David Hosp - Among Thieves

“Well, now you’re gonna have the chance. You’re gonna give up the paintings to get her back.”

Devon shook his head. “I’ll give myself up to get her back. The paintings are hers. She keeps them. At least she can get the reward for them; that’s five million. That’s more than I could ever give her. It’s more than I’m worth.”

“Don’t be stupid, Devon,” Finn said. “She needs a father more than she needs five million dollars.”

Devon looked up at him and laughed. “You been watching too many fuckin’ after-school specials, Finn,” he said. “I’m a piece of shit. She’d be better off without me. That’s not self-fuckin’-pity, I know what I’m talkin’ about. With money like that, she can start a life. A real life. Not the gettin’-by shit I can give her.”

“You may be right,” Kozlowski said. “She may be better off without you. I don’t know. I do know that it doesn’t matter, though; we’re giving him the paintings.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way to keep her safe.”

Devon looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Koz is right,” Finn said. “Shit, Devon, you’ll end up telling Kilbranish where the paintings are anyways; he’ll get it out of you.”

Devon shook his head. “I can take the pain. I won’t tell him shit.”

“Oh, Jesus, Devon, think about it! You couldn’t keep from telling us after I blew you a fuckin’ kiss. You really think you’re gonna stand up to what this psycho will do to you? You’ll promise to tell him if he promises not to hurt Sally, and he’ll promise. And then, you know what? He’ll kill her anyway, just to cut the trail off. Even if you somehow manage to keep you mouth shut as he slices your nuts off-and you won’t-you think that’ll end this for him? You think he’s gonna pack his shit up and head back to Ireland humming a happy fuckin’ tune? No, he’ll go after Sally just to find out if she knows anything. Then he’ll come after me, and he’ll come after Koz, and he’ll come after Lissa on the chance that you’ve told us something-which, by the way, you have.”

“I’ve got enough to do in my life,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t need to spend my time hunting down some whacked-out leprechaun just to protect my people.”

The realization spread over Devon ’s face. “But then Sally has nothing!” he cried, in agony. “She’ll have shit!”

“She’ll have you,” Finn said.

“Same fuckin’ thing.” He was sobbing now. His head was down and his shoulders were shaking silently.

“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. “But it’ll have to do. It beats being dead.”

No one said a word for a few moments, and Devon ’s silent outburst died down. Finally, he pulled his hands away from his face. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. How do we do it?”

Finn and Kozlowski looked at each other. “First,” Finn said, “we wait for Kilbranish’s call. He said he was calling at six. Then we set up a meeting to trade the paintings for Sally.”

Special Agent Hewitt was parked on Devon Malley’s street, facing east. He’d been tailing the lawyer all day. He followed him to court and ducked down in the back of the courtroom during the bail hearing. He watched as Finn, Malley, and Kozlowski went to pick up the other car, and he followed them to Southie.

He got Devon ’s name off the courtroom schedule and called it in to Porter, who was back at the office. “I’ll run him through the computer,” Porter said. Twenty minutes later, Porter called back. “He’s a thief,” he reported. “Small-time, but he had some connections back in the day with Murphy. The apartment they’re in is his.”

“He could be our guy,” Hewitt said.

“Could be,” Porter replied. “Something’s going down.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it? Word at the courthouse was that the lawyer pulled some strings to get this guy’s bail hearing scheduled early. No reason for the hurry unless something’s happening.”

“Have you got GPS with you?”

“Yeah. I was afraid they might just be stopping off for a second, but from the look of things, they may be here for a while. The car’s a little way down the street from the apartment. Could be tricky, but I think I can handle it.”

“Good. Get it planted, and keep an eye on them. Let me know if anything happens.” Porter hung up without waiting for a reply.

Hewitt looked at his phone. He had the distinct feeling that Porter viewed himself as fully in charge of the investigation now, and thought of Hewitt as nothing more than a glorified gofer. It hadn’t been that way at the start. Porter had come to Hewitt and asked a favor. He said he had a solid lead on the Gardner case, but needed to keep the investigation closed. He said there was a chance there was a breach in the Art Theft Program unit, and he wasn’t willing to risk losing the Gardner paintings over it. He even offered to share the credit for any success they had. Hewitt was beginning to get the impression that the amount of credit that would actually come his way would be minimal.

He picked up the cardboard cup of coffee he’d bought at noon and took a sip. The coffee was cold and stale, and he almost spat it out. He grimaced; he’d have thought by this time in his career he wouldn’t be sweating his balls off on a stakeout. Looking around, he spied a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. He needed to take a leak and get a new cup of coffee. Before he could do either of those things, though, he had a job to do.

He reached into the glove compartment and took out a small black box the size of a cigarette lighter. Turning it over on its side he flipped a switch, and checked to see that it was working. He opened the car door, got out, and walked up the street, toward where the giant Caprice was parked. When he got alongside the rear bumper he pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and let it slip out of his hand and drop to the curb. As he bent down to pick it up, he quickly slid the little black box under the car’s rear fender. He stood up and walked across the street toward the Dunkin’ Donuts.

Stone and Sanchez were in their unmarked car a block up the street from Devon’s apartment, facing west. “What do you think?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know anymore,” Sanchez replied. “What the hell are they doing in there?” It was nearing six in the evening, and they’d been at the apartment for close to an hour. Sanchez had one of the guards at the courthouse let him know when the hearing was over. They’d waited outside and followed Finn and Kozlowski from the courthouse.

“Maybe the paintings are in there,” Stone said. Sanchez couldn’t tell whether he was kidding.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Can you imagine? Half a billion dollars’ worth of art in a shithole like that? Chances are the rats would have gotten to the paintings anyway. They’ll come out all full of holes. Hopefully it’s that shitty modern art and it won’t matter.”

“If the guy who did Murphy and Ballick finds these guys, everyone in there will come out full of holes,” Sanchez said. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Oh fuck,” Stone said.

“What is it?”

Stone pointed up the street past the apartment. It took a second for Sanchez to see what he was talking about. Then she saw him: a tall black man in a dark suit and sunglasses, heading toward them. “Hewitt,” Stone said. He stopped next to Kozlowski’s car and bent down to pick up something that had fallen out of his pocket. “GPS?”

“Gotta be.” They watched as Hewitt stood and crossed the street, headed into the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Shit,” she said.

“How the fuck did he get here?”

“He must have followed them too,” Sanchez said. “Goddammit.”