Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic E-Book

Ace Atkins

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 364

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Iconic, tough-but-tender Boston PI Spenser delves into the black market art scene to investigate a decades-long unsolved crime of dangerous proportions. Iconic, tough-but-tender Boston PI Spenser delves into the black market art scene to investigate a decades-long unsolved crime of dangerous proportions. The heist was legendary, still talked about twenty years after the priceless paintings disappeared from one of Boston's premier art museums. Most thought the art was lost forever, buried deep, sold off overseas, or, worse, destroyed as incriminating evidence. But when paint chips from the most valuable piece stolen, Gentlemen in Black by a Spanish master, arrives at the desk of a Boston journalist, the museum finds hope and enlists Spenser's help. Soon the cold art case thrusts Spenser into the shady world of black market art dealers, aged Mafia bosses, and old vendettas. A five-million-dollar-reward by the museum's top benefactor, an aged, unlikable Boston socialite, sets Spenser and pal Vinnie Morris onto a trail of hidden secrets, jailhouse confessions, murder, and double crosses.

Leseprobe

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FORROBERT B. PARKER

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler…His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining…There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’– Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’– Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’ – Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’ – Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker…’ – Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’– Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’ – Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

For my Plymouth pals,

Bill, Vicki, and Dixie Barke

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Stephen Kurkjian for his outstanding book on the Gardner heist, Master Thieves. The book is by far the best on the subject and highly recommended. Also, thanks to Myles Connor, master art thief, for his time and patience in teaching me the tricks of the trade.

1

‘I’m dying, Spenser,’ the man said.

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. An early-summer rain beaded down my office window, dark gray skies hovering over Berkeley and Boylston as afternoon commuters jockeyed for position out of the city. Their taillights cast a red glow on slick streets. Somewhere a prowl car hit a siren, heading off to another crime. The man sitting before me smiled and nodded, his hands withered and liver-spotted. His name was Locke.

‘How long have we known each other?’ Locke said.

‘A long time.’

‘But oddly never worked together?’

‘Our work as investigators seldom crossed paths,’ I said. ‘Different peepholes.’

‘Recovering stolen art isn’t really your thing.’

‘I’ve done it,’ I said. ‘Once. Or twice.’

‘You’re familiar with the theft at the Winthrop?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It made all the papers. And TV. Biggest theft in Boston history.’

‘Biggest art theft ever,’ he said. ‘Next year will mark twenty years. I’ve chased those paintings most of that time, traveling from Dorchester to Denmark with not so much as an inkling of where they ended up. It’s beyond frustrating. Maddening, really. And now, well, with things the way they are –’

‘One was a Picasso?’

‘That was the least valuable of the three,’ he said. ‘Picasso, Goya. But the prize of the Winthrop was also stolen, the El Greco. The Gentleman in Black. Are you familiar with the painting?’

‘Some,’ I said. ‘I recall seeing it years ago. When I was young.’

‘When we were both young,’ Locke said.

He smiled and reached into his double-breasted suit jacket and pulled out a slick photocopy of a very serious-looking dude with a pointy black beard. The man wore a high-necked lacy shirt and a heavy black cloak. His eyes were very black and humorless.

‘He looks like a guy who used to kick field goals for the Detroit Lions,’ I said. ‘Benny Ricardo.’

‘The subject is reputed to be Juan de Silva y Ribera, third marquis of Montemayor and the warden of the Alcázar of Toledo.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Him.’

‘El Greco painted him in 1597,’ he said. ‘Well before the Pilgrims set foot in America. Long regarded as unimportant by the romantics, El Greco found new appreciation and fame among the impressionists and surrealists. Picasso in particular was a great admirer of El Greco. You see the distorted length of the man’s neck, the off-kilter perspective?’

‘Some have noted my own perspective is off-kilter,’ I said. ‘Although I admit to having more of an affinity for the Dutch Masters.’

‘I spotted your Vermeer prints when I walked in,’ he said. ‘You also have many fans at the Hammond. You helped recover, what was it? Lady with a Finch.’

I nodded and offered him something to drink. It was that time of the day when I could bend to either whiskey or coffee. Locke, being a man of the arts, approved of the whiskey. I pulled out a bottle of Bushmills Black gifted to me by Martin Quirk and found two clean coffee mugs left to dry upside down beside the sink.

‘Without being trite, that painting you recovered from the Hammond is nothing but a Rembrandt footnote,’ he said. ‘This work is something altogether different. A cornerstone of Spanish and art history.’

‘How much?’

‘One can’t always put a price on the priceless,’ he said. ‘But somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty or seventy million.’

Like any serious art connoisseur, I gave a low whistle.

