’t want to alienate her, and he knew there was no point in throwing around accusations without evidence. He checked his messages while he was making his mind up about what to do next.
‘Holy shit,’ he said. Elisabetta looked up.
‘Listen to this,’ Stephen said as he played the message:
“Bruno Bianca died of cardiac arrest. The autopsy report concluded that there were sufficient amounts of a non-prescribed stimulant to alert homicide.”
‘I need to let Hannigan know about Bruno as well as McCarthy. Want to be in on the call?’ Elisabetta nodded.
Now that she had mentioned the possibility that there was a mole, Stephen felt a growing sense of certainty that there was. He couldn’t stop thinking about the one person he’d never got along with in the Rome office, and who had never hidden his dislike for him from the start. But before he tackled that problem, he needed to call Boston.
Cormac Hannigan picked up the phone after the first ring.
>
‘Stephen. I’m so sorry I didn’t have the chance to call you when I was in Rome. I flew in and out the same day.’
‘I understand. I’m with my colleague Elisabetta di Mascio. I’m calling about McCarthy. Mind if I put you on speaker?’
‘Go ahead. What’s happened to him?’ Hannigan sounded tense.
‘His luck ran out. They got him.’ He hated putting Hannigan on the spot like this and berated himself for not telling him straight after it had happened.
‘Because of giving evidence into his brother’s death?’
‘No, we don’t think so. McCarthy wasn’t a witness was he?’ Stephen said.
‘Correct. And I’m grateful you called me. After that news we’re going to have to do everything we can to keep our star witness alive.’
‘We’re working on an antiquities looting case that has networks across Europe as well as the United States. We believe Russo senior was the boss and that Joe has inherited the business,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Are the FBI involved?’ Hannigan asked.
‘Not yet. Got to square it with my boss here first,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Alberti?’ Stephen mouthed. Elisabetta nodded.
‘I’ve got a contact in the FBI you can talk to if you need to,’ Hannigan said.
‘Thanks,’ Stephen said. He looked at Elisabetta and whispered, ‘can I tell him?’ She nodded.
‘We think McCarthy was murdered because of a painting Giuseppe Russo had given him as a gift. But McCarthy no longer had it.’
‘Where is it?’ Hannigan asked.
‘Nobody knows. The junkie kid who stole it is dead as well,’ Stephen said.
‘Overdose?’ Hannigan said.
‘If it was, he didn’t administer it himself. The kid was in hospital with an armed guard on the door.’
‘Stephen, you really need to give my contact a call,’ Hannigan said.
Chapter 25
Boston, USA
* * *
Lisa Arnott thought carefully before taking her concerns to the school principal. She investigated whether Mollie’s painting had been the work of Tom Keating, the British art forger. But no matter how clever Keating had been at painting in the style of the artists he tried to pass off as his own, (one of which was Degas), he couldn’t possibly have forged this one. He’d died six years before the Stewart Gardner theft.
The principal tried to shut her down, refusing to entertain the possibility that a valuable painting had been brought into her school. She laughed off Lisa's art history credentials and challenged her to prove that the little painting was not in fact a reproduction. Lisa patiently tried to explain that it would be extremely difficult to forge a work that tiny, but her boss wasn’t having a bar of it. And when Lisa had asked if she could contact the FBI, as they had the painting listed as missing on their database, her boss went ballistic.
‘Mollie’s father would be over here like a shot, demanding its return if that painting was real.’
Far from supporting and protecting her staff member, her boss seemed intent on exposing her to the wrath of Joe Russo.
‘Under no circumstances am I going to have law enforcement come to the school and scaring the children,’ her boss continued. The principal seemed to have conveniently forgotten their annual open day with both the Boston Fire Department and the Boston PD. The children got to see round the fire trucks and play with plastic handcuffs and wouldn’t stop talking about their experience for weeks.
Feeling anxious and alone, Lisa backed away, wrapping herself around the tiny watercolour, like a cat protecting her kitten.
She sat down in the empty classroom and tried to figure out what to do next. The longer she waited, the greater the danger she was in. Sooner or later, Mollie’s father would find out about the missing picture. If her principal wasn’t going to help her, who was?
The cop who had talked to the students at open day seemed friendly and approachable and not bad looking either. She had his contact details on her phone. He had a Scottish name, she recalled as she scrolled through her phone. Ciaran? No, it was Cormac and he was Irish.
She listened out for the principal’s red sports car firing up and watched as the remaining teachers drifted out towards the car park on their way home, before carefully wrapping the tiny painting in tissue paper and popping it into her handbag. Then she picked up her phone.
‘Lieutenant Hannigan? It’s Lisa Arnott from Middle Park School.’ It took a while for him to remember her. ‘Yes that one,’ she said.
