“Kidnapping,” Broadark replied. “The taking of innocents.”
“Innocents?” Liam laughed. “Those are high-minded principles for you to be expressing, friend. Have you never killed children?”
Broadark’s face twitched with rage. “Only when necessary, and never on purpose.”
“Not exactly an altar boy’s motto, is it?”
“I am serious, mate,” Broadark said. “No one approved this. I won’t be a part of it. I was sent to help you, but not in this.”
“I didn’t ask for your help. Just don’t get in my way.”
“That decision isn’t mine. I’m calling this in.”
“Fine,” Liam said. “Do you really think that anyone is going to give up a chance at this kind of money for one girl? If that was the case, the cause never would have carried on for this long. Don’t you understand? These paintings are our lifeblood. They’re our last chance.” Liam moved back into the kitchen.
Broadark stood there for a moment. Then he pulled out his cell phone. “The decision’s not mine to make,” he said. He started walking toward the front door.
Liam moved after him. “Okay,” he said in an even voice. “Make the call.” Even as he spoke, though, he was pulling his knife out of its sheath. He came up on Broadark from behind quickly. At the last moment, Broadark realized his mistake, and he began to turn. It was too late, though. Liam swung his arm over Broadark’s shoulder and drove the knife hard through the rib cage. Broadark stumbled and fell forward. Liam could see the man’s hand searching for his gun, and he dropped to one knee behind him, grabbing him by the forehead and pulling his head back, exposing his neck. “I warned you,” he said. Then he pulled the knife across Broadark’s throat. The cut was deep and effective, and whatever life was left in Broadark’s body deserted it instantly. He fell heavily on his face, his arms splayed out to the side. Liam quickly rolled him on his back and stabbed him once more in the chest to make sure that the heart was stopped. With the body in that position and no further heartbeat, it would limit the amount of blood that he would have to clean.
Liam stood up and took a deep breath. He walked over to the sink and ran some cold water, sliding the knife under the flow, watching as it turned from deep red to pink as the blood was washed down. Then he turned and looked at Broadark’s body. There was nothing to be done about it, he told himself. He was committed. His only option now was success.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Do you think he’ll come in?”
Porter was standing in the doorway to Hewitt’s office. Hewitt looked up from his work. “Finn’s client? Maybe. He’s making a mistake if he doesn’t. I’ve been reading up on our friend Mr. Kilbranish. I wouldn’t want this man after me.”
“No,” Porter agreed. “Nor would I. I don’t understand why they didn’t jump at the idea.”
“Particularly with you offering pardons you didn’t have any authority to offer.”
Porter shrugged. “I just said we could work something out. I didn’t make any firm offer of immunity.”
“You came close. And that was certainly the impression you gave them.”
“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.