The Art of the Heist

Twenty-Two

Friday, January 2, 1976, dawned bright and early at the Charles Street Jail. After the usual morning roll call-and the customary prebreakfast scramble to nab one of the few seats in the mess not covered in pigeon shit-deputy marshals arrived to escort me to the Federal Building, where I was to appear before U.S. Magistrate Willie Davis.

My court appearance was a mere formality. The details of my sentencing and transfer from federal to state custody had been worked out well in advance and thoroughly vetted by both Twomey and Gabriel. In keeping with the recommendation given him by the U.S. attorney’s office, Magistrate Davis reduced my bail from $1 million to a personal bond. No longer a federal prisoner, I was handed over to John Regan.

While I was standing before Judge Davis, Al Dotoli had some business of his own to take care of. Having laid the groundwork for his plan on the evening of the thirty-first, he had only a few last-minute tasks to accomplish. The first of these was to call his backup man.

“I need you to go the Holiday Inn in North Randolph,” Al told B. “Get me two adjoining rooms on the second floor. Tell them you want to be as close to the side entrance as possible. And whatever you do, don’t give them my name. When you’re done with that I want you to swing by here. I need a ride to the car rental agency.”

Early that afternoon, making good on his word to Twomey and Gabriel, John Regan personally accompanied me from the Federal Building back to the Charles Street Jail. But before delivering me to the jail staff, he allowed me to stop and make one important phone call. The number I dialed was Al Dotoli’s. Our conversation was brief and to the point. “It’s a go,” I told my friend. The rest, I knew, was up to him.

Having received the go-ahead from me, Al called Charlie. “It’s Kevin,” he said, using the code name I’d assigned him. “Be in the parking lot of the Dunkin’ Donuts in North Randolph at seven fifteen. I’ll be coming from Edwin Street. When I turn onto North Main Street, I’ll flash my lights three times. Follow me into the Holiday Inn parking lot.”

After getting a description of Charlie’s car, along with his license plate number, Al hung up and called John Regan, who had gone home to wait for the call. “It’s on,” Al told the state police detective, identifying himself once again only as Kevin. “Stand by.”

“I won’t be alone,” Regan warned him, making good on the agreement he and the U.S. attorney had come to over their months of negotiations. “David Twomey will be there as well.”

“That’s fine,” Al agreed. “Wait for my next call.”

Regan hung up and called Twomey, who immediately set out for Milton.

With Regan on alert, Al waited for darkness to fall to put his plan into action. He wasn’t taking any chances. Al’s Quincy property was bounded in the back by a steep ravine and thickly wooded marshland. On the far side of the ravine was a parking lot. Al had left his rented Plymouth Fury in the lot earlier that afternoon. His backup man, B., was also waiting in the lot, along with his two brothers. The men were armed to the teeth and ready to spring into action should the need arise; B. had parked his van so he could monitor Al’s house, which was dark except for a single light in the upstairs bathroom.

As the sun set, Al had one last detail to see to. Taking a large mirror off the dining room wall, he carefully wrapped the piece in a sleeping bag and set it by the back door. With this final task accomplished, he headed upstairs. At exactly seven o’clock, Al turned off the bathroom light to signal to his backup man that he was on the move. Then he made his way downstairs out the back door, taking the mirror with him. Once the lights were out, Al knew, he had only a few minutes to get across the backyard and through the woods to the parking lot. Any longer than that and B. would come looking for him.

Picking his way along the narrow path that crossed the marsh, Al reached the parking lot without incident. Glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been followed, he stowed the mirror in the trunk of the rented Plymouth. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and, with the van following at a discreet distance, pulled out of the lot, heading south.

Sticking closely to the script he’d written for himself on the night of the thirty-first, Al stopped at Copeland Farms and used the pay phone to call Regan. “Who owns the ’69 Buick?” Al asked, referring to a car-not Regan’s-that he’d seen parked in the lawman’s driveway.

“My wife,” Regan answered.

“Good,” Al told him. “Wait three minutes, then get in the Buick and drive at a normal speed to the Copeland Farms on Randolph Avenue. Wait at the pay phone there for my next call.”