‘I wanted to recover the piece myself,’ he said. ‘But now? I have to understand the realities of my situation.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘And I’m sorry to march into your office with such maudlin conversation,’ Locke said. ‘But my doctor told me to get my affairs in order, whatever the hell that means. I figured this was the first order, have someone to pass along my files, endless notes, and potential leads. I grew too old for this case two years ago. The Winthrop continues to push, with the anniversary coming up next week and these letters arriving every other week.’

‘Letters?’

‘Yes,’ Locke said, sipping the whiskey. ‘Not really ransom notes. But from someone who claims to have knowledge of the theft.’

‘Do you think they’re real?’

‘Perhaps,’ Locke said. ‘The letters were very specific about details of the theft. The writer was also aware of an arcane detail of the painting. El Greco himself had written on the back of the canvas in his native Greek.’

‘Have they asked for money?’

‘No,’ Locke said. ‘No demands have been made. And no means of communication has been offered. The letters have been addressed to the museum’s director, Marjorie Ward Phillips. Have you and Susan ever met Marjorie at a fund-raiser?’

I shook my head and picked up the coffee mug. The mug advertised Kane’s Donuts in Saugus, a place I considered to have made many fine works of art.

‘Marjorie is a determined, if altogether unpleasant, person,’ Locke said. ‘Her staff calls her Large Marj.’

‘A big personality?’

‘How do I put this?’ he said. ‘She has an ass the size of a steer and the disposition of a recently castrated bull.’

‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Can’t wait to meet her.’

‘Oh, she’ll charm you,’ Locke said, chuckling. ‘At first. There will be martinis and long talks of art’s value to the city of Boston. But don’t ever disagree with her. Or challenge her in front of the board. Once that’s done, you will be visited by the hatred of a thousand suns.’

‘If you’re trying to talk me into this,’ I said. ‘You’re failing miserably.’

‘You must take this case, Spenser,’ Locke said. ‘You must. If not, they’ve threatened to offer the contract to this British investigator. A young man from London who, recent successes aside, has all the earmarks of a four-flusher.’

‘At the moment, I’m working two separate cases,’ I said.

‘Did I mention the five-million-dollar reward, plus covering your daily rate and all expenses?’

I smiled and turned over my hands, offering my palms. ‘Perhaps I could find time to meet with Large Marj.’

‘I know you’re joking,’ he said. ‘But for God’s sake, don’t let her ever hear you say that.’

‘Hatred of a thousand suns?’

‘And then some.’

Locke smiled, straightening in his chair, and buttoned the top button of his jacket. Both eyes stared at me, one slightly off and one roaming my face with deep sadness and intelligence. His face sagged, his blue eyes drained of much color and life.

‘It might be months,’ he said. ‘But probably weeks. I have a driver. He’s waiting for me downstairs now.’

‘May I help you out?’

‘First,’ he said. ‘Will you accept an old man’s dying wish?’

‘Damn, Locke,’ I said. ‘You do go for a hard sell.’

‘I don’t have time to mince words,’ he said. ‘I really think they’re onto something now. And the last thing the museum needs is an amateur, unfamiliar to Boston, skulking about. This other detective is of the worst sort. He’s trying to charm the board into letting him take the case. But they need someone who understands thuggery and violence well beyond red-velvet walls.’

‘I should add that to my business card.’

Locke laughed and reached for the Irish whiskey. He drained it quickly and replaced the mug on my desk.

‘Why did you stay on this long if you felt like it was hopeless?’

Locke smiled. ‘There’s something almost mystical about this painting,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you’ll see. Maybe a way of touching the past. We are all just passing through this world. We’ll be gone soon enough. But this painting has remained for more than five hundred years. Perhaps recovering it would have been my shot at immortality?’

I nodded. I refilled our glasses.

‘To immortality.’

We sat and drank the rest of the whiskey in silence. After a bit, he stood, shook my hand, and without a word walked out the door.

2

‘Large Marj?’ Susan said.

‘Do you know her?’

‘I’ve met Marjorie Ward Phillips from the Winthrop,’ she said. ‘But I’ve never heard her called that horrible name.’

Susan and I stood at my kitchen island in my Navy Yard condo as I stirred a fork in my cast-iron skillet simmering with kale, onions, and hickory-smoked bacon. The sprawling brick building had once been a dockside warehouse with big picture windows looking onto the harbor and across to Boston. Pearl snuggled in a ball on the couch as the rain continued in the night. Every few minutes, she’d lift her head and sniff for the bacon scent.

‘I understand the nickname is only whispered by museum staff.’

‘I don’t know her all that well,’ Susan said. ‘We’ve met socially. She gives to both Community Servings and Jumpstart. As far as I know, she is both well liked and respected in the art scene. She seems like a perfectly lovely woman.’

‘Tomorrow morning, I meet with her and the head of the museum board,’ I said. ‘A man named Topper.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be hard not to ask.’

‘If he’s being haunted by the ghosts of Cary Grant and Constance Bennett?’

I saluted her with my Sam Adams.

