Among Thieves (24 page)

More than anything else, that was what had led to the peace—a better economy that gave those in the country something to protect.
Deep in his heart, Sean Broadark was okay with that. He would follow his orders to the end. But he allowed himself, on occasion,
to hope that those orders someday would be to stand down.

Liam Kilbranish watched Broadark as he approached the house. He knew where the man had been; Sean hadn’t tried to hide it.
“I have to check in,” he’d said. The fact that he’d left the house made clear that there were things he had to talk to his
superiors about that he didn’t want Liam to hear.

Liam wasn’t surprised. When he had laid out the plan, he’d made it all sound so easy. Perhaps he’d even believed that it would
be easy. He’d certainly wanted to believe it. And yet, deep in his heart, he’d always known it wouldn’t be.

He blamed himself. Not for his failure in the past few days, but for his failure twenty years before. The plan had been perfect.
They had all the intelligence they needed; the target was virtually unprotected; the information regarding the paintings themselves
was flawless. If the execution was imperfect, that was the fault of the man assigned to him by the Boston contingent. Even
with Devon Malley’s lack of professionalism, though, the objectives were achieved—at least Liam thought they had been.

Now, as he looked out the window toward the depressing concrete yards surrounding the safe house, watching Broadark climb
the front stairs, he knew he was suffering for his own shortcomings, and he was petrified that the silent promise he’d made
to his father years before would go unfulfilled.

It was ironic. If not for him, the movement would have stalled even earlier. Fund-raising was always the difficulty. The fighting
came easy, but keeping the supply lines flowing with guns and explosives and ammunition was a challenge that required more
ingenuity than most possessed. By the late 1980s, the wells were running dry on both sides of the Atlantic. People were losing
heart and losing commitment. Those who had given generously before were tightening up, unwilling to continue giving to a movement
that had lost direction. Those who had not given before were turning them down flat, unwilling to cast their lot with a cause
that had become unpopular. People seemed weary of the death and destruction.

By then fighting had become a way of life for Liam. He couldn’t imagine himself without it. His hatred had burned for so long
that it had consumed much of what had been human inside of him. Without the money, though, the fighting would end.

The drug trade served as a band-aid for a while, but it was a dangerous business. Art theft had been Liam’s brainchild. There
were so many private museums throughout the UK and continental Europe that were ripe for the plucking, and the proceeds kept
the money rolling in. American targets were less plentiful—the Americans were, by their nature, less trusting than their European
counterparts, and security was generally much more severe. Liam had stumbled onto the idea of the Gardner Museum during one
of his visits.

Now, what had been the perfect job and the perfect fix had destroyed the fight. He wouldn’t let that be the end.

Broadark opened the door and walked into the tiny house. He didn’t even look at Liam. He walked over to the refrigerator and
pulled out a beer. The fact that the man had the temerity to drink simmered in Liam’s craw. It seemed to him a statement that
the mission was lost.

Broadark walked over to the sofa in the living area and sat down. He turned on the television and began ritually flipping
though the channels. It was a compulsion. He never stopped long enough to see anything coherent on the screen, and it was
clear that there was nothing in particular he was looking for. He just kept flipping as the panoply of mindless, sex-filled
American bubblegum pop culture flashed by like some eye-searing experiment in subliminal torture. The man was so attached
to the process that he slipped the beer under his arm so he could open it without breaking stride.

Liam walked over and grabbed the remote out of Broadark’s hand, pointed it toward the television and pressed the power button.
The set blinked once hard, the light exploding in a flash that consumed the screen, then receded from the corners to a pointed
horizon in the center of an ancient, darkened picture tube. “No more television,” he said.

Broadark looked up at him from the sofa. Liam wondered whether he would make his move. It depended on the orders he’d received
on the phone call. Liam figured he’d rather know sooner than later.

He could see the calculations that ran through Broadark’s mind. In some respects they both functioned in the same way. Confrontations
like this came down to a series of calculations: who could reach his weapon first? What were your adversary’s weaknesses?
Where was he exposed? Who was more willing to take the chance? How far were you willing to take the fight?

Liam could see all these questions rattling off in sequence in Broadark’s eyes, the sums of the equations being added and
multiplied and calculated. Then an answer was reached. Broadark shrugged and pulled his beer out from under his arm and took
a sip.

Liam reached out and grabbed away the beer. He walked over to the sink and poured it out. “No more booze, either,” he said.
He knew Broadark was not a threat—yet. If he had the go-ahead to take Liam out, he would have reached for his gun when Liam
took the remote. Liam had a little more time. Not much, though.

Broadark rose from the couch. He walked over to the narrow counter in the kitchen. “What, then?” he asked.

“I told you, there’s one more.”

“Yeah, you told me,” Broadark said. “You also told me he’s in jail. Not much we can get from him while he’s there, is there?”

“There are other ways.”

“What are they?”

The truth was, Liam didn’t know. He was running out of time, and he had lost all his leverage. “The lawyer,” he said. He wasn’t
even sure what it meant when the words came out of his mouth, but when he heard them, they triggered something in him—a hope
that had been slipping away.

“The lawyer,” Broadark repeated. There was skepticism in his voice. “What about the lawyer?”

“We follow the lawyer,” Liam said. “He’s the only contact we have with the last one, but we can use him to make our point.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. All I know is that he’s the key.”

For a moment, Liam thought Broadark would pull out his gun right then and be done with it all. Instead, though, he nodded
without conviction. “All right, then,” he said. “Follow the lawyer.”

