David Hosp: Among Thieves

He turned the corner at the top of the stairs and headed down the hallway to the Dutch Room. There was no one there; the place was dead. The paintings on the wall seemed to mourn the empty frames that hung alongside them.

He walked over and stood in front of the spot where Vermeer’s The Concert had once hung. He’d never seen it for himself; he’d only seen photographs, but he’d watched documentaries where people wept in remembrance of its beauty. He wondered whether he would have felt the same way, or whether he would have passed by it without notice; perhaps even uttered some crass joke at the absurdity of the homage others paid it.

He stood there for a long while, losing all sense of time.

“It is difficult to let go, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room, but recognized the voice. “It is,” he said.

“I understand. Perhaps better than anyone.”

Finn turned around. Sam Bass was sitting in the same chair where Finn and Kozlowski had first seen him, sleeping like the dead. He looked worse now. He’d lost more weight, and the sides of his tattered jacket hung from his shoulders like curtains from a rod. His skin was graying, and his eyes had receded even further into their sockets. “I read about you in the papers,” he said. “I’m sorry this didn’t turn out better.”

“Me too,” Finn said.

“I’d give almost anything to have the paintings back here, where they belong. Where people could enjoy them, marvel at them.”

“A little girl lost her father. She’d give anything to have him back, too.”

Bass nodded. “I read about her. She was the one you were trying to save, when you came here? I’m very sorry for her.”

“Her name is Sally,” Finn said. “She’s remarkable.”

“I’m sure she is.” The old man scratched at the thick layer of patchy gray stubble covering his chin. “Did you see them? The paintings? The papers said that they had disappeared again, but they said they were there in Charlestown all along. Did you see them before they vanished?”

Finn shook his head.

“Pity. You would have liked them. I can see you would have liked them.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose the police learned anything that might lead to their recovery.”

“Not really. Not that anyone is willing to discuss. I have my own theories.”

“Of course you do,” Bass said. “We all have our own theories.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to discuss mine with you,” Finn said. The man hesitated. Finn looked at his watch and saw that it was approaching five o’clock. “The museum closes soon. We could go someplace to sit and talk. I’ll buy you a drink.”

The old man studied Finn’s face. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I’d like that.”

They walked north, along the Fenway, and found a café a few blocks away on Brookline Street. The weather was fine, and they took a table outside. The waiter brought them a plate of bread and glasses of water. “Would you like a cocktail?” he asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” Finn said. “Anything on tap would be fine.” He looked at Bass. “You?”

“I have some health issues,” he said. “My doctor says I can no longer drink.”

“I’m sorry,” Finn said.

Bass looked up at the young waiter. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay if you have one.” As the waiter left, Bass closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. He looked even closer to death outside than he had in the darkened gallery of the museum, and Finn wondered how long it had been since the man had been out in the daylight. “Are you enjoying your youth, Mr. Finn?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

“I have my days.”

“Well, if I could offer you one piece of paltry advice, it would be to enjoy your youth. It passes quickly. Whatever it is you love, dedicate yourself to that. If you can do that faithfully, that is the key to happiness.”

Finn thought about it for a moment. “I’m still trying to figure out what I love.”

Bass laughed as though Finn had told one of the funniest jokes he’d ever heard. When his laughter died down, he said, “Give it some thought. I’m sure it will come to you.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward. “You said you wanted to discuss your theories about the paintings?”

“I did,” Finn said. “I…” The waiter brought their drinks. Finn sat back and let him put them down. Once he’d walked away, Finn began again, his voice lowered. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Paul Baxter.”

“Our illustrious director,” Bass said. He picked up his wine and held it under his nose, swirling it around as he inhaled deeply. “I can’t drink it anymore,” he said, “but I still enjoy the aroma of a decent chardonnay. What would you like to know about Baxter?”

“He started at the museum a month or so before the robbery?”

“That’s right.”

“What were his responsibilities at the time?”

Bass folded his hands in his lap. “He’s the director. He was in charge of the museum,” he said. “He had responsibility for the entire operation.”

“Yes, I know, but what does that encompass, exactly?”

Bass thought for a moment. “That encompasses everything. He had responsibility for the preservation of the place. He was in charge of maintaining the building, making sure the place ran smoothly, making sure everything was taken care of.”

“How about maintaining the art itself?”

“Of course,” Bass said. “He had people helping him, obviously, and there is a curator, but ultimately he was responsible for the preservation of all of the pieces in the museum.”

“And security?”

Bass nodded. “Security, too. After the theft, he oversaw a total overhaul of the security procedures and systems. He had new alarms installed and implemented new protocols for the security guards. In every way, he made sure that what happened that night could never happen again.”

“What about the finances? Was he in charge of those, as well?”

Bass shrugged. “The museum has a director of finances, but that person reports to the director. The financial health and sustenance of the place was ultimately Baxter’s responsibility.”

“That’s what I was guessing,” Finn said as Bass lifted his wine to his nose again.

“These are all pointed questions, Mr. Finn. Do you mind if I ask what they are all about? You don’t really think that Paul Baxter had anything to do with the robbery, do you?”

Finn shrugged. “It’s possible. The way I figure it, there are only a few people who could possibly have been involved-who could have helped to plan the robbery, and who could have also known where the paintings were hidden. Baxter’s one of the people at the top of that list.”

“Do you mind if I ask who the others are?”

Finn shook his head. “Not at all.” He took a long drink from his beer. “Two of them were associates of Whitey Bulger’s. Mob guys. Vinny Murphy and Eddie Ballick. They were definitely involved in the robbery-they brought in Devon Malley to do the job. They partnered him up with a man named Liam Kilbranish.”

“The newspapers talked about the two of them,” Bass said. “They were killed, right?”

“That’s right,” Finn said. “Kilbranish was IRA. A hard-core case, and he came back to find the paintings. Speculation is that he wanted to start the troubles back up, but he needed money to do it. According to Devon, after the robbery, Bulger kept the paintings. He was supposed to get them to the IRA somehow, but he took off before that happened. Devon said Bulger told him that there were only three people who knew where the paintings were hidden. Bulger, Devon, and one other. The question is: who was the third? Because both Murphy and Ballick were in on the job from the start, it’s possible it could have been one of them.”