Among Thieves

Chapter Forty-Three

He’d kept his word to her for a couple of weeks: he’d given up on the investigation into the stolen artwork. He tried to keep the promise longer, but the questions swirled in his mind. What he knew and what he suspected danced together seductively until he was obsessed. And so, on his own, at night, he would surf the Internet for every scrap of additional information he could get-about the Gardner robbery and anyone who might have had anything to do with it. When that wasn’t enough, he tapped some of the other private investigators he sometimes used for jobs not worth Kozlowski’s time. He kept his obsession hidden from Lissa and Kozlowski.

On the Friday afternoon before the Fourth of July, a week after Lissa and Kozlowski got married, he pulled his notes together and went over them one final time. There was no way for him to avoid it anymore. With a heavy sigh, he placed the call. Then he walked outside, climbed into his car, and drove to the museum.

As he walked through the front door, he half expected alarms to go off and security guards to rush at him accusingly, as if he were the reason the paintings had been lost again. It didn’t happen, of course. The woman at the front desk didn’t even notice him as she took the twelve-dollar admission fee. There was a security guard walking by, and he glanced at Finn, nodded politely, and moved on.

Finn climbed the staircase slowly. The place didn’t feel the same as it had when he and Kozlowski first went there. The theft had been theoretical to him then. A myth. The events of twenty years earlier hadn’t affected his life yet. Now the robbery felt personal to him; it seemed an affront in the most intimate sense.

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.”

“But you don’t think so,” Bass observed.

“No, I don’t,” Finn said. “It’s pretty clear in the end that Bulger didn’t trust anyone in his organization. These two guys were fairly high up, and they had lots of other guys loyal to them. I don’t think Bulger would have risked giving them the chance to cross him. More importantly, Kilbranish killed them himself-tortured them-and if they’d known where the paintings were, he probably would have gotten it out of them.”

“You think?”

“He would have been very persuasive.”

“Who else, then?” Bass asked.

“There are two FBI agents who could possibly have been involved. They were both here in Boston at the time of the robbery, and they were both working on different aspects of the investigations into the Boston mob. So they could have developed the ties necessary. One of them, though, clearly didn’t know where the paintings were. I saw him the night everything went down, and he was out of his mind.”

“How about the other one?”

Finn sat back in his chair and took another swallow from his beer. “Rob Hewitt. For a few weeks after Devon was killed, I thought he was probably involved. I was sure he’d moved the paintings. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.”

“How so?”

“The way Devon described the robbery, it’s pretty clear that they had some help from someone who was familiar with just about every aspect of the museum. They had a complete understanding of the security systems; they knew how many guards would be on duty; they were given detailed maps of the entire place. Hewitt was in the FBI, so it’s possible that he could have gotten a lot of this information just by snooping. But there are other things that don’t fit. For example, Bulger also gave Devon and Kilbranish a list of which paintings to steal. I don’t think Hewitt would have known enough about the art in the museum to give them that kind of information. Plus, whoever helped Bulger hide the paintings knew a lot about how to preserve the art. When they were stolen, the paintings were ripped out of their frames and rolled up; but when Devon saw them again, they had been professionally stretched and remounted. And the box they were kept in was specially designed to keep the paintings from suffering any more damage. Hewitt didn’t have that kind of expertise. I suppose it’s possible he could have learned about those sorts of things, but it seems unlikely.”

“Which brings you back to Baxter.”

Finn nodded. “It does. He would have had all the necessary knowledge to help pull off the robbery, plus he would have been able to help Bulger take care of the paintings afterward.”

“Have you shared your theory with the police?” Bass asked.

“Not yet,” Finn said, shaking his head. “I may, if I get more comfortable with my theory, but right now it’s all speculation, all circumstantial. Besides, even with Baxter there are things that don’t quite fit.”

“Like what?”

“Like how would he have gotten hooked up with Bulger in the first place? I suppose Whitey could have sought him out and put a gun to his head, but that would have been awfully risky, and Bulger wasn’t known for taking chances like that. There’s also the insurance issue.”

“The insurance issue?”

Finn nodded. “Bulger arranged all of this with the IRA, which had a history of art theft. That’s one of the ways they funded their part in the troubles. But the IRA had a fairly standard method of operation. They would steal paintings and then ransom them back to the owners for the insurance money. Only in this case, the Gardner Museum didn’t have any insurance. That’s why they had such a hard time disposing of them. From what you’re telling me, Baxter would have known there was no insurance, and that knowledge probably would have put an end to the entire plan before it started.”

