Among Thieves (36 page)

“Maybe. Like the detective said, I didn’t misrepresent anything. If they misunderstood, that’s their issue. They know the
rules of this game.”

“Fair enough,” Hewitt said. “I still don’t know whether their client is coming in. The question is: what do we do with him
if he does?”

“That’s easy,” Porter said. “We use him as bait. We lure in Kilbranish, and we put together whatever information we get so
that we can recover the paintings.”

“Bait sometimes gets eaten. Have you thought about that?”

“That’s not my concern.”

“It is if you run an operation with the man. His safety becomes your responsibility.”

“Technically, that’s true. But it’s hardly my main worry. There’s half a billion dollars out there in rare art. Art that has
been missing for twenty years, kept from the public’s view. Art that could be used to fund all measure of criminal and terrorist
activities. These are my main concerns. If the only collateral damage we suffer is the loss of the men who stole the paintings
in the first place, I consider that a success.”

Porter was looking off into space, and he seemed almost serene. At that moment, it occurred to Hewitt how little he actually
knew about the head of the Art Theft Program. “Kozlowski and Finn would probably disagree. I know their client would disagree.”

“That’s not my problem,” Porter responded. “My focus is on the artwork.”

“I don’t like this,” Sanchez said.

Stone was sitting behind the wheel of the unmarked police car. Sanchez was next to him, and they were parked outside Nashua
Street Jail. They had tailed Finn from the hospital to the Gardner Museum to the Federal Building to Nashua Street. All that
activity in just a few hours.

“Something’s happening.”

Sanchez nodded.

“At least we know we were right about the paintings. They wouldn’t have gone to the Gardner if it didn’t have something to
do with the artwork.”

“So it seems,” Sanchez said. She cursed herself; there was so much information right in front of her, and yet she couldn’t
put the pieces together. “Being right doesn’t mean much if it doesn’t lead to an arrest. We’re still two steps behind, and
if we don’t catch up soon, something’s gonna go down and we’re not gonna be ready for it.”

“So, what do we do?” Stone asked. “You want to pick up Finn and Kozlowski?”

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t do any good.” She took an exasperated breath. “What do we know?”

“I checked with the hospital,” Stone replied. “They said the Krantz woman was brought in early in the afternoon. It looks
like she was the victim of an attack, but she wouldn’t give the doctors any information about what happened.”

“And Finn and Kozlowski went straight from there to the museum.” Sanchez’s head spun.

“Right. I talked to the director there briefly. He wasn’t at all happy to see me, by the way. He said they were asking questions
about the robbery twenty years ago. Wouldn’t tell me much more.”

“And from there, they went to the feds.”

“Right. Looks like they went up to the eighth floor. Unless we want to make an official inquiry, we’re not gonna know who
they met with, but I can take a guess.”

“Hewitt.”

“That’s my bet. I heard he and Kozlowski worked together back in the day.”

“Were they close?” Sanchez asked.

“It’s Kozlowski,” Stone said. “I don’t think he’s the type to really bond, but word is they worked well together and they
got along.”

“And now they’re back here at the jail.” She tried to do the math, but none of it added up. “What the hell,” she said. “Could
they be working with Hewitt?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“But why? Unless they’re all in on something together.” She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to relax. “Hewitt worked
organized crime back when Whitey ran things and Connolly was giving him information. That was the same time when the museum
was hit. Koz was a cop back then. Great reputation, great connections, but a pain in the ass to everyone. Now Finn represents
Malley—a thief who worked for Bulger back then. And all this started with the murders of two of Bulger’s men who themselves
may have been involved in the theft.” She opened her eyes. “It can’t be, can it?”

“Whatever it is, it’s moving,” Stone said. He nodded toward the front steps of the jail. “Here they come.”

Sanchez looked over and saw Finn and Kozlowski hurrying down the steps. They weren’t talking, and other than glancing quickly
at the traffic as they crossed the street, their eyes were focused forward. Whatever was happening, it looked as if it was
going to happen fast. They reached the other side of the street and climbed into the convertible they had parked across the
street at the rehabilitations hospital.

“What now, boss?” Stone asked as the convertible pulled out of the parking lot.

“Follow them,” she replied. “They’re our only solid lead right now.”

“How is Devon doing?” Lissa asked. She looked better, but only marginally. She was sitting up in the hospital bed, and she
had fresh bandages on her head. The cuts on her face were still pronounced. Kozlowski was standing against the wall; Finn
was sitting on the chair next to Lissa’s bed. The door was closed.

“Not good,” Finn said. “He’s worried about his daughter, mainly. I think he also knows what giving himself up to Kilbranish
means, though.” He looked out the window. The sun was nearly down, and the suburbs to the west glowed with the last of the
sun’s efforts. It made for quite a contrast, as they sat in the grimy hospital room with its stink of disinfectant, death,
and disease.

“Do you think he’ll go through with it?” Lissa asked. Her hands worried the blanket on her lap absentmindedly.

“I think so,” Finn said. “She’s his daughter.”

“He’s only known she existed for a year or so,” Kozlowski pointed out skeptically. “He may try to skip.”

“I don’t think so,” Finn said. “Devon was never a great liar; he’s not smart enough. He talks about her like she’s his last
hope in the world. I think he’ll do whatever he can to protect her. I think he genuinely cares about her.”

