The Art of the Heist

Twenty-One

Much to my dismay, I soon found myself back at the Charles Street Jail. Not long after my arrival I learned that Tommy Sperrazza was also there. He and Johnny Stokes had been arrested while I was in Cohasset. Stokes was already back at Walpole, but Sperrazza, who was also a client of Marty Leppo’s, was awaiting trial for the murder of Ralph Cirvinale, the man he’d shot to death coming out of the Roslindale bar. Karen Spinney and Susan Webster, the two young women who had witnessed the crime, still had not been found, but there was no shortage of other witnesses, and it looked like Sperrazza’s conviction was a foregone conclusion.

My first visitor at Charles Street was Marty Leppo. Though I’d had no direct contact with him since jumping bail, I had managed, through various mutual friends, to let him know that I was alive and well. Despite the circumstances, I have to think he was relieved to see me back in custody, where he could at least keep an eye on me.

“You know, that was a stupid stunt you pulled, skipping out on me like that,” he said when we sat down together in one of the private attorney-client meeting rooms at Charles Street.

I shrugged. “I had some unfinished business to take care of.”

He tried and failed to look disappointed in me. The truth was, he liked me too much to be angry with me for disappearing. “I’ll bet you did.”

Leaning back in his chair, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. Like me, he was a man who could appreciate a nice set of clothes. I had never seen him anything other than impeccably dressed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that missing Rembrandt?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. I smiled at him, and the look he gave me in return said he knew I was involved. We didn’t speak about the subject again.

The second person to visit me at the Charles Street Jail was my father. He would have come to see me no matter what, but I could tell as soon as we sat down together that he had an agenda of his own. After the usual pleasantries and a few requisite questions regarding my general well-being, my father got down to business.

“You don’t know anything about that painting, do you?” he asked. Then, knowing better than to expect a straight answer out of me, he added, “Because if you do, John Regan would really like to be involved in its return.”

It had been my intention all along to use Regan, partly because I liked him and knew what a feather in his cap helping to get the painting back would be, and partly because I relished the thought of screwing over Bernie Murphy. After his gloating remarks to me following the Mashpee arrest, I had no intention of letting him take even one iota of the credit for the Rembrandt’s return. But I didn’t tell my father any of this.

“Tell him to come see me,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant about the idea, as if involving Regan as an intermediary was just one of many possibilities I had to consider.

Days later, Regan did come.

“Your father says you might be able to help get that Rembrandt back,” Regan said.

“Possibly,” I told him. “For the right price.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t want to spend the next ten years in federal prison.”

Regan nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t take the painting, but I’ve got a good idea where it is. If I can make a deal with Twomey, I’ll do what I can to see it gets back into the hands of its rightful owners. But I’m going to need someone to take custody of the painting.” I stopped and looked Regan in the eye. “Someone I can trust.”

Regan nodded, slowly and deliberately, as if he’d already given his response no small amount of thought. “You know, you’re going to piss a lot of people off if you do this, Myles. The MFA’s Boston PD turf. They’re going to look like real assholes if they’re not in on bringing that painting home.”

I shrugged. Regan had known me for long enough to realize I wasn’t afraid of the Boston police, or anyone else for that matter.

I knew I’d never see the outside of Charles Street Jail until the Rembrandt was safely returned, which meant I needed someone to deliver the painting to Regan. There was no question in my mind that the only person I trusted enough to fill this role was Al Dotoli.

Aside from being my manager and best friend, Al was as clean as they come, and a businessman to boot. I knew he had the authority needed to successfully carry off the exchange. Having seen him in action with nightclub owners and radio producers, I knew what a tough negotiator he could be. Al also knew John Regan from the old days in Milton. But most important, I had absolutely no doubts concerning Al’s loyalty to me.

Soon after my meeting with Regan, Al came to visit me. Conveniently, the state police had arranged for us to have our own private meeting room at Charles Street.