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Hard to turn down Locke.’

‘How bad?’

‘The worst,’ I said. ‘He said it could be weeks. Months at best.’

‘God.’

I added a bit of sea salt and cracked pepper to the pan. As I worked, Susan walked over to my record player and slipped on a Sarah Vaughan album. In a Dutch oven, I’d already cooked two organic chicken breasts with heirloom tomatoes to serve over white beans. The beans came from a can. Everything else from the Boston Public Market. Living on the east end of town had widened my choices in the city. Besides a few small markets in Beacon Hill, I didn’t have many options on Marlborough Street. Less still after my apartment was destroyed by an arsonist.

I turned off the heat and pulled out two china plates from under the kitchen station. The chicken had cooled a bit, and I placed a breast on each plate along with the cherry tomatoes and white beans. A little sprig of rosemary on top.

‘Fancy,’ Susan said.

‘Black-skillet cooking,’ I said. ‘Getting back to my Wyoming roots.’

‘Yee-haw,’ Susan said.

‘Gorgeous Jewish women don’t say “yee-haw.”’

‘What do they say?’

‘Oy, vey?’

Susan tossed a kitchen towel at me. I ducked.

I set both plates on the table, lit a small candle, and dimmed the lights overhead. Sarah sang about a flower crying for the dew. Susan guarded our food from Pearl while I retrieved another beer and popped the top. When I returned, she was staring out the window at the marina and Boston, the Custom House Tower shining gold and proud from across the harbor.

‘I like it.’

‘The chicken?’

‘The view,’ she said. ‘The move took some adjustment. But I like the space. Everything seems so wide open and uncluttered. The city almost looks peaceful from here.’

‘The drive to Cambridge is about the same,’ I said. ‘Maybe better in traffic.’

‘You were welcome to stay,’ she said. ‘We could have made it work.’

‘Why mess with success?’ I said. I drank a little beer.

Susan smiled. We ate for a bit, listening to Sarah and the rain. The lamps positioned around the open space of the condo blossomed with soft gold light. Rain sluiced down the windows, pricks of blue and yellow lights from atop moored ships.

‘Why do you think Locke came to you?’

‘Besides me being tough, resourceful, and smart as a border collie?’

‘Yes,’ Susan said. ‘Besides that.’

‘He said he was concerned the museum might bring someone from outside Boston,’ I said. ‘He told me he’s more sure than ever that whoever stole those paintings has roots here.’

Susan nodded. She forked a bit of chicken with some kale. Her face blossomed with a smile as she lifted a glass to her lips. ‘And what made you accept?’

‘I haven’t accepted yet.’

‘Oh, you will.’

I shook my head. I tried the chicken, thinking that perhaps the kale would have worked a little better with some lemon. When in doubt, always add a little lemon.

‘How could you pass up working on the mystery of all mysteries?’ Susan said.

‘There’s a five-million-dollar reward.’

‘Probably for those in possession of the paintings,’ she said. ‘Not the Winthrop’s hired hand.’

‘A shamus can dream.’

Susan nodded. I slipped some bacon pieces under the table for Pearl. They disappeared within seconds. I raised my hand above-board to a disapproving look from Susan.

‘And for my next miracle,’ I said.

‘Do you think you can restrain yourself?’

‘From feeding Pearl?’

‘From smarting off to Topper Whosis, a board surely made of crotchety old flakes, and Large Marj long enough to get those paintings back.’

‘As I know little to nothing about what I’m stepping into,’ I said, ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that.’

‘Just who do you know in the art world?’

‘I know a guy at South Station who sells prints of dogs playing poker,’ I said.

‘What about Gino Fish?’

‘A man of fine taste,’ I said. ‘But in case you haven’t heard, he’s dead.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But this painting disappeared twenty years ago. Right? Wasn’t Vinnie working with him back then?’

‘Indeed he was.’

‘Well.’

‘Vinnie and I haven’t been on the best of terms as of late.’

‘Can’t you just hug it out,’ she said. ‘Or whatever you mascopaths do.’

‘Mascopaths?’

‘It’s my own term for serially overly macho psyches. Overly masculine personalities.’

‘Would you like me to perform one-armed push-ups before dessert?’

Susan tapped at her cheek. ‘While you perform, may I use your back as an ottoman?’

I thought about it for a moment and then dropped to my knees. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

3

The Winthrop museum looked like a big wedge of Spanish wedding cake, lots of tan stucco with a barrel-tile roof and windows protected with intricate wrought-iron cages. A woman named Constance Winthrop had the place built sometime in the early part of the last century. She had so much money, she proclaimed she wanted the Alhambra brought to the Fens. Nearly a hundred years later, I walked up the marble steps before opening hours. A guard led me through an indoor courtyard with a bubbling fountain and lots of statuary. I felt a bit like Ferdinand the Bull being ushered into the ring.