“Hold on,” Regan said, balking. “What’s wrong with my car?”

“Bring the Buick or it’s off,” Al said forcefully, “and two sets of keys.”

“Okay, okay,” Regan quickly relented.

“And one more thing,” Al told him. “If I so much as see a gun, the deal’s off.”

Noting the exact time, Al hung up and climbed back into the Plymouth for the final leg of his trip. Still shadowed by B., he cruised down Randolph Avenue and under the highway, then pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot. Passing Pete’s and the Chateau De Ville, he headed toward the east side the parking lot. Turning down High Street, he pulled up next to the ball field, took the sleeping-bag-wrapped mirror from the trunk, and, moving slowly so that anyone watching could see exactly what he was doing, placed the mirror next to a large trash barrel.

If he was being followed, Al figured now was the time his pursuers would show themselves. Knowing this, he’d given B. specific instructions concerning the decoy drop: B. was to pass Al on High Street, turn around, and make sure he got back into the Plymouth unharmed, then head back to the Holiday Inn parking lot and turn around once again; if the decoy was still by the trash barrel, B. was to pick it up and head home; if the decoy was gone, he would drive directly to the Holiday Inn to warn Al that someone was on to him.

As Al walked back to the Plymouth, he saw the van carrying B. and his brothers go past him on High Street, then slow and make a U-turn. Satisfied that B. had his back, Al climbed into the rental car and continued down High Street, looping west on Edwin Street. As he emerged onto Randolph Avenue, he was relieved to see Charlie waiting for him in the parking lot of the donut shop. Having confirmed that the painting was in place, Al continued back to the Holiday Inn.

Parking his rental car next to the motel’s side entrance, Al climbed up to his rooms on the second floor and went inside. After checking his watch and satisfying himself that B. had in fact recovered the decoy, Al used the phone in his room to dial the number of the pay phone at Copeland Farms. Regan answered on the first ring.

“Drive down Randolph Avenue to the Holiday Inn parking lot,” Al instructed him. “Behind the motel you’ll see a big sign for Peter’s. Park in the sign’s shadow and wait.”

Checking his watch once again, Al left his room, exited the motel through the side entrance, and crossed the parking lot toward Lantana and Chateau De Ville. Concealed in the narrow common alley between the two buildings, Al watched and waited for Regan to arrive. Almost immediately he saw the ’69 Buick pull into the parking lot and roll to a stop behind the massive sign. His adrenaline spiking, Al pulled a black ski mask down over his face, crossed the lot, and approached the car. Seeing him coming, Regan rolled the driver’s-side window down.

“It’s a beautiful night out,” Al said, repeating the exact words I’d told him to use.

Regan nodded. “Yes, there are plenty of stars out.”

Hearing the response he was waiting for, Al opened the back door of the Buick and slid inside. “Show me your IDs,” he told the two lawmen.

Hastily, Regan and Twomey pulled their wallets out and passed their IDs to Al, who examined the documents with his flashlight. “Okay,” he said, finally satisfied. “I want you to get out of the car and walk over to Peter’s. Go into the disco downstairs. Take a seat at the end of the bar and wait. If the phone rings and the barman asks for Paul Greeter, you take it.”

Regan pulled the keys from the ignition and started to get out, but Al stopped him. “Leave the keys.”

Regan protested. “You can’t take my wife’s car!”

“You brought a second set, right?”

Regan nodded.

“Leave the keys or it’s off,” Al warned, opening his own door.

Regan quickly acquiesced. “Okay,” he agreed.

“Now get going,” Al said. He watched Regan and Twomey disappear into Peter’s, then slid into the Buick’s driver’s seat and started the engine. Following the same route he’d driven earlier, he looped east, down High Street and past the ball field, where, he noted with relief, the decoy was nowhere to be seen.

Turning onto Edwin Street, Al again headed for the Dunkin’ Donuts. But this time, when he stopped across from the donut shop, he flashed his lights three times, giving Charlie the signal to follow him. As Al turned onto Randolph Avenue, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Charlie’s car pulling out behind him. Slowing, he pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot for what he hoped would be the last time and parked facing Randolph Avenue, with his trunk to the motel.

