Among Thieves (40 page)

He got Devon’s name off the courtroom schedule and called it in to Porter, who was back at the office. “I’ll run him through
the computer,” Porter said. Twenty minutes later, Porter called back. “He’s a thief,” he reported. “Small-time, but he had
some connections back in the day with Murphy. The apartment they’re in is his.”

“He could be our guy,” Hewitt said.

“Could be,” Porter replied. “Something’s going down.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it? Word at the courthouse was that the lawyer pulled some strings to get this guy’s bail hearing
scheduled early. No reason for the hurry unless something’s happening.”

“Have you got GPS with you?”

“Yeah. I was afraid they might just be stopping off for a second, but from the look of things, they may be here for a while.
The car’s a little way down the street from the apartment. Could be tricky, but I think I can handle it.”

“Good. Get it planted, and keep an eye on them. Let me know if anything happens.” Porter hung up without waiting for a reply.

Hewitt looked at his phone. He had the distinct feeling that Porter viewed himself as fully in charge of the investigation
now, and thought of Hewitt as nothing more than a glorified gofer. It hadn’t been that way at the start. Porter had come to
Hewitt and asked a favor. He said he had a solid lead on the Gardner case, but needed to keep the investigation closed. He
said there was a chance there was a breach in the Art Theft Program unit, and he wasn’t willing to risk losing the Gardner
paintings over it. He even offered to share the credit for any success they had. Hewitt was beginning to get the impression
that the amount of credit that would actually come his way would be minimal.

He picked up the cardboard cup of coffee he’d bought at noon and took a sip. The coffee was cold and stale, and he almost
spat it out. He grimaced; he’d have thought by this time in his career he wouldn’t be sweating his balls off on a stakeout.
Looking around, he spied a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. He needed to take a leak and get a new cup of coffee. Before
he could do either of those things, though, he had a job to do.

He reached into the glove compartment and took out a small black box the size of a cigarette lighter. Turning it over on its
side he flipped a switch, and checked to see that it was working. He opened the car door, got out, and walked up the street,
toward where the giant Caprice was parked. When he got alongside the rear bumper he pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket
and let it slip out of his hand and drop to the curb. As he bent down to pick it up, he quickly slid the little black box
under the car’s rear fender. He stood up and walked across the street toward the Dunkin’ Donuts.

Stone and Sanchez were in their unmarked car a block up the street from Devon’s apartment, facing west. “What do you think?”
Stone asked.

“I don’t know anymore,” Sanchez replied. “What the hell are they doing in there?” It was nearing six in the evening, and they’d
been at the apartment for close to an hour. Sanchez had one of the guards at the courthouse let him know when the hearing
was over. They’d waited outside and followed Finn and Kozlowski from the courthouse.

“Maybe the paintings are in there,” Stone said. Sanchez couldn’t tell whether he was kidding.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Can you imagine? Half a billion dollars’ worth of art in a shithole like that? Chances are the rats would have gotten to
the paintings anyway. They’ll come out all full of holes. Hopefully it’s that shitty modern art and it won’t matter.”

“If the guy who did Murphy and Ballick finds these guys, everyone in there will come out full of holes,” Sanchez said. “Keep
your eyes open.”

“Oh fuck,” Stone said.

“What is it?”

Stone pointed up the street past the apartment. It took a second for Sanchez to see what he was talking about. Then she saw
him: a tall black man in a dark suit and sunglasses, heading toward them. “Hewitt,” Stone said. He stopped next to Kozlowski’s
car and bent down to pick up something that had fallen out of his pocket. “GPS?”

“Gotta be.” They watched as Hewitt stood and crossed the street, headed into the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Shit,” she said.

“How the fuck did he get here?”

“He must have followed them too,” Sanchez said. “Goddammit.”

“What do we do now?” Stone asked.

She thought about it for a moment. “Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing,” she said. “I don’t think he’s seen us, and we know he’s
gonna be tailing them from a distance using the GPS. As long as we follow him, we can keep up our surveillance of Finn and
Malley, and at the same time we can get some idea of what the feds are up to.”

“You still don’t trust them, do you?” Stone asked.

She looked at him. “Never have, never will,” she said.

No one in Devon’s apartment felt much like talking. Their only discussion concerned the plan to swap the paintings for Sally.

There wasn’t much to it, really. Calling it a plan at all might have been generous, but it was the best they could come up
with on such short notice. Finn’s office was, they decided, the best place to make the exchange. It was the kind of a place
where it would be quiet enough at night that people would mind their own business. At the same time, it was close enough to
a decent neighborhood that if gunshots were fired, the police would be called quickly. That might make Kilbranish think twice
about opening fire.

The call came in to Finn’s cell phone at six exactly. The phone was sitting out on an empty wine box that served as a coffee
table, and the three of them were staring at it as if it were some supernatural charm. They all jumped when it rang. “He’s
punctual,” Finn said. He picked his phone up and answered on the third ring. “Finn here,” he said.

“Mr. Finn, do you have an answer for me?” Kilbranish asked.

“I do,” Finn said. “We’ve got the paintings.”

He could hear Kilbranish’s breathing get heavier on the other end of the line. “So, Devon was planning on crossing me,” he
said. “Devon made a mistake.”