Marjorie Phillips introduced herself from the head of a long oval table. Even though she didn’t stand, I could tell she was a sturdy woman. She had a thick, jowly face and a Buster Brown haircut. A reddish and green silk scarf wrapped what I imagined to be a neck thicker than an NFL linebacker’s.

I nodded and took off my PawSox road cap, dappled with rain.

‘And this is Topper Townsend,’ she said. ‘He speaks for the board.’

Topper eyed me from behind a rounded pair of black glasses but didn’t offer to shake hands. The round glasses made him look as if he’d just mugged Harry Potter off his Nimbus 2000. He was a gaunt man, thin and reedy, as he stood and with a limp hand hanging. He’d dressed as if he’d been auditioning for page seven of the J. Peterman catalog, with a red plaid shirt and sport green vest. His hair was long and silver, slicked tight against his skull and hanging loosely over his collar.

I took a seat on the opposite side of the table and waited. A pitcher of water sat in the center of the table.

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Cream with two sugars,’ I said.

‘There’s a pot by the sink,’ she said. ‘I’ll warn you. Topper makes disappointing coffee.’

Topper gave a practiced droll look like Paul Lynde sucking on a lemon. I walked over and poured a cup and returned to the seat. I noticed a slick black cane with a silver handle resting near his chair.

‘I understand you’ve already met with Locke?’ Topper said.

I nodded.

‘Poor Locke,’ he said.

I didn’t say anything, stirring my coffee with a plastic spoon. Waiting for them to start discussing details of the paintings and the letters. Topper leaned back and tapped a finger to his lips.

‘How much do you charge, Mr. Spenser?’ Topper said.

I told him.

‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘You must be kidding. That’s more than I’d pay my family attorney. And completely unreasonable.’

I set down my mug, grabbed my cap, and stood.

‘Enough with the bullshit, Topper,’ Marjorie said. ‘Let’s please get on with this. Sit down, Mr. Spenser.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But I draw the line at begging and rolling over. That costs extra.’

‘Oh,’ Topper said. ‘We’ve been warned of your dry wit. And that you often find yourself very amusing.’

I shrugged, trying to look modest. I flicked off some raindrops that had gathered on my cap.

‘What all do you know about what happened here twenty years ago?’ Marjorie said.

‘Only what I read in the papers,’ I said. ‘Two men dressed as cops knocked on the door of the museum. A guard let them in through a side door, where he was quickly pistol-whipped and told to call the second man on patrol. Both men were wrapped up in duct tape and handcuffed to pipes in the basement. All surveillance equipment and the tapes were destroyed. The thieves cut the two paintings from the frames, stole a small sketch, and made off clean. Since then, no one has heard a word.’

‘Until now,’ she said.

Topper harrumphed. It had been a good long while since I’d heard a harrumph. It was as annoying as it was nostalgic. He took off his round glasses and cleaned them with a white hankie. ‘The first letter arrived last month,’ he said. ‘The others every ten days. Right now we have four and have been told to expect more.’

Marjorie didn’t react. She exchanged a quick glance with Topper, who sighed heavily and turned to look at the far window, where ivy had grown wild against the glass. Rain tapped against the windows, the trees and gardens of the Fens obscured by the ornate black iron grating.

‘Whatever we discuss must stay in this room,’ she said. ‘The authorities have warned us about using outside help. But Locke was insistent. More than insistent. He wouldn’t let us speak to anyone else.’

She opened a legal-sized file and pushed a piece of photocopied paper to me. ‘The originals are with the FBI,’ she said.

The first typed letter was quick and to the point. It ran about a half-page, offering to broker the safe return of the El Greco. The author claimed to be only an intermediary for those who had the painting and that the painting was still in good condition and in this country. The last few lines quoted El Greco’s words on the back of the canvas. Or what I assumed to be the words. It might have been a recipe for baklava.

‘Wouldn’t people know about this?’ I said. ‘The Greek wording?’

‘The writing was hidden beneath the frame,’ Topper said. ‘Only discovered after Miss Winthrop purchased the work in 1921 and had it restored. I’ve never seen it mentioned in any scholarship of the work. It’s mainly known by curators and Spanish art historians.’

‘But still known.’

‘Precisely,’ Topper said. ‘See? Smoke and mirrors. More lies. More misdirection. This is another waste of time and a great expense to this museum.’

I was starting to dislike Topper even more than I thought possible. I stared at him. He swallowed and folded his long bony fingers in front of him.

‘Mr. Locke told me you have extensive resources with many unsavory characters in Boston,’ Marjorie said.

‘What can I say?’ I said. ‘I’m a people person.’

Topper leaned back, crossing his arms over the hunting vest. Marjorie eyed me, tilting her head slightly to the side, studying me for all the little details. I started to raise my arm and flex my biceps to demonstrate my worth.