“I heard you’ve been getting chummy with Bernie Murphy,” I joked when we sat down together.

Al smiled. “We’ve said a few words to each other. He’s a real personable guy.”

“He know you’re here?”

“I’d say it’s likely. Most days I’ve either got him or his partner on my tail.” He leaned closer. “Murphy told me the feds are willing to drop all charges if you can help them get the Rembrandt back.”

“Fuck Murphy,” I said. Then, softening slightly, I told him, “Look, I know where the painting is and I can get my hands on it, but I won’t deal with the FBI.” I paused, searching Al’s face for any sign that he was wavering. “And I’m going to need your help.”

“You know I’ll do what I can,” Al assured me.

I nodded my appreciation. “It might take me awhile to work out a suitable deal.”

“Don’t take too long,” Al warned me. “The feds aren’t the only ones interested in the painting. I’ve got every wise guy in New England breathing down my neck. Not to mention cops of every stripe. I came home last night to find a couple of insurance guys hiding in the bushes behind my house. I feel like fucking Elvis.”

“I’ll try my best,” I promised him.

With all the important players on board, I met with Marty Leppo to discuss the details of a plea agreement. With the Wyeth theft, the bail-jumping charges, and the parole violation all hanging over my head, I knew I’d have to do some time, but I’d already made up my mind not to settle for anything less than a four-year concurrent sentence for all three. The Rembrandt was a major trump card, and I wasn’t about to play it for pennies.

Telling Marty only that I was in a position to help negotiate the return of the Rembrandt, I laid out my sentencing demands.

Marty was cautiously optimistic. “I think I can convince Twomey to agree to that,” he told me. “The MFA’s leaning hard on him to get the painting back. I’m sure that FBI agent, Murphy, would act as a middleman.”

Al Dotoli wasn’t the only one Murphy had been following around. He’d also taken to shadowing Marty.

I shook my head. “I’ve already made arrangements to use the state police.”

“You screw the feds and the Suffolk County DA on this deal and they’ll make it their sole mission in life to put you away,” Marty warned me. “Are you ready for that?”

“Bring it on,” I told him.

Marty shook his head. “Twomey and Gabriel are going to need proof you can get your hands on the painting,” he said, referring to Jim Gabriel, the U.S. attorney and Twomey’s boss.

“No problem,” I assured Marty.

Negotiating the return of a million-dollar work of art is no small feat; doing so from behind bars was challenging, to say the least. My first order of business was to furnish Marty with the proof he needed. To this end, I had Charlie snap a photo of the portrait alongside that day’s Boston Herald American and send it to Marty’s office.

“You’ll never guess what I got in the mail the other day,” Marty told me on his subsequent visit.

I smiled. “Have you shown it to Twomey?”

Marty nodded. “I had a nice long chat with him and Gabriel.”

“And?”

“They’re definitely interested.”

Over the course of the next two months, Marty met with Twomey, Gabriel, and Regan on numerous occasions. Negotiating for stolen art is a highly controversial subject. There are plenty of people out there who believe that this kind of deal only encourages art theft. In the case of the Rembrandt, my celebrity and the nature of the crimes for which I had been convicted in the past meant all parties involved had to be especially careful about attracting unwanted media scrutiny. Certainly none of them wanted to be seen making a deal with a convicted cop shooter and known art thief.

By late December 1975 the U.S. attorney’s office finally agreed to all of my demands. In exchange for the safe return of the Rembrandt they would drop the bail-jumping charges and pursue a four-year sentence in the Wyeth case, to run concurrently with the time remaining on my state sentence. Just as important, I could serve out that sentence in a state facility. I would be going back to Walpole.

But there was one remaining hurdle. If my federal and state sentences were to run concurrently, I first had to be sentenced in state court for my parole violation. Only then could the federal court impose a concurrent sentence. But the state court couldn’t sentence me while I was in federal custody.