“Maybe,” Bass said. “But you never know; they might have taken their chances and gone ahead with it anyway.”

“It’s possible,” Finn admitted. “As I said, it’s all really just speculation.”

“As far as it goes, though, it still seems that Baxter is the most logical suspect.”

“One of them,” Finn said. “There’s one other.”

“Who?”

Finn looked at his beer. It was almost finished, and he took the last sip. “You.” He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention to order another beer.

“Me?”

The waiter came over. “I’ll have another,” Finn said. He looked at Bass’s glass and noted it was still full. “You all set?”

Bass looked bewildered. “Yes, thank you.”

The waiter sauntered away toward the bar. “Yes, you,” Finn said. “In a lot of ways, you fit better than anyone else. You’d been working there for, what, forty years when the robbery took place? You would have known as much about the security system as anybody. You also would have known which paintings were most valuable. You told us yourself that you had worked at nearly every job at the place, and had even worked for a while helping to preserve the paintings, so you could easily have designed the box they were kept in. One of the few things that you probably wouldn’t have known was that the museum had no insurance. I’d be surprised if you ever worked in the business end of the operation. Am I right?”

Bass stared at Finn, his lower jaw dangling. “I never worked in the business office,” he said.

“I figured,” Finn said. “Plus, I did some checking. You told us you grew up poor. You stayed poor even after you started working at the museum. Poor enough to qualify for a little apartment in the Old Harbor projects in Southie, which is where you’ve lived for almost fifty years. Less than six blocks from where Whitey Bulger grew up. You must have tried hard to lose the accent, but a little bit of it comes through every now and then.”

The waiter arrived and set Finn’s drink down on the table. “Anything else?” he asked.

“No, we’re good, thanks,” Finn responded. He took a sip of the beer. “There’s really only one thing that doesn’t fit,” Finn said after a moment.

“Which is?”

“Motive. I still can’t figure it out. If you were involved, you clearly didn’t make any money off the robbery, and that knocks out the motive that usually drives people in situations like this-greed. From what I can tell, the museum has treated you pretty well. Maybe not perfectly, but I’ve seen the way you talk about the place; it’s pretty clear that there’s no revenge at issue here. So, I can’t figure out what your angle would have been.” He took another drink.

“I’m not sure how you expect me to respond to all this,” Bass said.

“I expect you to tell me the truth,” Finn said.

“The truth is I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. When we first talked to you in the museum, you described the robbery as a ‘betrayal.’ It seemed like an odd choice of words to me at the time, and it stuck. You can only betray something you love; something you have some loyalty to. It seemed like you knew what you were talking about. Like it was personal.”

A light shade of crimson shone through the gray of Bass’s face. He stood up. “I don’t appreciate your insinuation, Mr. Finn.”

“Sit down.”

“Why would I?”

“Because I’m meeting the police at the museum in twenty minutes, and I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to tell them my theory about you.”

Bass stood by the side of the table, tottering slightly, hanging over Finn like some half-dead apparition. “You wouldn’t. You don’t have any proof.”

“Proof?” Finn laughed. “Who cares about proof? I’ve got a viable theory about the greatest art theft in history. I’m guessing it’s a theory that hasn’t been checked out very carefully before. The cops would have looked at you, sure.” Finn looked up at Bass and held his fingers up in a square, as though examining him through a camera. “But I’m guessing they passed by you pretty quickly and got on to people they thought were more likely suspects. Now they could take their time. Check you out thoroughly. Go through your records, search your apartment, check if you’ve rented any self-storage recently. Even if I’m wrong, it would be a serious hassle. I’m guessing someone your age might not even be able to survive it. Stress is a real killer, they say.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Because my client is dead. A girl lost her father. I want to know why.” He pointed to the chair beside him. “Now sit.”

Bass sunk into the seat. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun again. “What would you do?” he asked. “If I said you were right, would you tell the police?”

“Depends,” Finn said.

“On what?”

“On whether you give me a good enough reason not to.”

Bass sat very still for a long time. “I’m dying,” he said at last.

“We’re all dying,” Finn replied.

“The doctors say a year at the outside.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s not a reason.”

Bass opened his eyes and picked up his glass. He didn’t even bother to sniff the wine this time; he took a long drink. “I love the museum,” he said. “I love what it stands for. Can you imagine, building something that beautiful? One person. One vision. And then leaving all that beauty to the world forever? It is, perhaps, one of the greatest accomplishments I can think of.” He was looking off at some distant point, and his eyes had lost their focus. Then he looked sharply at Finn. “That place saved my life,” he said. “It fed me. It clothed me. It took me in. But more than that, it gave me a reason to live. In some ways, it gave me life itself. That sounds delusional to you, I’m sure.”