Captain Melvin Skykes shared little with other Boston police officers. He didn’t swear; he didn’t drink; he didn’t smoke.
He ran to stay in shape, and he ate no meat. He was partial to dark pinstriped suits more appropriate for a Wall Street trading
floor than a grimy police station. He was devoid of ethnicity. In appearance he was nothing like most of the officers who
served beneath him; and yet he commanded respect. He had built his career by being the best example of the “new cop” Boston
had tried to introduce to the force in the wake of scandals in the 1980s. Most of the others brought in had long since sought
refuge outside the department. Skykes succeeded because his attention to detail—whether investigative or administrative—was
unparalleled. Those who entered his office unprepared to discuss every aspect of any case on which they were working risked
their careers. The detectives under his command toed a line straighter and sharper than any other in the department, and the
results showed.

Sitting in Skykes’s office just after lunch, Stone felt as if he were sitting for an oral exam. He didn’t particularly mind;
he was prepared.

“Seven dead,” Skykes said. He was leaning back in his chair, the tips of his fingers brought together in a steeple. He spoke
slowly, and there was no emotion in his voice. You might have thought he was talking idly about a baseball score, except that
most people in Boston could never maintain his level of equilibrium discussing the Red Sox.

“Five,” Stone offered. It was a stupid response—as though five murders wouldn’t be a problem. “There were only five last night.”

Skykes gave Stone an impatient, condescending look. “I was counting Murphy and Johnny Bags.”

“Yes, sir,” Stone said. “With them, that’s right. It’s seven.”

Skykes began again. “Seven dead,” he said. He threw Stone a look that dared him to interrupt. Stone didn’t. “Any leads?”

Stone kept his mouth shut. He was learning.

“Nothing concrete,” Sanchez said. “Not yet.”

“Anything at all?” Skykes asked.

“Long shots right now,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that would be helpful in keeping the press at bay.”

Skykes whirled on her. “Who said anything about the press? My only concern is solving these murders.”

“Right,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that gets us close to figuring out who actually did it, then.”

“So we have seven dead bodies in this city—connected people”—Skykes flicked a piece of lint off his lapel as he spoke—“and
we have nothing to go on whatsoever?” The challenge was plain.

“I didn’t say nothing to go on. Just nothing definitive enough to call a concrete lead,” Sanchez replied.

“Let me be clear, Detective,” Skykes said. “I want to know about anything we’ve got. I don’t care if it’s concrete. I don’t
care if it’s Play-Doh. If it pertains to this case, I want to hear about it.”

Sanchez cleared her throat. “The IRA may be involved,” she said. She looked again in Stone’s direction.

“I assume you’re not talking about someone’s retirement account,” Skykes said.

“No sir, I’m not. The other IRA,” Sanchez said. Skykes focused hard on Sanchez. The stare was penetrating, and Stone wondered
how she withstood it in silence.

“The Irish Republican Army,” Stone offered. Skykes’s attention shifted to Stone, but the intensity of the stare remained.
Stone bore the look for a few moments, then cracked. “From Ireland,” he said.

“I’m aware of the IRA’s origins, Detective Stone,” he said. “What I’m not aware of is how they have any connection to a bunch
of murders in Southie. Don’t you read the papers? The IRA’s dead; what in God’s name makes you think they’re tied up in this?”

“
Padre Pio
,” she said after a moment.

“
Padre Pio
,” Skykes said. “The torture technique?” Stone was impressed.

“Exactly,” Sanchez said. “Both Murphy and Ballick were shot through the hands, so we figure there’s a possibility this was
an IRA job.”

Skykes shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense. There’s a truce in Northern Ireland, and a government has been formed
from parties on both sides. The IRA disarmed; turned in all their weapons.”

“Maybe it’s not the IRA itself, then, but someone close to them,” Sanchez said. “The boys in the IRA always had close ties
to the Irish mob here in Boston. Some of them still have smuggling connections. Maybe one of them is freelancing.”

Skykes considered this. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. This is too thin to count as even a theory from what
you’ve told me; it’s hardly a lead.”

Sanchez could feel Stone looking at her. She knew what he was thinking, but she was resistant to sharing any more with the
captain. Her success had come, in many respects, as a result of her ability to keep secrets.

Skykes could read her hesitation. “If there’s more, I want to know about it, Sanchez,” he said.

“‘The Storm,’” she said.

“‘The Storm’?”

“It’s what was written at the scene of Murphy’s murder,” Stone said.

“There’s a chance that it’s a reference to one of the paintings that was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum back
in ’90,” Sanchez said.

Skykes nodded. “The speculation has always been that the IRA was involved in that theft,” he said. “Do we have any point of
contact? Any way we can work the theory?”

“Not really. Just the lawyer.”

“The lawyer.” Skykes closed his eyes and Stone had the impression that his mind was processing information like a computer.
“Finn, right?”

“That’s right, Captain,” Sanchez said.

“What do we know about him?”

“Good reputation for courtroom work. He handles mainly criminal defense cases; he’ll take on a civil matter here and there
if the payout is good enough. Lives in Charlestown, where he’s got his office—grew up there too. When he was younger he got
into some trouble. Managed to pull himself out, though.”

“So how is it that he came to show up at both Murphy’s place and Ballick’s shack right around the time they got dead?” Stone
couldn’t tell whether the captain’s question was rhetorical; he let Sanchez deal with it.

“We don’t know. When he showed up at the auto body shop, he told Stone that he was there for a client—Devon Malley. Malley’s
a thief. There’s a chance that he was involved in the Gardner job, too. He was busted Monday morning looting Gilberacci’s
on Newbury. Someone called in a tip it was gonna go down. Don’t know who.”