Marty Leppo offered a clever solution to this logistical quandary: Twomey and Gabriel would make a recommendation to the U.S. magistrate to reduce my bail to a personal bond. Once out on bail I would be taken into state custody for violating my original parole. With the transfer accomplished, I would plead guilty to the federal charges.

It seemed like a perfect resolution, but Twomey and Gabriel were still not satisfied. Given my proclivity for going on the run, the two men were rightly worried that I would use the brief window of opportunity between my release from federal custody and my handover to the state to slip away. To further complicate matters, they wanted the painting in their hands before they would make their recommendation to the magistrate. This last demand was something I could not agree to. The Rembrandt was my only bargaining chip, and I wasn’t about to give it up before I got what I wanted.

Just after Christmas, Al Dotoli came to see me at Charles Street. He was visibly upset.

“Myles,” he said, “you know I love you like a brother and I’d do anything for you, but this has gone far enough.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Eleven o’clock last night a big black limo pulls up outside my house and fucking Rudy climbs out with a briefcase full of cash.”

Rudy was a well-known organized crime figure with influence over a massive crew. A visit from him was not to be taken lightly, even by someone like Al, who’d bumped into his fair share of wise guys in his time. “What did he say?” I asked.

“What the fuck do you think he said?” Al lowered his voice, doing his best impersonation of the gangster. ‘“I just came from a meeting at Raymond’s office on the hill. The boys would like Myles to consider turning the painting over to us.’”

Suddenly I understood why Al was so shaken. “Raymond” was none other than Raymond Patriarca, who at the time ran the entire New England mob from the Federal Hill neighborhood in Providence, Rhode Island.

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I’d pass on the request.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the image of the old wise guy standing on Al’s doorstep in Quincy with a case full of money.

“The situation has gotten out of hand, Myles,” Al said forcefully. “The feds have been tailing me everywhere. I had a guy follow me to Paris, for chrissake.” Al had spent much of December on tour with Dionne Warwick, both in the United States and abroad.

“They must be killing each other for that gig,” I remarked.

Al wasn’t amused. “I want this resolved. Preferably in time for it to make the front page of the Sunday Globe this weekend.”

“It’ll be sooner than you think,” I told him.

At this point, the only thing standing in the way of a deal and the return of the painting were Twomey and Gabriel’s fears that I would try to make a run for it. Fortunately, John Regan stepped in at the last minute to offer a compromise: he would personally vouch for the safe return of the Rembrandt and for my transfer from federal to state custody.

Regan’s guarantee worked. After several long months of intense negotiating, we finally had a deal everyone could agree on. It was Wednesday, December 31, New Year’s Eve. Because of the intervening holiday, my transfer and court dates were scheduled for Friday the second, two days later. The timing couldn’t have been better. That afternoon I called Al and told him to come see me right away.

On the evening of December 31, Al and I met at Charles Street Jail for what would be the last time.

“It looks like you’re going to get your Sunday headline,” I told him. “I’m going to court on Friday morning. I’ll call you as soon as my sentencing is official. You’ll need to be ready to move.”

Al nodded soberly.

I passed him a piece of paper with two phone numbers written on it. “This is Charlie’s number,” I said, indicating the first set of digits. “Tell him your name is Kevin. He’ll be expecting your call.”

“Do I know him?” Al asked.

“You won’t be surprised when you see him,” I admitted.

Al nodded. I could tell he was already working up a plan for the exchange.

“Call Regan next,” I instructed him, pointing to the second phone number. “I’ll leave it to you to arrange the handover.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a Polaroid, and slid it across the table to Al. It was a photograph of the back of the Rembrandt, showing a distinctive sequence of numbers that were imprinted on the canvas. “Take this with you to the handover,” I told him. “Make sure the numbers match.”

Al glanced down at the Polaroid.

“I’ve given one to Regan as well. When you meet him for the transfer, say, ‘It’s a beautiful night out.’ You’ll be looking for him to answer, ‘Yes, there are plenty of stars out.’”

