“These are mine,” Devon said.
“I’ll deal with that with your boss,” the Irishman said. “Put them in.”
Devon took the bag and did as he was told. No point in arguing; Bulger would make the final call. He took the eagle out of his pocket and slipped that in as well.
“One more, downstairs,” the Irishman said. “Let’s go.”
Devon followed him. As he headed out of the room, he grabbed a small Oriental-looking vase from a display and slipped it into the bag. The Irishman gave him a lethal look, but said nothing. Devon didn’t care anymore.
They headed downstairs. “I’ll get the last one,” the Irishman said, consulting his list and the hand-drawn map of the museum’s layout. “You go to the security office and make sure the alarm hasn’t been tripped.”
“I thought you said you were sure about the alarm?”
“I am. Check it out anyway.”
Devon frowned, but headed back to the security office. It made no sense; if an external alarm had been tripped, then they were doomed either way. Checking on it wasn’t going to do any good. He was in the office before it occurred to him that the Irishman might have sent him off to prevent him from lifting any more artwork.
The Irishman was only gone for a few minutes. Devon had just finished looking over the electronics on the security desk when he walked in carrying a painting of an effete man in a top hat. It was still framed. “Any problems?” he asked.
“None that I can see,” Devon replied. “How the fuck should I know?”
The Irishman nodded and went to work on the frame. It took only a few moments before he had effectively dismantled the thing and was pulling the canvas off the remnants. He rolled the work up and slipped it into his bag.
“That’s it?” Devon asked.
“That’s it.”
“Okay, let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the door where the guard had buzzed them in earlier that evening. “You ready?” Devon asked.
The Irishman frowned. “Shite,” he said. “I forgot something.”
“What?” Devon said.
“The security tapes,” the Irishman replied.
“You kidding?”
The Irishman handed his bag to Devon. “Go. I’ll be right there. If you’re not in the car when I get there, I’ll kill you. Slowly.” He was gone before Devon could argue.
Devon shook his head. The next two minutes would be dangerous. A man walking out of a museum at two-thirty in the morning carrying a couple of sacks would draw attention, police hat or not. He opened the door and walked out into the darkness.
There was no one on the street; not that Devon was looking. A key to getting away cleanly was to act as if there were nothing unusual about your behavior. He reached the small, beat-up car still parked on the street and opened the hatchback, putting the two bags in and closing the door. He climbed into the front seat, put the key in the ignition and waited. It felt as if he were lying naked on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park.
It took only a moment for the Irishman to show up. He got into the car. “Drive,” he said. Devon didn’t need any encouragement.
“Did you get the tapes?” Devon asked.
The Irishman nodded. “I took care of it.” He held up three VHS cassettes.
Something in the way he responded sent fear through Devon. “You didn’t go back for the guards, did you?”
“I went back for the tapes,” the Irishman said.
“Jesus Christ,” Devon said. “If you killed them, we’re fucked.”
“I went back for the tapes,” the Irishman said again. He looked at Devon, and Devon took his eyes off the road for just an instant to look back at him. He was impossible to read. The man’s eyes betrayed nothing. Devon turned his attention back to the road and directed the car through the streets of the city, back to Southie. He was eager to be done with the Irishman.
The next day the newspapers reported that the guards had been found alive. They were lucky, Devon knew. To the Irishman, there was little difference between retrieving a security tape and putting a bullet in a man’s head. Both were operational issues and nothing more. Devon prayed he would never see the man again.
Chapter Twenty
Finn met Kozlowski and Lissa at the Green Dragon pub. It was tucked back into a maze of tiny streets off Congress, in the ancient part of the city, back behind the Union Oyster House. It had been established in the 1700s, and the Sons of Liberty had once met behind the same door that still swung from the rusted hinges out onto the street corner. The décor could have been handed down through the years, for all the modern style it captured. The stone floors kept the place cool, even as the sun started warming up the city at midday. A new stereo system and the small stage for three-man bands on the weekends were the only nods to the passage of time the place would admit.
Finn took a table at the back of the place and waited. Kozlowski and Lissa arrived five minutes later. They ordered some coffee, and Finn relayed Devon ’s story. The other two sat listening, sipping their coffee, without interruption, for over fifteen minutes. It was a record.
When Finn finished, he looked at them. They looked back. “Well?” he said.
“Holy shit,” Lissa said.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“Yeah. You call us here and tell us our client was responsible for the biggest art theft in history? Sorry, ‘Holy shit’ is all I’ve got for the moment.”
Finn looked at Kozlowski. “What about you?”
“I’m with her,” he said. “Holy shit.”
“I need a little help here.”
“Where are the paintings now?” Kozlowski asked.
“ Devon doesn’t know. They took them back to Southie and gave them to Bulger. Devon’s understanding was that the Irish guy paid Bulger for the paintings, and they were smuggled back to Ireland.”
“Why’d the Irish guy come back now?” Lissa asked. “It’s been almost twenty years, for Christ’s sake.”
“Nobody seems to know. Apparently the guy isn’t entirely right in the head.”
“Nobody who did Vinny Murphy the way he was done is right in the head,” Kozlowski said. “What’s Devon gonna do now?”
“He doesn’t know,” Finn answered. “He’s still trying to figure all this out. All he knows is that he’s safer in jail than out on the street. The way he figures it, if the guy thinks he knows something, he can’t just have him killed. He needs a face-to-face to get any information he thinks Devon ’s got.”
“Like what he had with Murphy and Ballick,” Kozlowski said.
“Exactly. If he wants to find out anything useful, he actually has to get Devon alone to talk to him-torture him if necessary. As long as Devon ’s in jail, that can’t happen, so for the moment that’s where he wants to stay.”
“Who cares what Devon ’s gonna do,” Lissa interjected. “What are we gonna do?”
The two men looked at her. Finn said, “Stone and Sanchez want to talk to us about Ballick’s death. I’m not lying to the cops, so we’ve got to stall.”
“We can’t bring them in on this art theft thing?” Kozlowski asked.
Finn shook his head. “No. Devon won’t let us.”
“He won’t let us?”
“He won’t. He’s afraid that he’ll be prosecuted for the theft.”
“Seems like he should be more worried about this Irish guy,” Kozlowski said.
“What if we could cut a deal with the cops?” Lissa suggested. “He tells them what they need to know, and there’s no prosecution? They might be willing to go for it.”
“They might-if he could produce the paintings. Unfortunately he can’t, so I doubt there’d be much interest. Besides, it’s not just the cops Devon ’s worried about. Bulger’s still on the run.”
“Are you serious?” Kozlowski said. “Bulger’s been on the run for fifteen years. There’s no way he’s gonna show up here in Boston. Not for anything.”