Painted Ladies s-39 Read online

  “Do they know I’m along?” I said.

  “I told them I was bringing a friend because I was afraid to come alone,” he said.

  “And?”

  “They said you’d have to stay in the car and not get in the way.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you have a gun?” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Have you ever used it?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “To shoot somebody?”

  “Mostly I use the front sight to pick my teeth,” I said.

  He smiled a little.

  We drove west on Storrow along the river. It was bright today, and pretty chilly. But the boat crews were hard at it, as they would be until the river froze. To our left, we passed the former Braves Field, now a BU athletic field. The old stucco entrance was still there on Gaffney Street, and maybe vestiges of the right-field Jury Box. An elevated section of the Mass Pike ran above the railroad tracks outside of left field.

  “When the Braves played there,” I said, “an outfielder named Danny Litwhiler is alleged to have hit a ball that cleared the left-field wall and landed in a freight car headed to Buffalo, thus hitting the longest measurable home run in baseball history.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying,” Prince said.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  No one was tailing us as we went west on Route 2. Or if they were, they were better than I was. Which seemed unlikely to me. Probably had somebody set up to spot us when we got to a certain point, and then they’d call. I looked for a spotter. But I didn’t see one.

  We were approaching Route 128, which in this section was also known to be Interstate Route 95. The phone rang. Prince answered and listened.

  After a minute of listening he said, “Okay.”

  He looked at me.

  “Cross the overpass on One twenty-eight and turn around on the other side and start back, driving slowly,” he said.

  I glanced back. The spotter was probably standing on one of the cross-street overpasses. We crossed above 128 and drove on into Lincoln until we found a place to turn around, and then we drove toward where we’d been. Prince had the cell phone to his ear. He nodded.

  “Stop under the first overpass we come to,” he said. “Okay . . . I get out with the money . . . Okay . . . And climb up with it and stand in the middle of the bridge.”

  Prince looked at me.

  “You’re to stay in the car or there’s no deal.”

  I nodded.

  We pulled over to the side under the first overpass. He swallowed audibly and got out of the car. I reached in back and got the suitcase full of money, and handed it out to Prince.

  “Break a leg,” I said.

  He nodded and turned and lugged the big suitcase slowly up the ramp behind us. A suitcase full of money is heavy.

  From where I sat, directly beneath the overpass, I couldn’t even see the swap. I put the windows down and shut off the engine, and listened intently. Cars went by on Route 2. Above me I thought I heard one. Maybe it stopped in the middle. Maybe its door opened. About thirty seconds later, maybe it shut. And maybe the car drove off. I waited. Silence. I looked back at the slope that supported the down ramp. In a moment I saw Prince scrambling down, carrying a surprisingly small paper-wrapped square. Maybe this was going to work out.

  It didn’t. Just as he came into sight, the package exploded and blew him and itself into a mess.

  4

  I was sitting in the backseat of Captain Healy’s unmarked Mass State police cruiser. Healy sat in front behind the wheel, and beside him was an assistant DA from Middlesex named Kate Quaggliosi. Kate had a fine body and olive skin. Her hair was blond.

  “Weren’t too useful, were you?” Kate said.

  “I didn’t actually help them,” I said.

  “Didn’t do much to hinder them,” Kate said.

  “Don’t overstate,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “You did nothing to hinder them.”

  “That’s more accurate,” I said.

  “Good,” Kate said. “Glad we got that settled.”

  She looked at Healy.

  “You know this guy?” she said.

  “I do,” he said. “He’s very annoying.”

  “I noticed,” Kate said.

  “But if he couldn’t have saved this situation, no one could have.”

  “Gee, Captain,” I said.

  Healy looked at me.

  “Shut up,” he said.

  He looked back at Kate.

  “And trust me,” Healy said to her, “he does not like it that this went down this way on his watch. And he won’t let it go until he makes it right.”

  “In whose opinion,” she said.

  “His,” Healy said. “Only one matters to him.”

  “Susan’s opinion matters,” I said.

  “Who?” Kate said.

  “Girl of my dreams,” I said.

  “So you might as well learn to deal with him now,” Healy said. “Because everywhere we turn on this, from here on in, we’re going to bump into him.”