Al may not have been a hardened criminal, but neither was he a rookie. If he had been, I wouldn’t have trusted him with such a perilous undertaking. He and I had been in some hairy situations together, and I knew he could take care of himself. My confidence wasn’t misplaced.

Rightly fearing for his safety, Al had already recruited one of his most trusted friends, who will be known here simply as B., to act as backup for him. With B. on call, Al set out to come up with a fail-safe plan for the return of the painting. His first order of business was selecting where the exchange would take place. It didn’t take him long to do so. By the time he left the Charles Street Jail on the night of December 31, he had an exact location in mind: the Holiday Inn in North Randolph. The choice was dictated by geography more than anything. The motel was an easy drive from both Al’s house in Quincy and John Regan’s house in Milton. More important, it was located just off Interstate 93, making for a convenient getaway for Al.

Wasting no time, Al drove straight from his meeting with me at the Charles Street Jail to John Regan’s house in Milton. Carefully timing the route as he went, he headed south from Regan’s in the direction of the Holiday Inn, stopping at the Copeland Farms, a popular dairy bar and farm stand on Randolph Avenue, where he jotted down the number of the pay phone. He then called B. and asked the man to call him back at the number, to confirm that the phone and the number worked. Satisfied that they did, Al continued the last mile down Randolph Avenue to the Holiday Inn, still timing himself.

Making a circuit of the motel’s large parking lot, which it shared with several other businesses, including Lantana and the Chateau De Ville, two large function halls, and Peter’s, a popular disco, Al contemplated his options. If his plan was to work, he needed to locate yet another pay phone. Figuring he could use a drink, he parked his car and headed into Peter’s. Despite the fact that it was New Year’s Eve, it was still early enough that the nightclub had not yet filled with revelers. Al easily found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. While he was waiting for the bartender to fill his order, he noticed a house phone at the far end of the bar. It was exactly what he’d been looking for. Not only was the phone easily accessible, but it was equipped with a number of lines, meaning the chances of it being busy at any one time were extremely slim.

Slipping off his stool, Al sidled down the bar until he was close enough to read the number on the phone. Repeating the precaution he’d taken at Copeland Farms, he then made his way upstairs and used the pay phone outside the men’s room to dial the bar phone for verification. With the phone number at Peter’s confirmed, Al headed back to his car.

The pay phones took care of his plan for dealing with Regan, but Al still needed to find a location where he could rendezvous with Charlie, preferably somewhere nearby but not part of the motel complex. It would be catastrophic if someone got to Charlie and the painting before he did. Scanning the boundaries of the parking lot, Al headed east toward a sparsely lit drive that led out of the lot to High Street. Once on High Street, he cruised south, with the wooded landscape of the Blue Hills nature preserve on his right and a residential neighborhood of quiet through streets on his left. Passing a ball field, he slowed slightly, noting a small dirt car park and some trash barrels. Then he turned east on one of the through streets and looped back toward North Main Street, still looking for a rendezvous point. At the intersection of North Main Street and Edwin Street, just a few blocks south of the Holiday Inn, he found exactly what he was looking for: a Dunkin’ Donuts shop with ample parking and direct access to the northbound lane of North Main Street. With the logistics of his plan firmly laid out in his mind, and in no mood for celebrating, Al headed home to Quincy to try to get some sleep.

While Al was scouting the location for the handover, I drafted two letters-one to Al and one to Charlie-with last-minute instructions and assurances that the men could trust each other. I won’t lie; I was nervous as hell that something would go wrong.

This operation is vital, I wrote to Al, and must be carried out successfully; no mob, no insurance men, no FBI or police, and no failure. In a final postscript I added one last piece of advice: Whatever you do, don’t remove the painting from the frame.

The next day a friendly screw hand-delivered the letters to Al and Charlie. There was nothing more that I could do. The return of the Rembrandt was now out of my hands.