‘The FBI was convinced the theft was arranged by a foreign collector,’ she said. ‘But we don’t believe it. Anyone with connections in the art world would find the Dr. No theory to be outlandish and unrealistic.’

‘Dr. No?’ I said, attempting my best Sean Connery. My Scottish accent was a little off. I sounded more like Scrooge McDuck.

‘A mega-wealthy criminal who wants to hang priceless art over his gold-plated toilets,’ Topper said. ‘Something in a basement to unveil only to his close personal circle. If someone had an El Greco in his possession, the word would’ve gotten out in the last twenty years. Don’t you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I don’t know many people with gold-plated toilets.’

‘I believe this was a job committed by locals,’ she said. ‘Boston thugs who wouldn’t know an El Greco from an El Dorado. I believe it’s still close by, stored somewhere in a dank closet or buried deep underground. I can feel it in my bones, Mr. Spenser. Whoever has it has had it for years and hasn’t a clue of what to do with it. It’s too big, too valuable, and too known for them to sell off.’

‘Do we have anything stronger to go on?’ I said. ‘Other than your bones?’

‘You don’t rely on instinct?’ Marjorie said. ‘I’ve been working in the art world for most of my adult life. The Gentleman in Black is a massive loss for the museum and for the art world as a whole. It was the centerpiece of the Winthrop. I am due to retire at the end of this year, and unless I get that painting hung back into that vacant frame, I will consider all I’ve done for the memory of Miss Winthrop to be in vain.’

I nodded and waited. Topper lifted his chin. ‘I still think his daily rate is unreasonable,’ he said.

‘Oh, put a sock in it, Topper,’ she said. ‘I like him. He’s tough. Look at that neck, that nose. And he has a good reputation and knows the city. What else do we have? Some candy-ass Brit who spends most of his days eating lunch on the pad of Sotheby’s and Christie’s?’

‘His references are excellent,’ he said, ‘but I believe the only way to find that painting would be a time machine. It’s long gone, Marjorie. The sooner we all just admit it, we can all move on as a museum and fill the hole in the collection.’

‘Do you really want us to quit?’ she said. ‘Stop looking? After everything?’

Topper swiveled in the office chair. He reached for the cane and leaned onto it as if contemplating a soft-shoe routine. ‘I will make my stance known with the board,’ he said. ‘It’s a waste. A foolhardy scheme at the very best.’

I looked at Marjorie and shrugged. She adjusted the scarf and folded her chubby little hands before her. She stared at me while I drank some coffee. She was right. Besides being an ass, Topper made horrible coffee.

‘Well?’ she said finally. ‘What do you say, Mr. Spenser? Will you help us find The Gentleman?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I often make a habit of tilting at windmills.’

4

Vinnie Morris ran, among other ventures, an aging bowling alley in Cambridge, not far from the Frozen Pond Rotary. The building hadn’t been updated since the Eisenhower administration and could be described as either run-down or kitschy. Vinnie seemed to relish the Rat Pack feel of the upstairs lounge, with the blond wood paneling and horseshoe-shaped bar. Except for Friday and Saturday nights, the bar was closed, and Vinnie did business near the cash register with several phones, a calculator, and an old-fashioned leather ledger. I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell.

I walked through the front door and spotted the same beefy guy in the Hawaiian shirt working the front desk. I made a shooting gesture with my thumb and my forefinger and bounded up the curving staircase to the bar.

Vinnie looked to be dressed for the country club. Yellow polo shirt, navy pants, and boat shoes. He had a pair of half-glasses hanging around his neck from a sports band. His salt-and-pepper hair, as always, recently barbered.

He was talking on the phone with someone in a very unpleasant tone.

I helped myself to some coffee and took a seat at the end of the bar. I was halfway through the B section of The Globe, reading a column by Tom Farragher, when Vinnie tossed the cell phone down.

‘Do I have to do everything around here?’ he said. ‘Christ. A simple thing. Nothing to it. But no. Christ.’

‘What was the job?’

Vinnie just smiled, snapped his ledger closed, and walked behind the bar. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit up. It had been a while since I’d seen smoking in a bar. I figured if you owned the place, no one would complain.

‘When you get to be our age,’ Vinnie said, ‘you get tired of being hired help. It’s time you ran the show.’

‘How’s the new wife?’ I said.

He made a so-so gesture. ‘She burned all my old tracksuits,’ he said. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘Yes.’

‘She likes me to look sharp,’ he said. ‘Like I used to back in the day. A younger woman will do that. Make you clean up your freakin’ act.’

Many framed photographs of professional bowlers hung on a far wall, aged and yellowed with time. I didn’t bowl much and couldn’t recognize a single one of them. They wore polyester pants and tight sport shirts. Lots of them had mustaches and bad hair. I drank some coffee and turned to watch the cars race along the Concord Expressway. It was midday and they moved fast and free, unencumbered by traffic.

