David Hosp - Among Thieves

Finn started the car, let the engine run for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll buy all that for the moment. But I need to know one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Is this personal? Because of what he did to Lissa?”

Kozlowski took a deep breath. “He took the girl. The daughter of our client-a girl we were taking care of. He assaulted Lissa, and he could have killed my child before it was even born. It doesn’t get any more personal than this.”

Finn stared back at him. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. So where do we begin?”

“Where every investigation starts,” Kozlowski replied. “At the scene of the crime.”

Finn made the call from the car. Sometimes being a lawyer seemed like a life strung together in a series of unpleasant phone conversations. Your parole was denied; the judge ruled against you; there’s a problem with the contract. Nothing in his experience, though, had prepared him for a call as difficult as this one.

“ Devon,” Finn said. He stopped. He couldn’t figure out how to say it.

“What’s wrong?” his client asked.

Finn took a deep breath. “Sally’s been kidnapped.” Three words. The worst three words Finn had ever uttered.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Devon said after a minute. “How? When?”

“A couple of hours ago. From her school.” Finn could hear Devon suck in air like a drowning man pulled from the ocean.

“Was it him?”

“Yeah,” Finn said. “We got a call from him within the last hour. He said she’s okay, but he’s only gonna let her go if he either gets the paintings or he gets you.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“No. He told us that if we did, he’d kill her. She’s your daughter, though. If you think we should get the cops involved, we will. It’s your call.”

“No cops,” Devon said. “He’s not the kinda guy who bluffs. He’ll kill her. I gotta deal with this myself. Can you get me outta here?”

“Probably,” Finn said. “I’ve got a motion for a new bail hearing ready, and I can get it filed today. After the last hearing, it’s not gonna be cheap, but they’ll set bail.”

“I don’t care what it costs. Just get me out. It’s me he wants. That’s her only chance. When do you think the judge will hear it?”

“He’s got a motions session tomorrow. I’ll try to get it scheduled for then.”

“Get it done. I gotta get outta this place.” Devon sounded deep in despair.

“It’s the best I can do,” Finn said. “It’s not gonna be an easy hearing.”

“Okay,” Devon said. “Finn, I’m worried.”

“I know,” Finn said. The guilt ripped at him. “I’m sorry, Devon. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think that this could happen.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. All this is my fault.”

“We’ll get her back,” Finn said with false confidence.

“We will.” Devon sounded even less sure than Finn felt. “I’m gonna make sure we get her back.”

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum wasn’t far from the hospital. It covered half a block on Fenway Drive, next to Simmons College, just around the corner from the Museum of Fine Arts and Northeastern University. Across the street to the east was a patch of garden that was the last natural remnant of the swampy fens that had once covered much of the area west of downtown Boston.

Finn had never been to the Gardner before, and he was surprised by its exterior. He was familiar with the larger Museum of Fine Arts, with its towering Ionic columns and broad marble staircase leading up from the sidewalk to the main entrance. He’d been to the Boston Public Library, with its imposing neoclassical facade, rising from the center of Copley like some great mausoleum. It seemed to Finn that such pomp was a necessary hallmark of cultural landmarks. The Gardner had none of it. From the outside, the museum begged for little attention. It had gray-brown stucco sides, set flush to the sidewalk, with a stubby steel door for an entrance that for its lack of pretension could have been admitting them to a college dorm.

Finn and Kozlowski walked through the dark entryway, paid their admission fee, and walked into the main section of the museum. Upon entering, Finn felt transported. Before him was an enormous three-story indoor courtyard garden, roofed by a great glass ceiling allowing in all the sunlight of the day. Rustles of clover and ivy covered the ground surrounding an intricate mosaic that was centered under the transparent ceiling. Across the courtyard from the entrance, a large fountain with inverted Chinese fish-dragons was framed by an elaborate two-way staircase. About the courtyard were strewn various works-headless statues, urns, and obelisks-looking almost haphazard in their placement. And yet there was an order to it all, as though the informality of their selection and display was central to their purpose. Above, balconies set against huge arched marble windows observed the scene.

“Nice,” Kozlowski said.

“Yeah,” Finn agreed.

The entire building was centered on the courtyard, with galleries and halls ringing the place on every floor.

“I guess we should find out who’s in charge,” Kozlowski said. He walked over to an information desk, off to one corner of the ground floor. The woman there blended well into the place. She appeared to be in her fifties; her dark hair was streaked with gray. Her clothes were respectable, demure, and prim. They were neither expensive nor shabby. She was looking down at the desk, motionless. Finn wondered for a moment whether she might be part of an exhibit. Kozlowski walked over and stood in front of the desk. She must have seen him; he was too imposing a presence to go unnoticed. But she didn’t look up. “Excuse me,” he said in a polite tone after a moment.

“Yes?” she said. She still didn’t raise her eyes, giving the impression that whatever she was studying was far too important for her to be pulled away at the first effort.

“Can we talk to the manager?”

With the question, her gaze was drawn upward, and she looked directly at Kozlowski for the first time. Her head remained at a downward angle, as if she was still deciding whether he merited a shift in her actual body position. “Manager?” she said. “No. We don’t have a manager. We have a director.”

“He’s the person who’s in charge?”

“He is.”

“Is there any chance we could talk to him for a moment?”

This time she seemed to latch on to the we, and she craned her neck at an angle to get a line of vision around Kozlowski, examining Finn. She took only a quick look, and didn’t seem impressed. “Can I ask why?”

“We have a couple of questions about the art theft.”

With the mention of the robbery, her posture straightened. Her brow knit itself tightly and her eyes narrowed angrily. “We don’t answer questions about the theft,” she said. “Not ever.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.”

Kozlowski’s voice became serious. “My name is Kozlowski,” he said. He took out the leather billfold in which he kept his private detective’s license and held it up. It had his picture and looked official. He kept his eyes on the woman’s and she took only a glance at the identification. “We’re chasing down a lead in a more recent crime that may be related. It would be helpful if we could talk to him just for a moment.”

The look on the woman’s face soured even further. “What additional information could you people need beyond what we’ve provided over and over again? It’s been twenty years, do you really think there’s anything more that anyone here has to say to the police?”

“Please, ma’am,” Kozlowski said. “It will just take a moment of his time.”