Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  Joe turned back to Hannigan and said belligerently, ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Joe Russo, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Luca Russo. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions.’

  ‘My attorney’s on his way.’

  Hannigan ignored Joe and pressed on, reading out the rest of the Miranda rights before Joe interrupted him again.

  ‘What do you mean, if I cannot afford a lawyer? Joe stood back and laughed. ‘I could hire OJ Simpson’s entire legal team if I wanted.’

  Hannigan stood firm at this interruption. ‘If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.’

  As Joe shrugged, Hannigan stepped back and a plain-clothes FBI agent took his place.

  ‘Joe Russo, you are under arrest on suspicion of theft from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum.’

  ‘Are you shitting me?’ Joe said, shaking his head.

  London, England

  * * *

  Greg Palmer was in London when he got the call from Boston.

  ‘Our house is surrounded by cops. You’ve got to help him,’ a tearful Carmela Russo said.

  ‘Which cops?’

  ‘FBI and the Boston PD.’

  ‘You called his lawyer?’ Palmer said.

  ‘He’s on his way. When can you get here?’

  How was he going to break the news to her that he was in London? Joe would be furious.

  ‘Carmela, listen to me. I’m out of town. And as soon as I can finish up here, I’ll be back in Boston. Can I speak to Joe?’ Palmer said, secretly hoping that Russo was already in custody.

  ‘No, you can’t. The Boston PD have him cuffed and are bundling him into a van. And the FBI are swarming all over the house looking for paintings they say Joe stole. They’re making my six-year-old daughter help them. Can you write a story about that?’ Carmela said.

  Palmer was so busy on the phone that he barely glanced up as a waiter escorted a woman to a table, directly opposite from the sprawling sofa where he was seated.

  You’re meeting Palmer, right?

  What the hell? Ginny hadn’t recognised the email address or the sender.

  Who wants to know?

  Keep him in place long enough and I can guarantee he’ll get what he deserves.

  Who the hell are you?

  I have enough dirt to get that man put away till his teeth fall out, but you need to play your part.

  Charming. She’d thought for a moment that it might have been Stephen but this wasn’t his style.

  Why now?

  The bastard has spent the past few years trying to have me killed. Life on the run doesn’t come with high-speed internet.

  Still the same spiky Cara, even after all this time.

  Do me a favour and record your conversation will you? It’s not for the cops, it’s so I can have the pleasure of hearing him slag me off. I know he won’t be able to resist boasting about me.

  As she walked up the steps of one of the most exclusive private members’ clubs in London, Ginny couldn’t help but reflect that it was a far cry from when Greg Palmer had plucked her from the string of willing assistants, anxious to learn from the king of spin himself.

  This time, he had called her. What was his agenda? As usual, he hadn’t bothered to reply when she’d asked him what he wanted to discuss. She put that one down to his controlling personality. Two could play at that game. She chose to turn up late.

  As she was shown to her table, Ginny spied him glued to his phone, despite the club’s etiquette on mobiles.

  Only when the waiter approached him did he look up, then made his way towards her, greeting her effusively, kissing her on both cheeks.

  ‘Ginny darling. I hear a celebration is in order.’ He waved over to the wine waiter who came hurrying over. ‘A bottle of Krug, please.’

  Ginny stiffened.

  ‘You know already? The ink’s barely dry on the contract.’

  ‘I’d heard the rumours,’ he said, glancing up and down, taking in her appearance. She hated the way he did that. Inwardly, she gritted her teeth. ‘I knew they were going after you.’

  Ginny was wide-eyed.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but they called me. And, naturally, I sang your praises.’

  Now he wanted something from her in return.

  ‘You’re looking fabulous by the way. I’m sure you’ll take America by storm.’

  There was an awkward silence. God, this was excruciating.

  ‘And how is the home life with… the detective.’

  It could have been worse. The last time they’d all been together, Palmer had referred to Stephen as “the cop.”

  ‘We’ve split up. That’s why I’m back. We’re divvying up the contents of the flat.’ She hadn’t come here to talk about her love life.

  ‘I’m sorry. But he did give the impression he was uncomfortable in your world.’

  Ginny had forgotten how blunt Palmer could be. He’d made no secret that he despised Stephen and regarded him as a loser. Even though they weren’t together anymore, she wasn’t going to let Palmer trash Stephen’s reputation.

  ‘He’s an honourable man, in a difficult job.’

  ‘Of course, he is.’

  Platitudes again.

  ‘I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy. Let’s talk again when I get my feet under the table,’ Ginny said. She knew he wanted something. Maybe now he’d come out and say it.

  ‘But you’ve barely touched your champagne,’ he said, feigning hurt. She’d long ago seen through the way he liked to control every situation, only this time she was playing him.

  As she was getting up, Palmer looked at her.

  ‘You know the Australian police found that crazy missing terrorist’s belongings, don’t you?’ He could barely disguise his smirk.

  I’ve got news for you, mate, Ginny thought. She just hoped that her phone, tucked inside her handbag on record, was picking all of this up.