Finn shook his head. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t. But it doesn’t explain why you would steal from a place like that.”

“To save it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see, Mr. Finn, I didn’t have much of a choice,” Bass said. “Jimmy Bulger could be-how did you put it before?-very persuasive.”

“He threatened to kill you?” Finn guessed.

“No, no, he knew me too well for that. He knew that I would never hurt the museum to save myself.”

“What then?”

“He threatened to take it all away from me. To take it away from the world.” Finn stared blankly back at the old man as he continued. “I lived in that neighborhood for a long time. I knew Bulger’s mother, and I was nice to her. He never bothered me until that one time, when he came to me and he told me that a friend of his wanted to rob the museum. I was outraged. I told him I would call the police, right then and there, and I would have, too. He knew it. So he used the only thing I ever loved against me. He told me that if I didn’t help them, they would burn the museum to the ground. It wasn’t an idle threat, either. I knew he had the people who could do it. That was always the greatest fear at the museum-a fire. Even if it gets put out, the damage to the building, and the destruction of the artwork from the fire and smoke and water, would be catastrophic. He told me all this; told me what they would do. And then he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘Sam, only you can save the museum.’” Bass’s hands shook at the memory, and he took another sip of his wine. “It was a rationalization, I know, but I accepted it. We struck a deal; it would be a one-time thing, and then they would leave the museum alone forever.”

“You chose the paintings,” Finn said.

“I did. They wanted the most valuable, and only a few. I gave them almost all that they wanted.”

“Except The Rape of Europa, by Titian.”

“That’s true. I didn’t give them the Titian. Bulger was angry when he read the papers the next day and learned that I hadn’t told them to take the most valuable painting in the place, but I didn’t care. There are stories of how proud Mrs. Jack was when she acquired that painting. She had parties just to celebrate, and she called her museum complete with it. The depths of my betrayal wouldn’t go so far as to sacrifice that painting. In the end, Bulger got over it. I think he ultimately thought it was a good thing, because the choice of artwork confused investigators-particularly with the knickknacks that Devon Malley apparently decided to pilfer while he was there.”

“What did you get out of it?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Bass replied. “I wouldn’t have taken any money even if they’d offered-and they did. All I got out of it was a promise that Bulger would leave the museum alone after that, and that he would put the word out to other thieves that the museum was under his protection, so that no one else would ever attempt a robbery again. Other than that, I thought it was ended for me.”

“But it wasn’t,” Finn said. “Not quite.”

“No, not quite. Bulger came to me some time later and told me that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the paintings. He said he needed to hide them, and he wanted my help to make sure it was done in a way so that they wouldn’t lose their value.”

“And you helped him.”

“Of course,” Bass said, his eyes wide. “The only thing worse than the paintings being stolen would have been for them to be destroyed. As long as they were protected, there was always a chance that they would find their way home. So I stretched the canvases for him, and remounted them. Then I helped him build the storage box and I made sure that it would keep the paintings safe in the self-storage room.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Not for fifteen years. I managed to put the whole thing behind me; managed to tell myself that I had done the right thing to protect my museum; managed to tell myself that Mrs. Jack would appreciate what I’d done for her, even. Only the empty frames on the walls served as a reminder, but I managed, even, to live with them. Then two months ago I heard that the paintings were being offered for sale. There have been rumors before, but not like this. Baxter made clear that this seemed to be genuine. When I had been diagnosed six months before, I wrote out a note that told where the paintings were so they would be found after I died. I thought that I might fix this all, in the end. With the offer to sell the paintings, though, all that was slipping away, and it looked like they would be lost again. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took them?”

Bass nodded. “I took them. I watched the self-storage for two nights. Once I was convinced it could be done, I used the key Bulger had left with me so I could get in and check on the paintings to make sure they were being preserved, and I took them. It took me almost an entire night, and the exertion nearly killed me, but I did it.”

“And more people died.”

Bass looked down at his wine, and his face grew sad. “Rest assured, Mr. Finn, I will be judged by higher powers than you shortly, and I don’t believe I will be judged well.”

Finn sat there for another few moments, with neither of them talking. He raised his hand to the waiter and pantomimed a signature in the air to indicate that they were ready for the check. “One last question,” Finn said. “Why not return the paintings now? You’d be a hero.”