‘Okay,’ Vinnie said. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to ask you a few questions about your previous employer.’

‘Broz?’

‘The other one.’

‘Gino?’ he said. ‘In case you hadn’t heard, he’s dead. Some nutso killed him. Sorry to hear it. But can’t say I was surprised. He’d gotten sloppy in his old age.’

‘And he didn’t have you to protect him.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I know about the antiques,’ I said. ‘But what about art?’

‘Sure,’ Vinnie said. ‘He sold art, too.’

‘I’m working for the Winthrop Museum,’ I said. ‘Looking for three paintings. One of them called The Gentleman in Black.’

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘A velvet painting of Johnny Cash?’

‘Actually, it’s the Juan de Silva y Ribera, third marquis of Montemayor and the warden of the Alcázar of Toledo.’

‘Oh, sure,’ he said. ‘That son of a bitch.’

‘Know anything about it?’

‘I remember someone hit the museum,’ he said. ‘But c’mon. That was like freakin’ twenty years ago.’

‘It was exactly twenty years ago.’

‘And they’re just hiring you now?’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Incredible.’

‘Well,’ Vinnie said, tapping his ash into an empty coffee mug. ‘I don’t know nothing about a man in black or Gino having anything to do with that job. Twenty years ago, I was in the thick of it. I would’ve known.’

‘If not Gino,’ I said, ‘then who might’ve pulled a job like that? It was a small crew. Two guys dressed as cops overpowered the guards. Late night. Good Friday.’

‘And the driver.’

‘How do you know there was a driver?’ I said.

‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘There’s always a driver. Okay, you’re looking for a three-man crew. You sure they’re from around here?’

‘No.’

‘You know what they look like?’

‘No.’

‘You know who might’ve ordered the job?’

‘No.’

‘So,’ Vinnie said. ‘Let me get this straight. You don’t know jack shit.’

I shrugged. ‘I knew you’d understand my situation,’ I said. ‘Get to the heart of the matter.’

‘Did they try and ransom off the painting?’

I shook my head.

‘Or use it to knock some time off someone’s sentence?’

‘Not that I heard.’

‘You know there was a lot of action going on twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘DeMarco’s old man was fighting for his territory in the North End. Broz was getting old and weak. Gino was sitting pretty, taking a cut of the action. I don’t know. You’re talking about a city full of hoods. It would be easier to make you a list of people I know who wouldn’t pull a job like that.’

‘I don’t think they were pros,’ I said. ‘The paintings were damaged. Some of their movements were pretty clumsy.’

‘They got away with it?’ he said. ‘Didn’t they?’

‘Sure.’

‘Then they’re pros,’ he said. ‘At least now. I don’t know, Spenser. I mean, that was a long time ago. Last time I did you a favor, you screwed me.’

I nodded. ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

‘But it came back around,’ he said. ‘What do they say? Fool me once. Shame on me?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But I won’t fool you. I just need a little direction. Lots of people we knew from back then have gone on to that big penitentiary in the sky.’

‘Ain’t it the truth,’ Vinnie said. ‘But where they’re headed ain’t in the sky.’

I smiled. I offered my hand. Vinnie took a moment, nodded, and then set the cigarette at the edge of the mug. He shook his head and then my hand. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll check around. But no promises.’

5

I met Martin Quirk later that day on the Greenway across from the Boston Harbor Hotel. A bunch of food trucks had gathered on the median, circled together like old-time chuck wagons, selling everything from gourmet grilled-cheese sandwiches to sushi. Quirk had double-parked his unmarked black unit in front of the hotel. You could do things like that when you were the assistant superintendent of Boston police.

‘Thanks for coming.’

‘You said you’d buy lunch,’ he said. ‘I figured you meant Trade.’

‘I like Trade,’ I said. ‘But I was in the mood for some Japanese fried chicken.’

‘What in the fuck is Japanese fried chicken?’

I pointed to a purple food truck parked on the crushed gravel. The logo read Moyzilla and featured a friendly Godzilla-like creature holding a pair of chopsticks.

‘Asian comfort food.’

‘I like Asian,’ Quirk said. ‘And I like fried chicken. But not too sure I’ll like ’em together.’

‘Might I recommend some beef noodle soup and spring rolls?’

‘You might,’ Quirk said. ‘But I have on a nice tie. Soup always gets on the tie.’

‘And Marty Quirk can’t have a spot on his tie.’

‘Hell, no, Spenser,’ he said. ‘Unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold. But I’ll get the soup, against my better judgment.’

We ordered the food and took a seat at a picnic table. The rain had stopped, but the sun still hadn’t shone all day. Warm and gray. The smell of salt off the harbor blew in, with seagulls riding the wind high overhead. Quirk had on a gray suit with a crisp white shirt punctuated with a red tie clipped together with a silver pin. He was a big man, nearly my size, with gray hair and hands like a bricklayer’s.

