“Fair enough,” Stone said. “Let’s talk work. Why would the IRA kill a Boston mob boss?”
She sat down across from him at the kitchen table and stared at him warily. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not stupid,” he replied. “I know how to use the Internet. Padre Pio. It’s a form of torture used by IRA enforcers. Named after some Spanish monk from the 1960s who had the stigmata-bleeding from the palms and feet where Jesus was nailed to the cross. IRA enforcers tie their victims’ hands together and shoot clean through, so it looks like they’ve been nailed to the cross. They say they save it for people who’ve betrayed the cause. So why was it used on Murphy?”
She tilted her head. “Not bad,” she said grudgingly. “But I gave you that one.”
“Fine, you gave me that one. I thought that was what partners did-they gave shit to each other.”
“Keep your voice down,” she ordered him. “If my son hears you swear, it’ll be the shortest partnership in departmental history.”
“It already has been,” he said. “It’s never been a partnership at all.”
She took a deep breath. “Look, you seem like a decent kid-”
“No,” he interrupted her. “I’m not a decent kid. I’m a good cop.”
“You may be,” she said.
“No, not I may be. I am. You’d know that if you gave me a chance. So I’ll ask you again, what is the IRA doing knocking off a Boston mob boss?”
“I think it’s about art,” she replied after a moment.
“Art who?”
“Not art who; art, as in paintings.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What does this have to do with art?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. How old were you in 1990?”
He thought for a moment. “Ten,” he replied.
“Jesus,” she said. She rubbed her forehead wearily. “I’m too goddamned old.”
“What happened in 1990?”
“You remember the theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?”
He sat back in the kitchen chair. “Not from back then, but I know about it now. Two guys got away with a couple of paintings, right?”
“That’s one way of putting it. Another way would be to say that it was the greatest art theft in modern history. They say the stuff that was stolen would be worth close to half a billion dollars today.”
“Billion? With a ‘b’?”
“Yeah, billion.” She stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?”
“Sure. Black.”
She pulled out a coffee brewer. It had tubes coming out of it and looked as if it would take a degree from MIT to operate. He wondered where her money came from.
“It was the easiest robbery imaginable, too,” she said, her back to him as she continued to brew the coffee. “There were just two of them, and they faked their way into the museum. The guards were amateurs; not real security guards at all. They weren’t properly trained; they didn’t follow proper procedures. The robbers tied the guards in the basement and spent an hour and a half pulling artwork off the walls, then left. The paintings have never been found.” She brought two mugs over to the table.
“Interesting,” he said. “What’s this got to do with Murphy’s murder?”
“People have searched for these paintings for twenty years,” she said. “The police, the FBI, Interpol, private detectives, insurance detectives, art historians, treasure hunters. People have spent an enormous amount of energy trying to find these things, but no one has done it yet. There have been lots of theories about who was responsible. The most popular is that the IRA teamed up with the Boston mob to do the job, then split the take between the two groups.”
Stone considered this. “It’s an interesting idea. But it seems like a pretty big stretch to assume that this is what Murphy’s murder was about, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Sanchez said. “But one of the works stolen was a painting by Rembrandt. It was one of the most valuable pieces the thieves got away with. The title of it was Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”
It took a moment for the connection to register with Stone. “‘The Storm.’ You think that was the message that was being sent? That whoever did this was coming for the paintings?”
She shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to go on at this point,” she said. “Do you?”
He shook his head. “No. It just seems a little thin.”
“It does,” she agreed. “But it would also fit with the Padre Pio they pulled on Murphy. Back in 1990, nothing happened in this town without Whitey Bulger’s say-so, and Murphy was working closely with him at the time. Maybe this has nothing to do with the art theft. Maybe it’s just a beef between the IRA and the boys in Southie over drugs or guns. But then why paint ‘The Storm’ in blood?”
“Okay,” Stone said. “It’s a possibility. I’m not sold yet, but it’s someplace to start.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Thanks for sharing. It’s almost like we’re partners.”
She was looking at him across the table. “Don’t let it go to your head. In my book, I still don’t know whether this ‘partnership’ is gonna work. I like to work alone, and I don’t trust people easily. We’ll see where this goes; that’s the best I can do.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m just looking for a chance. You may even find it’s easier to do the job if you have someone you can rely on.” He took a final sip of the coffee and put down his mug. “One question,” he said.
“What is it?”
“How do you know so much about the robbery?”
She frowned at him. “I may be old, but I can use the Internet, too.”
Special Agent Hewitt paid the barista for his coffee at the Starbucks in Government Center. It was overpriced, but he’d gotten to the point where he could no longer drink the swill that dribbled from the 1950s coffeemaker at the office. There were some sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make, even in the name of justice.
He walked out of the Starbucks and across the brick tundra that surrounded City Hall. He looked up at the building and grimaced. Boston ’s City Hall had been built in the 1960s, and was the most renowned example of the Brutalist school of design popular at the time. A monumental nine-level cement inverted pyramid set on eight acres of brick and stone, it won praise from the architectural community as a notable achievement in the creation and control of modern urban space. In a poll of historians and architects, it was voted the sixth greatest building in American history. To Bostonians, though, it was an eyesore. With all the warmth of a mausoleum, it loomed over the classic architectural beauty of Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market across the street.
The Boston field office of the FBI was housed in the John F. Kennedy Federal Building next to City Hall. It was a nondescript concrete structure in the heart of Government Center, close to the backside of Beacon Hill.
Hewitt flashed his badge at the guard standing next to the metal detectors and walked around the line. He took the elevator up to the eighth floor, walked through the gray industrial-carpeted hallways, past a warren of cubicles inhabited by dull-eyed functionaries trying to make it through another day on the government payroll, and into his office. It was small by the standards of those he had gone to law school with years ago who now made millions representing huge corporations in the great glass towers of private practice. The furniture was faux-wood laminate over particleboard, and the cabinetry was gray-steel government issue. Nonetheless, he was comfortable there. It was where he belonged.
As he hung up his coat on the hook behind the door he heard a voice coming from behind his desk. “Robert,” it said.
Surprised, Hewitt spun, his hand involuntarily going to his hip, where his gun was encased in a holster.
“No need to shoot, Robert. I’m one of the good guys.” The voice belonged to Angus Porter, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Art Theft Program.