Charlie pulled in next to him, and the two men climbed out of their cars. They recognized each other immediately, but neither man said a word. Moving quickly, Al opened the Buick’s trunk. Charlie followed suit, lifting the painting out of his trunk, pulling away a corner of the sleeping bag in which the Rembrandt was wrapped to reveal the series of numbers on the back of the canvas. Al produced the Polaroid I’d given him.

After both men had confirmed that the numbers matched, Al took possession of the painting, giving Charlie the Polaroid in return. While Charlie got back into his car and sped away, Al hastily loaded the Rembrandt into the trunk of the Buick, then tossed Regan’s keys on top of it, closed the trunk, and headed for the side door of the motel.

For an agonizing two minutes, while Al sprinted up the stairs to his room, the painting sat in the Buick’s trunk, unattended and entirely vulnerable. Despite the fact that he’d taken every precaution to make sure no one had followed him, Al’s heart was racing as he opened the door to his room and ran to the window. Seeing the Buick still in its spot, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. Al’s ordeal was almost over, but before he could wash his hands of the painting entirely, he had one last phone call to make: to the bar at Peter’s.

Al dialed the number with shaking hands, half expecting Regan himself to answer, but it was the bartender who picked up.

“I’d like to speak to Paul Greeter,” he told the man. “I believe he’s right there.”

On the other end of the line, Al heard the barman calling for Greeter, followed almost instantly by Regan’s voice: “That’s me!”

“Hello?” Regan spoke into the receiver.

“Go outside,” Al instructed him. “Run, do not walk. Your wife’s car is parked at the Holiday Inn, facing the street. Open the trunk. If what you want is in there, turn and face the building, put your hands in your pockets, and count to five. Then get the hell out of here.”

Al hung up the phone and looked out the window of his room toward the nightclub. Within seconds, the front door burst open and the two lawmen came running out, their trench coats flapping in the stiff January wind. They reached the Buick and stopped while Regan unlocked the trunk. When they saw the painting, both men hesitated for a moment; it was, Al mused, the closest either one of them would get to a million dollars. Then Regan reached into the trunk and pulled a corner of the blanket aside while Twomey shone a flashlight on the canvas, verifying the numbers on the back of the piece, just as Al had done.

With the painting’s authenticity confirmed, the two men turned to face the building as instructed. When they opened their coats to put their hands in their pockets, Al couldn’t help laughing. Beneath their trench coats, both Regan and Twomey were armed to the hilt. So much for promises. After a hasty count of five, the two men scuttled into the car and scrammed.

No sooner had the Buick disappeared from sight than Al did the same. Driving straight to Logan Airport, he dropped off the rented Plymouth and caught the next shuttle to JFK. By midnight he was sharing a meal with friends at Christo’s in Manhattan.

At a press conference the following day David Twomey’s boss, United States attorney Jim Gabriel, triumphantly announced the safe return of the Rembrandt, assuring the public that “no deal was made with any federal prisoner.” Technically, at least, the statement was true. Marty Leppo’s last-minute bargaining and my hasty handover to state custody made it possible for Gabriel to silence potential critics of the methods his office had used to get the painting back.

Al Dotoli got all the publicity he’d asked for, and then some. The press conference was a major media event, covered by every news outlet in the city. Saturday evening’s Boston Globe carried a picture of Gabriel speaking to reporters. At his side, basking in the spotlight, were David Twomey and John Regan. In his room at the Waldorf, Al read about his exploits in the New York Times.

Conspicuously absent from the proceedings were representatives from the Boston Police Department and the local FBI office, who were not pleased by the way things had turned out. That the state police had recovered what was perhaps the single most valuable item ever stolen on the Boston PD’s watch would cause a rift between the two agencies for years to come.

Especially pissed off at being deprived of his share of the glory was an up-and-coming young FBI agent named John Connolly. Connolly had come to the Boston office just two years earlier, but he was already making a name for himself. Eventually, Connolly would become infamous for his corrupt relationship with mob boss Whitey Bulger, but at the time his colleagues and the local press thought of him as merely a zealous, if somewhat unorthodox, investigator. Unfortunately, I would soon get a preview of the extremes to which Connolly was willing to go.