‘How’s Frank?’

‘Getting used to the new captain,’ he said. ‘But you know Frank. He doesn’t like change. After all these years, still won’t pay an extra buck for a decent cigar. I definitely don’t miss the smell of those damn things.’

‘Can we step back and talk for a moment about the past?’ I said. ‘Some people from the old days.’

‘What is this?’ Quirk said. ‘This Is Your Life? I’m not ready to retire. Not yet.’

‘I’m trying to get a sense of some of the crews working Boston in the late nineties,’ I said.

‘Something you don’t know?’ he said. ‘What is this? A joke?’

‘Thieves,’ I said. ‘Snatch-and-grab. Bank robbers. Fences. Crews who will do anything for money.’

‘Pick up the phone book,’ Quirk said. He nodded toward the Moyzilla truck. ‘I think our food’s ready.’

We retrieved the food from the window and sat back down. I ate the chicken with my hands. Deep-fried and boneless, with lots of Sriracha. Throwing caution to the wind, Quirk lifted a plastic spoon and blew on the beef soup.

‘Not my line,’ Quirk said. ‘Unless they killed someone.’

‘Who would know?’

‘The guys who worked robbery back then,’ he said. ‘Bobby Wright ran the squad. But he retired five years ago.’

‘Can you get me his number?’

‘For a bowl of soup?’ Quirk said. ‘Oh, sure, Spenser. Anything for a big spender like you.’

‘Is it not good?’

Quirk raised the spoon, gave me a hard eye, and then tasted it. He nodded his approval.

‘A lot of ghosts from that time,’ Quirk said. ‘Too many dead. You remember the shootings in the North End after the Old Man went to the joint and Joe Broz got soft? No one to keep the order. The fucking Italians were turning our nice little town into a goddamn Coppola movie. DeMarco’s people in a war with the Morellis. We had one, two stiffs a week.’

‘And DeMarco came out on top.’

‘If you can call it that,’ he said. ‘And now you got his numb-nuts fucking son running his show in Revere.’

‘I’ve dealt with him,’ I said. ‘A few times.’

‘Yeah, talk to Bobby,’ Quirk said. ‘He’d be a good guy to help. Just what are you looking for?’

‘Would you believe a priceless painting?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t.’

‘I am currently in the employ of the Winthrop Museum.’

Something shifted in Quirk’s eye. He shook his head before taking a sip off the spoon, a little broth dropping onto his bright red tie. ‘Fuck me.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘You gave it your best shot.’

‘I keep extras in the trunk,’ he said. He dabbed a napkin into his bottled water and wiped the stain.

‘Remember the heist?’

‘Everyone remembers the heist,’ he said. ‘But no one got killed that night. So it wasn’t my business.’

‘What about other nights?’ I said. ‘Later.’

‘You never change, Spenser,’ Quirk said. ‘Always sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.’

‘Didn’t I see you in The Globe last week?’ I said. ‘Bill Brett took a picture of you and McGruff the Crime Dog?’

‘Christ Almighty,’ he said. ‘Eat your fucking fried chicken.’

‘Always good to see you, Quirk.’

He reached for his cell phone and tapped out a message. After, he picked up an egg roll and started to eat. ‘Texted Wright,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know what he says.’

‘I ran down the same question to Vinnie Morris.’

‘And what did Vinnie say?’

‘He says Gino Fish had nothing to do with those paintings.’

‘Yep,’ Quirk said. ‘That’s what a guy like Morris would say. You really trust him?’

‘I do.’

‘I hate to break it to you, but there is no honor system among us and thieves,’ he said. ‘That’s why they’re freakin’ thieves. They keep to their own.’

Two young women in black sports bras and very tiny running shorts trotted by our table, heading down Atlantic. We both continued to eat, watching as they passed. Their muscular legs and taut abs shone with sweat.

‘When did people stop wearing clothes?’ he said.

‘You have an objection to the current trend in sporting goods?’

‘Nope,’ Quirk said. ‘I’m a cop. Just making a professional observation.’

His cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, chewing, and placed it back on the picnic table. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Bobby will meet with you. Five o’clock at Faneuil vs Quincy work? He’s got an office at Quincy Market.’

I nodded.

He tapped the phone and then finished his soup. He pushed away the bowl and gave me a hard stare. ‘How ’bout a friendly warning?’

‘Is there any other kind?’ I said.

‘Keep a wide berth around the department,’ he said. ‘You won’t find cops like Frank and me anymore. Those days are over.’

‘You guys were real sweethearts.’

‘But we had an understanding.’

I shrugged. I ate a little more chicken, the Sriracha sweet and hot at the corners of my mouth.

