“So you’re not really blonde,” I said.
“You’ll never know,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”
5
Healy drove me back to my office.
“They didn’t improvise that bomb on the spur of the moment,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“They planned to kill him all along,” Healy said.
“Or at least before they left for the exchange,” I said.
“Why?” Healy said.
“You don’t know, either?” I said.
“No.”
“You’re a captain,” I said.
“I know,” Healy said. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Homicide commander,” I said.
“I know,” Healy said. “Why blow up the picture?”
“It’s a painting,” I said.
“Sure,” Healy said. “Why blow up the picture?”
“Maybe it’s not the painting,” I said. “Enough of it left to tell?”
“Crime scene people will let us know,” Healy said. “But I doubt it.”
“He gave them the money and came down the hill with it,” I said.
“When he was up there they could have pointed a gun at him and told him to take it,” Healy said.
“True. Maybe he was in on it,” I said.
“And once they got the money,” Healy said, “they aced him so he couldn’t tell anyone?”
“One less split of the ransom,” I said.
Healy grinned.
“A positive side effect,” he said. “How much was the ransom?”
“Didn’t tell me.”
Healy nodded.
“Who supplied the dough?” he said.
“Hammond Museum, I assume.”
“Their money, or insurance?” Healy said.
“Don’t know.”
“If it was insurance, they’ll be climbing all over this thing as well,” Healy said.
“As well as what?”
“As well as you,” Healy said.
“Except I’ll be trying to catch the perps,” I said. “And the insurance guys will be trying not to pay.”
“There’s that,” Healy said.
We went past the Red Line MBTA station, past the shopping center, around Fresh Pond Circle and the reservoir, heading toward the river. In the bright December sunshine, the reservoir looked encouragingly blue and fresh.
“I got hired to do one thing,” I said. “Keep him safe while he collected the painting.”
Healy nodded.
“You did everything else okay,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Healy shrugged.
“I don’t know what you could have done,” Healy said.
“I don’t, either,” I said. “But whatever it was, I didn’t do it.”
“They outthought you,” Healy said.
“It’s part of what makes me mad,” I said.
“They controlled the situation,” Healy said. “It was a mismatch.”
“I guess.”
“Your pride’s hurt,” Healy said.
“This is what I do,” I said. “I can’t do it, where am I?”
“Where everybody is sometimes,” Healy said. “You looking for revenge?”
“No,” I said. “I barely knew the guy, and if I knew him better, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed him.”
“You’re looking to even it up,” Healy said.
“Something like that,” I said.
“I know,” Healy said.
“I know you do,” I said.
We went around the head of the Charles and onto Soldiers Field Road past Harvard Stadium on the Boston side of the river.
“Some guys become cops because they get to carry a piece and order people around,” Healy said. “And some people do it because they like the work, and think it’s important.”
“Like you,” I said.
Healy nodded.
“And you,” he said. “Except you can’t work in a command structure.”
“I’m with Susan,” I said.
“Besides that,” Healy said.
“So you don’t have a problem,” I said, “with me looking into this.”
“Nope,” Healy said. “You’re nearly as good as you think you are, and you’ll do things I’m not allowed to do.”
“Damned command structure again,” I said.
“It has its uses,” Healy said. “Not every cop is as pure of heart as you are.”
“Or as much fun,” I said.
“Fun,” Healy said. “Long as you are fun on the right side of things, I got no problem with you.”
“Nor I with you,” I said.
“I am the right side of things,” Healy said.
“Ah,” I said. “That’s where it is.”
6
The Hammond Museum was a big gray stone building located in Chestnut Hill, halfway between Boston College and the Longwood Cricket Club. It had a gambrel roof and Palladian windows, and looked like one of those baronial cottages on the oceanfront in Newport.
I parked next to the museum in a slot marked Museum Staff Only. In the summer the grounds were richly landscaped. But now as we slid into December, the landscape was leafless and stiff.
The entry hall went all the way to a stained-glass window in back of the building. The hall was vaulted, two stories high, and sparsely hung with some Italian Renaissance paintings. Women in the Italian Renaissance were apparently very zaftig.
The director’s office was on the third floor, with a swell view of some dark, naked trees that in summer would doubtless offer a rich, green ambiance. The office itself was sparse and sort of streamlined-looking, with light maple furniture and some Picasso sketches on the wall.
There were two men in the room, one behind a desk that looked like a conference table and the other sitting across from the desk on a couch. The guy at the desk stood when I came in and stepped around his desk and put out his hand.
“Mark Richards,” he said. “I’m the museum director.”
We shook hands.
“This is Morton Lloyd,” Richards said. “He’s our attorney.”
I shook his hand.
“What a damned mess this has all turned into,” Richards said.
“Especially for Ashton Prince,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Poor Ash. How too bad.”
“He gave you money,” the lawyer said. “To protect him.”
“He did,” I said.
“Can’t say I think you’ve earned it.”
“I haven’t,” I said, and took an envelope from my inside pocket and tossed it onto Richards’s desk.
“What’s this,” he said.
“The check he gave me,” I said. “It’s drawn on the museum account.”
“You didn’t cash it?”
“No,” I said.
“And you’re returning it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because you were unable to protect him,” Richards said.
“I didn’t earn it,” I said.
Richards nodded. He looked at the lawyer.
“He’s right,” the lawyer said. “He didn’t.”
Richards nodded again.
“Thank you,” he said to me.
He put the envelope on top of his desk, and put a small stone carving of a pregnant woman on top of it to hold it still.
“Did you come here simply to return your fee?” the lawyer said.
“No, I’m looking for information,” I said.
“About what?” the lawyer said.
“About the kidnapped painting and the ransom payment and Ashton Prince and anything else you can tell me,” I said.
“You’re planning to investigate this business?” the lawyer said.
“Yes,” I said.
“And who’s paying you?” the lawyer said.
“Pro bono.”
“We’ve already spoken with the police, and with the insurance people,” the lawyer said.
I nodded.
“I see no reason we should speak to you,” the lawyer said.
I looked at Richards. He shrugged.
“I understand that you are trying to make good on something,” Richards said. “And I am sympathetic. But I feel that the museum should be guided by our attorney.”
I nodded.
“Been working out great so far,” I said.