Among Thieves (31 page)

In a few spots there were empty frames hanging on the walls. The frames were, admittedly, works of art in and of themselves.
They were heavy, ornately carved works painted in gold leaf. And yet, left alone, without the canvas and paint, they seemed
sad and out of place.

Finn was about to ask Kozlowski about the empty frames when he noticed a man sitting in the corner of the room. He was propped
up in a wooden chair, his head leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. Finn looked at Kozlowski and motioned toward the
man. He wondered whether the man was dead, and walked over quietly to take a look.

He was old—Finn was guessing in his seventies—and his clothes were battered. His jacket was heavy wool, a half season too
late, and the threads were fraying at the lapels. The elbows looked shot through. The man’s face was gray and his eyes were
sunken back into their sockets, surrounded by dark skin. It took a moment for Finn to see the man’s chest moving ever so slightly,
giving at least the suggestion of life. Finn waved his hand a few feet in front of the man’s face.

“He’s fine,” a voice said behind Finn. He turned to see a tall, trim man in his late fifties. He was wearing a tailored suit
of charcoal-gray, a bright white shirt, and an azure tie with a matching pocket square. “Detective Kozlowski?” he asked, looking
back and forth between the two visitors.

“I’m Kozlowski.” He extended his hand.

The man shook it, though there was a look of reluctance on his face. “I’m Paul Baxter. I am the director of the museum, as
well as the chief curator.” Finn thought he detected a hint of the Old World in the accent. It could have been an affectation
of the Boston Brahmin many well-heeled New Englanders took to, but Finn thought there was hint of Irish to it as well.

“Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Baxter,” Kozlowski said. He motioned to Finn. “This is Scott Finn, my partner.”

Baxter nodded to Finn, but didn’t walk over to shake his hand. “Is there news? We haven’t heard anything for days.”

Kozlowski and Finn exchanged a look. “What was the last update you received?” Kozlowski asked.

“Nothing. No update. The only information we’ve had was from the call I got from the FBI last week.”

Kozlowski frowned. “You’ve heard nothing since then?”

Baxter shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Who did you speak with the first time?”

“Special Agent Porter.”

“How much information did he give you?” Finn noted the care with which Kozlowski crafted his questions.

“Not much,” Baxter scoffed. “Just that Interpol had received word that someone was trying to fence the paintings. That was
it. No further information; just the request that we give them any information that
we
came into possession of to
them
. Honestly, I don’t know how you law-enforcement types keep your jobs. Twenty years, and I’m supposed to run this place effectively
without basic information? I haven’t even told the board about this because there have been so many disappointments in the
past. If they find out that I’m keeping this from them, I can’t even imagine the fallout.”

Finn looked at Kozlowski with admiration. He’d been a great police officer, but his talents would also have made him formidable
on the other side of the law. Without lying, he’d pulled an enormous amount of confidential information from Baxter.

“I understand your frustration,” Kozlowski said. He looked at the man sleeping in the corner. “Would you prefer to discuss
this someplace else?”

Baxter glanced briefly at the zombie, then shook his head. “No, that’s fine. That’s Sam. Sam Bass. He was an assistant here
forever. The museum gave him a pension two years ago, but he has no place else to go during the day, so we let him have the
run of the place. He wouldn’t mention anything to anyone, even if he was awake; he knows that if he causes any trouble I won’t
let him back in the place.” He raised his voice slightly. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”

The old man snorted and shifted his head; then he settled back into his slumber.

Baxter ignored him. “What else can you tell me?”

Kozlowski shook his head. “Not much. This is ultimately the FBI’s jurisdiction. Did they mention anything to you about a possible
Irish connection?”

Baxter looked unnerved. “No,” he said. “Why? Do they think there is some connection to Ireland?”

“I’m sorry,” Kozlowski said. “If they didn’t talk with you about their information, I certainly can’t. As I told the woman
downstairs at the desk, we are technically only investigating a different crime—the assault of a woman in South Boston. There
is some suspicion that the assailant may be connected in some way with those who committed the theft here. Is there anything
you can tell us that might help?”

Baxter looked offended. “No. Of course not. If there was anything I could do to help, don’t you think I would have done it
already? I had only been here at the museum for a few weeks when the theft occurred. It remains the only stain on my reputation.”

The man’s tone was defensive, and Kozlowski’s eyes narrowed on Baxter. “You’d tell us if you had any additional information,
wouldn’t you, Mr. Baxter?”

The director looked as if he might swallow his tongue. His face nearly turned purple. “Don’t think I’m unaware of the speculation,
Detective Kozlowski. Your colleagues on the police force and in the FBI have never been subtle in hinting that they believe
that I might somehow be involved. I consider these speculations slander.” He took a deep breath and composed himself. Looking
at both Kozlowski and Finn, he did his best to affect an air of dignity. “Now, Detectives, unless you have any additional
information you can share with me, I have a great deal of work to do.”

Kozlowski looked at him for a long moment. “Of course,” he said at last. “We’ll be in touch if there is anything else we can
share with you.”

“I look forward to it.” Baxter turned on his heels and left the room.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?”

Kozlowski asked the question once Baxter had left the room. He and Finn were left standing there, taking in their surroundings.
The empty frames hung before them like skeletons—sad reminders of the beauty stolen from the world.

“About what?” Finn asked. “That he’s looking forward to hearing from us again? I don’t think so.”

“No, about whether or not he was involved in the theft. He seemed awfully defensive. Did you notice the accent? Sounded Irish
to me.”

Finn chuckled. “Well, if an Irish accent is enough to convict someone of art theft, then half of Boston’s population needs
to be in jail.”

“Half of Boston’s population isn’t in a position to know everything about the security of a museum that houses billions of
dollars of art. Half of Boston’s population doesn’t walk around in three-thousand-dollar suits.”