Bass shook his head. “I’d be a Judas. I am an old man, with little life left in me. The only solace I have is Mrs. Jack’s museum. It is the only thing in this world that ever truly gave me joy. If it was revealed that I had participated in the robbery-that I had kept quiet all these years…? No, Mr. Finn, I would certainly not be a hero, and I have little doubt that I would no longer be welcome in the museum. In my home. It’s selfish of me, I know, but I still believe I had the best intentions, and I am not yet willing to give up the one thing that I love. Given how little time I have, it will be enough that the paintings are returned upon my death, don’t you think?”

“That’s a question for your own conscience,” Finn said.

“It is.” Bass leaned forward. “The question for your conscience, Mr. Finn, is what will you tell the police?”

Finn took a twenty out of his wallet and put it down on the table to cover the drinks. “Do you have a will?” Finn asked.

Bass shook his head. “I have nothing of value.”

“Come by my office tomorrow,” Finn said. “I’ll have a will ready for you to sign.”

“You’re thinking about the paintings? The reward, maybe?” Finn nodded, and Bass nodded back. “Very well. I suppose you’re entitled to the reward for ensuring the paintings find their way back to the museum.”

“I’m not entitled to anything, and I wouldn’t take it if I was. You’re going to leave the paintings to the girl, so she can return them. She lost her father. If anyone is going to get a reward, it’s going to be her.”

Bass seemed to consider this. “Do you think it would work? I was involved in the robbery. If I leave them to her, can she still collect the reward?”

“I don’t know, but if there’s a way I’ll find it.”

“Five million dollars for a young girl.” Bass let out a low whistle. “A lot of money.”

“It is,” Finn conceded. “I don’t even know whether she’ll want it. Those paintings killed her father. She may want no part of the reward. But the decision’s gonna be hers if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Bass nodded. “That seems reasonable to me,” he said. “What time do you want me at your office?”

Finn stood up. “Early. Seven. Before anyone else is in the office. I don’t want anyone else to know about this.”

“I will be at your office at seven,” Bass said. “What will you tell the police?”

“Nothing. I’m your lawyer now. Anything you tell me is protected by the attorney-client privilege. Not only am I not obligated to tell the police anything, I could be disbarred if I did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finn,” Bass said.

“Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for Sally. It’s what her father wanted and he was my client. I’m just doing what he wanted me to. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be telling the police everything.” He turned and walked away without looking back.

Finn walked back to the museum along the Fenway. Summer was in full bloom and the garden park was full of joggers and strollers and weary city souls seeking a respite as they trudged home from work. His car was parked just in front of the museum. A familiar dark Lincoln was parked askew behind him, the ass end of the thing jutting out into the road. Detective Stone was sitting on the hood, watching Finn approach.

He looked at his watch as Finn got within speaking distance. “You said five-thirty,” he said. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Finn said. “I got tied up.”

“So, what is it that you needed to talk about?”

Finn chose his words carefully. “I thought I would have some information I could give you that might be helpful.”

“What is it?” Stone asked. He was still leaning on the car, his head down, watching Finn carefully.

Finn shook his head. “I was wrong. There’s nothing useful I can tell you.”

Stone just continued to stare at him. “That’s why you asked to meet me? To tell me there’s nothing you can tell me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Stone repeated. He looked away, watching a fit young woman as she ran along the dirt park path across the street. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Something you know. Something you’re not going to tell me.”

Finn shrugged. “What is it that you care about, Stone? What is it that you really love?”

Stone’s eyes continued to follow the young woman from behind. “I love catching criminals,” he said. “I love seeing the bad guys go away.”

“What if there are no bad guys?” Finn asked. “What if there are just fucked-up people doing the best with what they’ve been dealt?”

“Doesn’t matter what the hand is. If they play it crooked, they’re the bad guys.” The jogger rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Stone turned to Finn. “What is it you love, Counselor? What is it you really care about?”

Finn thought about it for a moment. “I care about my clients,” he said after a while.

“All of them?”

“Some more than others, but yeah, all of them.”

“What about the bad guys?”

“That’s not for me to judge.”

Stone stood up. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and slipped a business card out of the folds. He handed it to Finn. “You change your mind, you decide you have something to tell me that might be useful, gimme a call.”

“I will.”

Stone got into his car and pulled away into traffic. Finn was left standing there, alone in front of Mrs. Jack’s museum. The gate had been closed, the door pulled shut. The modern security system that hadn’t been in place twenty years before protected it now. The guards inside were well trained and armed.

Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost six. He got into the car and started it up, pulling out in a hurry. He was making dinner for Sally and Lissa and Koz at his place tonight, and he was late. He smiled to himself; it would be a simple evening, but he couldn’t remember looking forward to anything quite so much.