  “Well,” she said. “Annoying and persistent.”

  “And sometimes helpful,” I said.

  She looked at Healy. He nodded.

  “I find it’s better to work with him than fight him,” Healy said.

  “You’ve told us everything you know,” she said to me.

  “Yep.”

  “It’s not very much,” she said.

  “I don’t know very much,” I said.

  She smiled slightly.

  “In this case?” she said. “Or are you speaking more generally.”

  “Probably both,” I said.

  “Modest, too,” she said.

  “I have much to be modest about,” I said.

  “Certainly true,” she said, “since I’ve known you. You have any questions for us?”

  “You really blonde?” I said.

  “With a name like Quaggliosi?” she said.

  “I thought maybe it was your married name.”

  “My husband’s name is Henderson. Henderson, Lake, Taylor, and Caldwell, attorneys at law. He makes money; I do good.”

  “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 mon
ey, 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.

  “Just what do you mean by that?” the lawyer said.

  “Hell,” I said. “I have no idea.”

  And I turned and walked out of the office without closing the door. . . . That showed ’em.

  7

  Healy came into my office with two large coffees and a dozen doughnuts. He put one coffee on my desk and offered me a doughnut.

  “A bribe?” I said.

  “Authentic cop food,” Healy said.

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “Two of these babies and I’ll run out and give somebody a ticket.”

  “Thought I might come by this morning and compare notes,” Healy said.

  “Which means you haven’t got much and you’re wondering if I do,” I said.

  “You want the doughnuts or not,” Healy said.

  “Okay,” I said. I took a significant bite. “I know nothing.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Healy said.

  “You talk to the museum people?” I said.

  “Yep, Richards, the director, and his man Lloyd, the lawyer,” Healy said. “You?”

  “Same two,” I said.

  “And?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” I said. “How’d you do.”

  “No better,” Healy said. “And I’m a captain.”

  “Did you tell them that?” I said.

  “They seemed unimpressed.”


  “You know who the insurance company is?”

  “I did get that,” Healy said. “Shawmut.”

  “Way to go, Captain.”

  “Their home office is here,” Healy said. “Berkeley Street, corner of Columbus. Right up from you.”

  “I know the building,” I said. “Got the name of an investigator or somebody?”

  “They call them claim-resolution specialists.”

  “Of course they do,” I said.

  “Called over there,” Healy said. “They tell me the claims-resolution specialist has not yet been assigned.”

  “Who’d you talk with,” I said.

  “Head of claims resolution, woman named Winifred Minor.”

  “How about Prince?” I said.

  “Professor at Walford University,” Healy said. “Married, no kids, lived in Cambridge.”

  “Cambridge,” I said. “There’s a surprise. You talk with the wife?”

  “Distraught,” Healy said. “Doctor’s care. So no, we haven’t talked to her.”

  “She use his name?” I said.

  “She’s a poet,” Healy said.

  “So she doesn’t use his name,” I said.

  “No,” Healy said. “Her name is Rosalind Wellington.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “You read a lot,” Healy said. “You ever heard of her?”

  “No,” I said. “But maybe she doesn’t know who I am, either.”

  “I’d bet on it,” Healy said.

  “What about Prince?” I said. “Anything?”

  “We interviewed some colleagues at Walford. Nobody seems to know much about him. Quiet guy, minded his own business.”

  “Talk to students?”

  “A few,” Healy said. “Ordinary teacher, easy grader, nothing remarkable.”

  “How’d he end up consulting on the art theft?”

  “I asked that question,” Healy said. “They were a little evasive, but it appears that Lawyer Lloyd recommended him.”

  I fumbled around in my desk drawer and took out the card Prince had given me at our first meeting. It said Ashton Prince, Ph.D., and a phone number. I passed it to Healy.

  “He told me he was a forensic consultant,” I said.

  “That’s his home phone,” Healy said.

  “Heavens,” I said. “No wonder you made captain. You know if he had an office or anything?”

  “None that we can find,” Healy said.

  “What about Lawyer Lloyd?” I said.

  “Morton Lloyd,” Healy said. “Tort specialist. Works for the museum pro bono.”