Unlike her principal, Hannigan had taken her seriously. She counted the minutes until he arrived in a plain-clothes car. They sat in the car as the rain began to fall and together they hatched a plan.
After they finished, Hannigan turned to Lisa.
‘And you’re sure about this?’
‘I’ve thought it through,’ Lisa said.
‘Even if it turns out that the painting is a copy, everyone will know it was you who went to the cops,’ Hannigan said.
‘When you say everyone, you mean people out there who could make my life very unpleasant?’
’The very same.’
‘I studied art and now I’ve seen that painting I can’t unsee it. And I have a strong feeling that it’s real. And you can’t put a price on that…’
‘Before you go to the FBI, there’s a police officer in Italy who would be interested to hear about your painting. Do you mind if I give him a call?’
‘Sure.’ Lisa said.
Hannigan mouthed, ‘Voicemail,’ before leaving his message: ‘Stephen, it’s Cormac. I wanted to give you a heads up. A painting belonging to Joe Russo has been brought to my attention by a member of the public and we’re on our way to the FBI to get it authenticated. Call you later.’
Lisa got out of Hannigan’s car and got into her own. As she drove her car out of the school car park she checked in her rearview mirror. Hannigan waited for two other cars to go by before he pulled out into the street and followed her.
Instead of her usual route home, Lisa took a detour over the Mystic river to Chelsea and the headquarters of the FBI. Hannigan waited as she got out of her car and was about to enter the building. She gave him a wave and he drove off.
As soon as she gave her name, two officers appeared and escorted her to an interview room. She repeated the story that Hannigan had outlined, only this time, telling the officers that the child who brought the painting to school was Joe Russo’s daughter.
‘If it turns out that the painting is genuine and the evidence you have provided leads to arrests and conviction of criminals, your personal safety will have been seriously compromised,’ one of the officers said.
‘I am aware of that, yes. I regard this as my civic duty,’ Lisa said.
‘And if we go ahead, you understand that you won’t be able to return to your job, or your apartment or your old life for the foreseeable future. Are you prepared for that?’
Lisa paused ‘I am,' she answered. 'But I have a cat at home.'
‘We’ll take care of the cat,’ the FBI officer said.
‘Do you mean you’ll find him a good home?’
The two officers looked at each other. One shook his head at his colleague.
‘Yes, I will personally see to it that your cat is adopted by an animal lover,’ said the officer who seemed to be the senior of the two.
Lisa hesitated.
‘Now, may we have the picture,’ he asked.
Why hadn’t she thought about Smudge before deciding to do this? If anything happened to that cat, she'd never forgive herself.
There was no way out now. She reached into her purse, pulled out the painting and passed it over.
The Lisa Arnott who had walked into the FBI office in Chelsea was never seen again. At the back of the building a woman who looked vaguely like her was bundled into a waiting vehicle with blacked out windows and was driven to a safe house. Out the front, a police officer, dressed in Lisa’s clothes with a hood pulled over he
r face, drove off in Lisa's car.
It was just before magic hour as a group of armed Boston PD officers drew up in a leafy neighbourhood of large detached houses. It was so quiet on the wide streets that every footstep was audible. The sound of unfamiliar vehicles woke one dog, who started barking, before it was joined by two others.
Cormac Hannigan watched as a convoy of five armoured vehicles with blacked out windows pulled up alongside the PD vehicles. One of his officers challenged the driver of the lead vehicle. Hannigan caught snatches of their heated discussion, as it rapidly escalated to risk being loud enough to take away any advantage of surprise they might have had. He ran over towards the altercation.
Spotting Hannigan's badge, the officer in the vehicle flashed his FBI credentials. ‘Stand your officers down,’ he ordered. ‘We’re here for Russo and you’re in our way.’
Hannigan shook his head. ‘No sir. We’re here for a felony. Why didn’t you tell us you were going to make your move today? If we stand here any longer, Russo will have slipped out the back. Let’s roll together.’
There was a mad scramble as plain-clothes FBI agents and the Boston PD surged forward and circled the Russo compound. Hannigan and the FBI lead beckoned the security guard who was cowering in the gatehouse.
‘We have a warrant. Open up,’ Hannigan said.
The security guard pressed a button, the gates to the property swung open and Hannigan and a group of agents and police walked briskly to the main entrance. Lights went on in the house and there was the sound of fumbling and swearing as Joe Russo opened his front door to see his house surrounded by cops.
‘What the fuck?’ He looked from the uniformed cops to the plain-clothes detectives.
Cormac Hannigan glanced at the FBI officer before stepping forward. ‘Joe Russo…’
‘Wait a minute, will you,’ Joe said, before turning towards the stairs and yelling,
‘Honey, can you call my attorney and PR will you? Tell them to get their asses down here fast.’
Carmela Russo swept down the stairs, bathrobe wrapped tightly around her. ‘What’s going on? You’re upsetting my family.’
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