“He did,” Finn said. “We’re gonna correct that mistake tonight, though.”

“Yes, we are. But if he crossed me once, he’ll do it again. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Finn said. “If you want the paintings, you’ll trust us,
Mr. Kilbranish.
” He said the name with emphasis.

“Very good, Mr. Finn,” Kilbranish said after a moment. “You know who I am.”

“I do. I only tell you that because if anything goes wrong, I’ve written a letter that I’m giving to a colleague of mine.
The police and the feds and Interpol will know who and where you are within hours. So things better not go wrong.”

“That’s all up to you. I want you to put the paintings in a car and send your client to meet me,” Kilbranish began.

“No deal,” Finn said. “We’ll do this our way.”

“You don’t dictate terms, Mr. Finn. I do. I have the girl.”

“And I have half a billion dollars of stolen art. Art that you’ve traveled across an ocean after two decades to find. You
have a girl I met a few days ago. Her father didn’t even know her last year.” As Finn spoke, Devon’s face turned white, and
he got up, reaching for the phone. Kozlowski pushed him back down onto the sofa. Devon struggled for a moment, but the detective
put a hand on his mouth, pushing the back of his head deep into the cushions. Physically, Devon was no match for Kozlowski.
“If you think you have all the leverage,” Finn said into the phone, “think again. We’ll do this, but only on our terms.”

Kilbranish didn’t answer immediately, and Finn feared he’d pushed too hard.

“When and where?” Kilbranish said at last.

“Ten o’clock,” Finn said. “My office in Charlestown. You know where it is? We’ll have the paintings. We make the exchange,
then you leave.”

The breathing was still heavy. “Just two of you,” Kilbranish said. “No one else.”

“Just me and Devon,” Finn agreed.

“If you cross me,” Kilbranish said, “I’ll make sure you die. I kill for a living. I’ll kill everyone you know. You understand
that?”

“I understand,” Finn said. “If this goes the way it’s supposed to, you won’t have to worry. You’ll have the paintings, and
as long as we’re safe, no one will ever know what went down.”

“I’ll be there,” Kilbranish said. Then the line went dead. Finn closed the phone.

Kozlowski let go of Devon’s face. “What the fuck!” Devon screamed as he jumped off the sofa. “Don’t touch me again!”

“Then don’t jeopardize this plan again,” Kozlowski said quietly. “You do anything that puts me or Finn or your daughter in
danger, and I’ll kill you if I have to.”

Devon looked at Finn. “Why did you say that? Why would you tell him no one cares what happens to Sally? If he kills her, I
swear to God, I’ll kill you both!”

“Calm down, Devon,” Finn said. “I had to say that. I had to make him think that he has less of an advantage than he really
does. It’s the only way.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ agree to this!” Devon yelled. “I didn’t agree to lose control!”

A police car went by the apartment, its siren blaring and its flashers casting colorful shadows through the windows in the
living room. They all looked out nervously, and no one said anything until it had passed.

“None of us are in control anymore,” Finn said. “The most we can do is to try and manage this the best we can. And I don’t
give a shit what you agree to, Devon, this is about one thing now. Getting Sally back. That’s it. You do what you’re told,
and we’ll all get out of this alive. Just remember, this guy won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your daughter. Keep that in
mind.”

“What did he say?” Kozlowski asked. “Will he be there?”

“He’ll be there,” Finn said. “He said if anything goes wrong, he’ll kill us all.”

Kozlowski stood up and took a deep breath. “Then I guess we’d better make sure that nothing goes wrong.”

Kilbranish hung up the phone at the house in Quincy and went straight to the door that led down to the basement. He had to
move quickly; he wasn’t waiting until ten o’clock.

As he moved down the steps, he caught the stench. Broadark’s body had been there for more than a day. The basement was cool,
but not cool enough to prevent decomposition, and it was clear from the smell that the organic processes had begun in earnest.
A few more hours and the smell would make its way upstairs. By the time the next person entered the house, the body would
be found in short order. That was fine with him, though. He had the place rented for the rest of the month. By the time anyone
else came in, he’d be long gone. With luck, he’d be fighting again.

She no longer turned toward him when he came down the stairs. For the first day she’d jumped every time the stairs creaked.
No more. That was normal. He’d had enough experience in kidnapping to recognize the signs of acceptance. It happened to all
of them eventually, and it made his job easier—not only in that it made her less likely to try to escape, but in that it made
her seem less human. It was easier to kill them once their spirits had been broken.

He moved over toward her and sat on the crate near her. He nudged her in the head with the muzzle of his gun. “It’s time,”
he said.

At that, she turned her head and looked at him. He could see the terror in her face, and he could read her thoughts. She was
wondering whether he was going to kill her now.
Good
, he thought. It was right that she remain frightened.

“I’m going to cut the tape on your hands. I’m taking you to your father.”

He reached forward and pulled the tape off her mouth. She still winced when it pulled the skin off around her lips, but not
nearly as much as she had the first time. He had to give her credit for that, at least; she was no princess.

She worked her mouth in circles, testing its coordination as he cut the tape away from her hands. “Are you letting me go?”
she asked.

“That depends on your father,” Liam said. “If he and his lawyer do what they were told to do, I’ll let you go.”