  ‘I was very sorry. Nobody deserves to die alone in the desert. It sounded as though she got lost and disoriented and ran out of water.’ As she spoke, Ginny realised the suffering must have been real, even if the dying part wasn't.

  ‘She’d been on the run for two years. We thought we’d got her but she got away. Her luck ran out that was all.’

  ‘It was you who wanted her out the way,’ Ginny said. ‘Not the police.’

  ‘The police let us down. I’ll never understand why your ex let her go like that. She was a wanted terrorist.’

  ‘You know as well as I do what happened to the real perpetrator. They wanted a scapegoat, and Cara was it, thanks to your spin.’

  ‘Even I find some of the jobs I have to do distasteful. But as I said to you when you came to me looking for a job, corporate PR isn’t for the faint-hearted.

  Ginny had to fight back every instinct to get up and leave.

  ‘I have a little proposition for you,’ Palmer said.

  She shifted her weight in her seat but forced a smile.

  ‘I’m setting up an office in the States. I’d like to have the gallery on board as my first major client. Art instead of oil.’

  So that was it. He was looking for work. Well, she’d learnt how to spin from him, hadn’t she?

  ‘I’ll put it to the board,’ she said. ‘Shall I order us another bottle?’

  Palmer raised an eyebrow. ‘Not your usual style, Ginny. Why not? We could retire to my suite and have a bottle sent up there.’

  The thought of going up to Palmer’s room made her want to puke. How much longer was she going to have to keep up this charade? As she was thinking up a way to keep him at the table, two men, not dressed for a private members’ club, came striding towards Palmer, who raised his voice in protest. Was it money he owed them? Or a deal gone sour, she wondered. She
backed away to pick up her coat from the cloakroom, still disturbed by what he’d told her. Had there been a massive cover-up? A plot to silence Cara that Palmer had known about?

  Ginny’s hands were trembling as she dialled Stephen’s number. No answer. Was he blocking her calls? She texted him instead.

  This isn’t about us.

  She wrote, then deleted, It’s more important than that, before continuing:

  All that press stuff about Cara disappearing in Australia was a pack of lies. I heard it from the king of spin himself. Call me. I leave London tomorrow morning.

  As she put her phone away, she heard a commotion behind her.

  ‘Mr Palmer, we’re arresting you on suspicion of profiting from organised criminal activity.’

  Palmer stood there, swinging backwards and forwards on his heels, raging so loudly against the perceived injustice that the rest of the caution was a blur.

  ‘What organised criminal activity? You mean that unpaid speeding fine?’ Palmer said.

  ‘Mr Palmer, all you have to do is come quietly.’ Ginny turned around to see Palmer in handcuffs being firmly escorted down the steps.

  ‘There’s a mistake. Ask her. She used to work for me. Ginny, tell them who I am,’ Palmer said. Ginny swung around to face the police officers.

  ‘The scum of the earth, that’s who you are.’

  Ginny passed her card to one of the officers. ‘Here’s my number. I’d be glad to give a character reference.’ Ginny paused. ‘For the prosecution.’

  She had a lightness in her step as she set off down the street, gloating, while Greg Palmer was manhandled into a waiting police car.

  Boston, USA

  Mollie was showing the child liaison officer her drawings when a diminutive female FBI agent walked into the playroom. She mouthed to her colleague. ‘I need to ask her a few questions.’ The officer nodded.

  The FBI agent crouched down next to the little girl. ‘Mollie, honey, we’re looking for some pictures like the ones in your drawings and we’ve searched the house and can’t find them.’

  Mollie put her head on one side as though she was asking an unformed question.

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ the agent said.

  Mollie stared down her drawing. She sat there solemnly for a few seconds and then lifted her eyes and pointed upwards towards the ceiling.

  ‘We searched up there,’ the officer said.

  ‘He’ll be mad if I tell,’ Molly said.

  ‘Give us a moment, will you,’ the child liaison officer said, motioning to the FBI agent to step out the door.

  ‘Your daddy’s going to have to come with us today. I don’t know how long he’ll be away. It’s not your fault. Never forget that, okay? Shall we go help the other lady?’

  Mollie nodded, taking the officer by the hand. She walked down the corridor, FBI officers following. She took them into the guest room and went straight inside the spacious walk-in closet.

  ‘You pull it back like this,’ Molly said, indicating a kid-sized cupboard door.

  The FBI officer spoke into her radio. ‘Boss you’d better come up here.’

  A disembodied voice replied. ‘What have you found?’

  As the cupboard door swung open, the officer replied, ‘The gateway to Narnia,’ before getting on her hands and knees and following Mollie inside. She struggled to squeeze into the crawl space.

  ‘Guys,’ she warned. ‘Don’t follow me. You’ll get stuck.’

  Once inside the officer looked around before cautiously easing herself up into a little attic.

  ‘I’m sending the kid back,’ she said, speaking into her radio. ‘Thank you, Mollie. I’ll keep everything safe here.’

  As Mollie disappeared, the FBI officer saw that the attic had been set up as a playroom come storeroom. There was even a light switch, which she flicked on. A bronze eagle and an ancient Chinese vase sat on a shelf, seemingly put there out of harm’s way. Paintings were leaning against the walls. She took a closer look at them, then stood back open-mouthed, before fumbling for her radio.