“It was a nice suit,” Finn admitted. “I’m not sure it’d be enough to get a conviction, though.” He walked over to one of the
empty frames. The walls were covered in a jacquard silk in a lush forest-green pattern, and the fabric showed through the
neatly hung frame. If you didn’t know that a painting had been stolen from the spot, you might think that the frame was hung
there in jest, or as some great cosmic riddle. “I wish he hadn’t left,” Finn said. “I had a few questions about the theft.”

“Like what?”

“Like why haven’t they replaced these empty frames with pictures? They must have some extra artwork lying around here somewhere.
If not, I’m sure they could buy some. Having these empty frames where the stolen art used to be seems macabre.”

Kozlowski shrugged. “Who knows why? When you’re dealing with art—and rich people—logic doesn’t have to apply.”

“They can’t replace the paintings,” someone behind them said. The voice came like an echo from the dead, crackling sharply
from the back of the room and reverberating off the walls and high ceiling. Finn and Kozlowski turned.

The corpse was awake now. Sitting up in the hard wooden chair at the back of the room, with the head no longer slumped to
the side, but held aloft by a slender twig of a neck. The eyes were open, though still hidden deep beneath the shadow of a
prominent ocular ridge. The skin, while still gray and dark under the eyes, was no longer slack. The eyes traveled slowly
from Finn to Kozlowski and back again. “They aren’t allowed to replace the frames,” the corpse said.

“Why not?” Finn asked, after a moment.

“It was in Mrs. Gardner’s will.” The accent was unusual. It was Bostonian in origin, but muddled. Finn could hear the hard
consonants of Southie or Charlestown or Dorchester, but there was also a mix of the extended vowels of upper-class Boston.
It was as though a former accent had been painted over, but remained underneath.

Finn looked at Kozlowski. “It was in Mrs. Gardner’s will,” he repeated. He looked back at the corpse. “Why?”

The man rose from the chair, and Finn felt as though he were witnessing a resurrection. “Do you not know the story of this
place?” he asked.

“No,” Finn said. “I don’t.”

“Well, you should,” the corpse responded. “If you plan on finding the paintings, you really should.” He looked at them carefully.
“That is why you’re here, no? To try to find the paintings?”

“You’re treasure hunters,” the man said. “I’ve seen hundreds like you in here in the past.”

“No,” Finn replied. “We’re not.”

“Well, you’re not the police, that much is clear. The police always show their badges the first time they meet someone. My
name is Sam Bass,” he said. “As Mr. Baxter already told you.”

Finn looked carefully at him. “You were awake,” he said. “The whole time, you were eavesdropping.”

Bass dismissed the accusation with the wave of a hand. “At my age, it’s hard for me to tell for sure when I’m asleep and when
I’m awake. You’ll learn that someday, if you’re lucky.” He looked around the great room. “I spend most of my time here, in
the museum, and it all blends together—the time I’m awake, the time I’m asleep; the time I’m alone, the time I’m not. It’s
like being trapped in an Impressionist painting, where all the lines are smudged and run into one another. Sometimes I can
almost feel myself slipping into this place; becoming a part of it. It would be a nice way to go.”

“You like it that much here?” Finn asked.

Bass gave an amused smile, and for a moment his face took on a sparkle of life infused with charm. “‘Like’ is too weak a word,
Mr. Finn. This place saved my life.” He shuffled toward them. “Come, I want to show you something.”

He led them toward the door and back out to the staircase. His pace was slow and his steps unsteady. Finn had to fight the
urge to reach out to take hold of the strange old man’s elbow as he brought them down the long hallway. “I grew up poor,”
Bass said. “In the 1930s and ’40s, a lot of us grew up poor. Not like today’s poor. Today, you’re poor if you don’t have a
forty-inch flat-screen TV. Back then you weren’t poor until you were starving. It was a bad time. As a child, I watched people
fight and claw for food. That was how people survived back then. It seemed the only way. Only I was no good at it. I was small
and frail and hungry a lot.”

He walked through the arched doorway at the far end of the hall and turned right, into a smaller room. He paused for a moment,
as though walking and talking at the same time was wearing him out. Then he continued, heading toward the far end of the room.
“The only time I managed to work up the courage to take anything larger than a scrap from a rat was when I was nine. It was
from a large town house not far from here. Some lazy housekeeper left the door open to the kitchen, and a whole loaf of bread
just sitting out. I was so hungry, and it was right there.” An odd look of guilt was still evident on his face. “I took it,”
he said. “I took it and I ran.” He shook his head at the memory.

“It was a loaf of bread,” Finn said.

Bass looked at him. “It was my honor. And I gave it up for a loaf of bread. It’s the sort of thing you don’t appreciate until
you’re older.”

“Were you caught?” Kozlowski asked.

The old man shook his head. “Not by the police. I ran in fear. Fear of getting caught. Fear of stumbling on someone bigger
and hungrier than me. I had no place to go that was safe. But as I passed this place, I saw there was a door open. It was
dark and seemed empty, so I ducked inside. I only intended to stay here for a moment. Long enough to eat the bread, nothing
more. I had no idea what this place was.” He was at the far end of the room, and he walked through the doorway into the next
gallery.

“What happened?” Finn asked, following the strange old man into the next room.

“I saw her,” Bass said. He pointed up at a painting on the wall. Finn looked up. It was a portrait of a woman, looming over
the gallery. Finn sensed she was beautiful, though it was hard to tell. She was painted from a distance, lingering in a darkened
doorway, her white dress flowing about her like a loose shroud. She might have been smiling, but if so it was an enigmatic
smile; like the Mona Lisa with a dose of sensuality. “Isabella Stewart Gardner. Mrs. Jack, as she was called. This one was
painted by Zorn.”