‘Now?’ he said. ‘Folks like Captain Glass? They’d just as soon put a cigarette out in your eye than work with a private cop. They’ll do everything they can do to jam you up if you get in their way.’

‘How would I get in their way on a painting that’s been missing for twenty years?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’

I didn’t move, only looked up as Quirk gathered his trash. ‘A little hint?’

‘And spoil your fun?’ he said. ‘No fucking way.’

6

I found Bobby Wright a few hours later at the Quincy Market, sitting outside by the Red Auerbach statue. Like Auerbach, he was smoking a cigar. Both of them puffing away, one lifeless and bronze and the other smallish and black. Wright was dressed in a black polo and khakis with gray running shoes. His shirt had been embroidered with the name Wright Consulting.

‘I guess ex-cops can smoke in public.’

‘You get a freebie smoking by Red.’

‘Great coach.’

‘One of the first to integrate the game, man,’ he said.

I nodded and we shook hands. I took a seat beside him. The cobblestones near the Market were uneven and pockmarked with puddles.

‘Winthrop Museum?’ Wright said. A halo of smoke around his head. ‘Quirk told me. I was off that case in less than twenty-four hours. Feds wanted it all to themselves.’

‘How far did you get within those twenty-four hours?’

‘Quick at the scene,’ he said. ‘Locked it down. Took pictures and interviewed the guards. I ran some background checks. But like I said, the Feds wanted us out of the way. They flew what they called the Antiquities Unit up from Washington. Assholes. Local guy was okay. I think if he’d had any choice, we would’ve all worked together.’

‘Epstein?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Epstein. You know him?’

I nodded. Wright smoked the cigar, taking a moment to admire it burning in his hand. He had his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He flicked a little ash off a neatly clipped mustache as the Market began to fill with tourists for happy hour. A throng of hooting women in pink boas passed us. They wore T-shirts that announced ashley’s off the market.

‘Epstein would know a lot more than me,’ he said. ‘It’s been a damn long time. People get old. Die. Shit changes. I’d maybe go back and interview some of the witnesses. I think some kids from Northeastern saw the men sitting in their car before the heist.’

‘I’ve got the original case file coming.’

‘It’s thin,’ Wright said. ‘Museum security was a joke. They had a few surveillance cameras and motion sensors. All the thieves had to do was knock on the door and the morons opened up. After they got what they wanted, they stole the tapes and took off without a trace. But you got to ask yourself, why would a guard open up in the middle of the night completely against museum regulations? Who’s that stupid?’

‘The guard thought they were cops.’

‘This guy wasn’t supposed to open up for anyone,’ Wright said. ‘Not even if Miss Winthrop came back from the dead and offered free blow jobs.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s a pretty good reason.’

Wright laughed. ‘Say, what’s your deal with Quirk?’ he said. ‘The captain, I mean the superintendent, doesn’t seem to do favors for anybody. How long have you two known each other?’

‘Shortly after the Pleistocene era,’ I said. ‘We were investigating the suspicious death of a woolly mammoth.’

‘Quirk and I both worked out of the old headquarters on Berkeley Street,’ he said. ‘Now it’s a fucking luxury hotel. Just like Charles Street Jail.’

Some classical musicians had set up near the steps to the Quincy Market. I couldn’t see them but heard the classical orchestration of ‘Rocky Road to Dublin.’

‘Do you recall the name of the guard you suspected?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But you’ll see in my report. We spent most of our time with him. The other guy had to go to the hospital. He’d been knocked in the head by one of the thieves. Really nasty wound. These weren’t nice people.’

‘Didn’t expect them to be,’ I said. ‘What about the Staties? Did they help out?’

‘Just to collect evidence,’ he said. ‘They took photos of the big mess the thieves left. Fingerprints everywhere. Got some shoe prints. All those busted picture frames. We all thought this was going to turn out to be some kind of ransom situation. Everyone at the museum was waiting by the phone that never rang once.’

‘Did anything else strike you as weird about the theft?’

‘The whole damn thing was weird,’ Wright said. ‘The security was terrible. The guards were untrained. I mean, I was shocked it hadn’t happened before. Like everyone else, I thought it was pretty much a smash-and-grab and we’d catch the bastards before the end of the week.’

‘But the Feds went in another direction.’

‘Damn college guys with tailored suits and fancy-ass ties,’ he said. ‘Arrogant as hell. They were looking for Tom Cruise hanging from the rafters, not actual hoods. I tried to talk them into using our resources. But they figured they knew best. Twenty years later, here we are.’

‘Where would you have gone? Who would you have pulled in to question?’

‘Oh, man,’ Wright said, taking a pull on the cigar. ‘I knew you were going to ask me that. When I retired, I tried to forget about all those sonsabitches. There are a lot of people in this town who get up in the morning, eat breakfast and get dressed, then head out and look for some shit to steal. It’s a profession like any other.’

‘Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.’