  ‘I have two Rembrandts: A Lady and Gentlemen in Black and A Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Then a tiny Rembrandt etching, what looks like a Manet, but don’t quote me on that. And four Degas works on paper.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ came the muffled response from the other side of the wall.

  'I'm looking right at him.'

  Joe Russo stood in front of the judge. She had flecks of grey in her hair and dark circles under her eyes, but with an immaculate French manicure. She looked Joe in the eyes.

  ‘Mr Russo, you have been charged with murder, which is a major felony, which does not allow me to permit bail. You will be held without bail until the case comes to trial.’

  ‘Your honour, a word,’ Joe’s attorney said.

  The judge looked up at him. ‘You have thirty seconds,’ she said, before admiring her nails.

  ’The defendant has a home, a family. He’s not a flight risk,’ the attorney pleaded.

  ‘Even if I did have discretion here, and I do not, I disagree with you. I think he poses a real risk of not returning on future court dates. And in the light of the defendant’s previous criminal history, the nature of the charges and the chance of a lengthy incarceration, I have refused bail. Time’s up. Take him down to the cells.’ The judge looked down at her papers, signed them and waved the defence attorney away with her hand.

  ‘Next case, please,’ she said.

  As Joe was being led away, he turned around to his attorney and mouthed, ‘you’re fired!’

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  ‘Wow,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Take a look at this. That call you got from Hannigan about that other Russo painting?’

  ‘What about it? Stephen got up and walked over to Elisabetta’s desk.’

  An alert on her computer had flashed up: Attention all Police Jurisdictions:

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) would like to announce, subject to formal authentication, that all but one of the stolen paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist have been recovered. A suspect is in custody.

  ‘There’s no mention here of the antiquities ring that we tipped them off about,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘This is the biggest art theft of all time. And the FBI just solved it. That’s going to be in every newspaper and all over social media.’

  ‘Joe Russo pulled off the Stewart Gardner heist? He wouldn’t know the difference between a Tintoretto and a tennis girl poster.’

  ‘I doubt he did it alone. And there’s one more they still have to find,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The Concert by Vermeer. You couldn’t even put a price on it when it was hanging in the gallery. Now it’s going to be the stuff of legend—like Leonardo’s Salvator Mundi,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘What happened to that one?’

  ‘It depends on which conspiracy theory you believe. On a super-yacht; in a Swiss vault; maybe it’s a fake, or it’s been abducted by aliens. Anyway, here’s a photo of The Concert, just in case you happen to trip over it in the street,’ she said, with a grin.

  ‘Right.’ Stephen laughed, casting a cursory glance at it. ‘I haven’t even been able to find that studio painting the junkie kid stole off McCarthy.’

  ‘Did we ever get a photo of it?’

  ‘I asked McCarthy. He never sent it.’

  ‘What happened to his phone?’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘It went to homicide. They’ve got it for evidence in case his killer is ever found. Fat chance of that,’ Stephen said, a note of resignation in his voice.

  ‘Let’s see if we can get permission to search it. Then at least we know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘I wrote down the subject matter. St Jerome and the Lion by Brunetti.’

  ‘It’s a common enough iconography. Still worth a few hundred euros though.’

  ‘I’ll go over there today.�
� He filed the information away for later and got back to what he was doing, trying to work out who the hell in the department was the mole working for Joe Russo.

  His phone rang. ‘Connor.’

  ‘Stephen, it’s Cormac. We’ve arrested Joe Russo on suspicion of murder of his brother, Luca. He’s been remanded in custody.’

  ‘He won’t like that.’

  ‘Murder isn’t the only charge he’s facing right now,’ Hannigan said.

  ‘We saw the FBI press release. We guessed it had to be Joe, after you alerted us to that painting you were about to hand over,’ Stephen said.

  ‘That turned out to be a stolen Degas.’

  ‘That was some find.’

  ‘It was a member of the public who spotted it.’

  ‘Brave of them. Thanks for the tip-offs and keeping us in the loop,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Likewise. And if the FBI ever decide to acknowledge your help in the case and invite you over, you know where I am.’

  As Hannigan rang off, Stephen turned to Elisabetta. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Antiquities trafficking isn’t even going to get a look in,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘All the same, Joe’s going to go to prison for a very long time.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. He’s got the money to hire the best lawyers. They’re bound to do a plea bargain. That’s how the system works over there,’ Elisabetta said. ‘We just have to hope they can tack on the money laundering as well. If not, Hurst will walk.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Stephen said.

  Elisabetta shook her head. ‘I’m not. Hurst is an old man. They don’t like to lock up the elderly here. Not unless he’s a mafia boss who’s been implicated in murder.’

  ‘We did our best. We brought him to justice. We aren’t responsible for the sentence,’ Stephen said, a note of bitter disappointment in his voice. You win some, you lose some, he thought. That left just one major job to do. He was determined to find that mole who had ratted on McCarthy and got him murdered.

  Chapter 26