“There’s caring, and then there’s
caring
,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t know that a year is enough time for him to lay down his life for her, daughter or not.”

“Your child hasn’t been born,” Finn said. “What would you do to protect it?”

Kozlowski shifted on the wall, and Finn could see the muscles tense underneath his jacket. “Don’t compare me to Devon,” he
said quietly.

“Fair enough, I’m just saying I think I can read him on this. In any case, we’re not going to let him out of our sight once
he’s out of jail tomorrow. Where he goes, we go. Period. If he tries to run, I’ll tie him up and deliver him to Kilbranish
myself.”

“We should have protected her,” Lissa said. “
I
should have protected her.” She pulled so hard at the blanket, Finn thought it might rip.

“It’s not your fault,” Finn said. “We didn’t know.”

“We knew enough,” she replied.

He nodded. “Maybe we did. But then it’s all our faults. We’ll get her back.”

“You have a plan?” she asked.

Finn laughed bitterly. “Not really. I called in a favor at the clerk’s office and got Devon’s new bail hearing put on the
calendar for tomorrow. That’s the best I could do. First we have to get him out—and after his little charade the other day
there’s no guarantee that’s going to happen. Once we get him out, we wait for Kilbranish to call.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re not really going to give Devon up to this psychopath, are we?” Lissa asked. “There has to be another way.”

Finn looked up at Kozlowski. “Maybe there is,” he said. Kozlowski nodded. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably,” Kozlowski said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Finn said.

“What?” Lissa demanded.

“We give him the paintings,” Kozlowski said.

She looked back and forth between them. “We don’t know where the paintings are. Do we?”

“No,” Finn said. “We don’t. But I think we may know who does.”

Devon’s second bail hearing was scheduled for two-thirty on Friday afternoon. Finn arrived at one o’clock to talk to the clerk
to make sure Devon would be called first. He didn’t want to take any chance that an earlier case would get bogged down and
Devon would be returned to jail without the issue even being heard. It was a little tricky; he was calling in a serious favor
from the clerk to set the schedule. Still, he had made it a practice of treating all the clerks at the courthouse well—a trick
he’d learned when he first started out as a public defender—and they appreciated it. Judge Platt’s clerk had been predisposed
in Finn’s favor ever since he’d given him his Red Sox tickets on the first-base line so he could take his son to a game on
his birthday. It wasn’t a bribe, strictly speaking; there was no
quid pro quo
, and Finn would never ask for preferential treatment on the substance of a case. It did allow him to cut some corners on
procedural issues, however. There was no question that what he was asking now would burn the last of any goodwill the tickets
had earned him.

Kristin Kelley, the assistant district attorney who had argued at the arraignment, was not in the courtroom that morning,
which was a blessing. Instead, the young man who had been with her was there, along with a woman who appeared even younger
than he. Just looking at her made Finn feel old, but he banished the thought and focused on the argument at hand.

Judge Platt entered the courtroom at nine twenty-five, looking as bored with his existence as ever. “Call the first case,”
he grumbled after everyone was seated.

“Case number 08-CR-2677, Commonwealth versus Devon Malley! Come forward and be heard!” the bailiff shouted.

Devon was brought in. He was wearing his prison fatigues, and he was chained at the wrists and ankles. Platt had his head
down and was looking through case files as Devon entered, and it took a moment for him to look up. When he did, though, his
forehead wrinkled in disgust. He called his clerk over to the bench, and they engaged in an animated discussion for a moment
before the judge waved him away.

Platt turned his attention to Finn. “Mr. Finn, so nice to have you back in my courtroom,” he said. “Are we going for two out
of three falls today?”

“No, Your Honor,” Finn said. “Before we begin, my client would appreciate the opportunity to address the court briefly, if
possible?”

Platt glared at Devon. “That so, Mr. Malley?”

Finn nudged Devon. “Yes, Your Honor,” Devon said.

Platt crinkled his nose, as if he smelled something offensive. “If you must, go ahead,” he said.

Devon cleared his throat. Finn had rehearsed the speech with his client the night before, but still his palms were sweating
as Devon began. “First,” Devon said, “I want to say I’m sorry to Mr. Finn, my lawyer. He and I have known each other for a
long time, and I got mad at him the other day. I shouldn’t have hit him, and I’m very sorry about that.” Devon paused, looking
at the judge. Finn searched for any change in the man’s demeanor, but could sense none.

“Second,” Devon continued, “I want to say I’m sorry to the bailiffs and the others who were in the courtroom the other day.
I know what I did put them in danger, and I don’t have any excuse for that.”

“Is that it?” Platt asked.

“No, Judge. I want to say I’m sorry to you. This is your courtroom, and I disrupted it.”

“You disrespected it,” Platt interjected.

Devon nodded reluctantly. “I didn’t mean it to have anything to do with you, Judge. I didn’t mean to show disrespect, but
I understand that that was how it looked. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re goddamned right it won’t,” Platt grumbled. His voice had no conviction, though, and Finn could sense that he was slipping
back into his habitual disinterest. “Mr. Finn, I believe we were discussing bail when your client interrupted us, is that
right?”