Among Thieves (48 page)

A light shade of crimson shone through the gray of Bass’s face. He stood up. “I don’t appreciate your insinuation, Mr. Finn.”

“Sit down.”

“Why would I?”

“Because I’m meeting the police at the museum in twenty minutes, and I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to tell them
my theory about you.”

Bass stood by the side of the table, tottering slightly, hanging over Finn like some half-dead apparition. “You wouldn’t.
You don’t have any proof.”

“Proof?” Finn laughed. “Who cares about proof? I’ve got a viable theory about the greatest art theft in history. I’m guessing
it’s a theory that hasn’t been checked out very carefully before. The cops would have looked at you, sure.” Finn looked up
at Bass and held his fingers up in a square, as though examining him through a camera. “But I’m guessing they passed by you
pretty quickly and got on to people they thought were more likely suspects. Now they could take their time. Check you out
thoroughly. Go through your records, search your apartment, check if you’ve rented any self-storage recently. Even if I’m
wrong, it would be a serious hassle. I’m guessing someone your age might not even be able to survive it. Stress is a real
killer, they say.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Because my client is dead. A girl lost her father. I want to know why.” He pointed to the chair beside him. “Now sit.”

Bass sunk into the seat. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun again. “What would you do?” he asked. “If I said you
were right, would you tell the police?”

“Depends,” Finn said.

“On what?”

“On whether you give me a good enough reason not to.”

Bass sat very still for a long time. “I’m dying,” he said at last.

“We’re all dying,” Finn replied.

“The doctors say a year at the outside.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s not a reason.”

Bass opened his eyes and picked up his glass. He didn’t even bother to sniff the wine this time; he took a long drink. “I
love the museum,” he said. “I love what it stands for. Can you imagine, building something that beautiful? One person. One
vision. And then leaving all that beauty to the world forever? It is, perhaps, one of the greatest accomplishments I can think
of.” He was looking off at some distant point, and his eyes had lost their focus. Then he looked sharply at Finn. “That place
saved my life,” he said. “It fed me. It clothed me. It took me in. But more than that, it gave me a reason to live. In some
ways, it gave me life itself. That sounds delusional to you, I’m sure.”

Finn shook his head. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t. But it doesn’t explain why you would steal from a place like that.”

“To save it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see, Mr. Finn, I didn’t have much of a choice,” Bass said. “Jimmy Bulger could be—how did you put it before?—very persuasive.”

“He threatened to kill you?” Finn guessed.

“No, no, he knew me too well for that. He knew that I would never hurt the museum to save myself.”

“What then?”

“He threatened to take it all away from me. To take it away from the world.” Finn stared blankly back at the old man as he
continued. “I lived in that neighborhood for a long time. I knew Bulger’s mother, and I was nice to her. He never bothered
me until that one time, when he came to me and he told me that a friend of his wanted to rob the museum. I was outraged. I
told him I would call the police, right then and there, and I would have, too. He knew it. So he used the only thing I ever
loved against me. He told me that if I didn’t help them, they would burn the museum to the ground. It wasn’t an idle threat,
either. I knew he had the people who could do it. That was always the greatest fear at the museum—a fire. Even if it gets
put out, the damage to the building, and the destruction of the artwork from the fire and smoke and water, would be catastrophic.
He told me all this; told me what they would do. And then he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘Sam, only you can save
the museum.’” Bass’s hands shook at the memory, and he took another sip of his wine. “It was a rationalization, I know, but
I accepted it. We struck a deal; it would be a one-time thing, and then they would leave the museum alone forever.”

“You chose the paintings,” Finn said.

“I did. They wanted the most valuable, and only a few. I gave them almost all that they wanted.”

“Except
The Rape of Europa
, by Titian.”

“That’s true. I didn’t give them the Titian. Bulger was angry when he read the papers the next day and learned that I hadn’t
told them to take the most valuable painting in the place, but I didn’t care. There are stories of how proud Mrs. Jack was
when she acquired that painting. She had parties just to celebrate, and she called her museum complete with it. The depths
of my betrayal wouldn’t go so far as to sacrifice that painting. In the end, Bulger got over it. I think he ultimately thought
it was a good thing, because the choice of artwork confused investigators—particularly with the knickknacks that Devon Malley
apparently decided to pilfer while he was there.”

“What did you get out of it?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Bass replied. “I wouldn’t have taken any money even if they’d offered—and they did. All I got out of it was a promise
that Bulger would leave the museum alone after that, and that he would put the word out to other thieves that the museum was
under his protection, so that no one else would ever attempt a robbery again. Other than that, I thought it was ended for
me.”

“But it wasn’t,” Finn said. “Not quite.”

“No, not quite. Bulger came to me some time later and told me that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the paintings. He said
he needed to hide them, and he wanted my help to make sure it was done in a way so that they wouldn’t lose their value.”

“And you helped him.”

“Of course,” Bass said, his eyes wide. “The only thing worse than the paintings being stolen would have been for them to be
destroyed. As long as they were protected, there was always a chance that they would find their way home. So I stretched the
canvases for him, and remounted them. Then I helped him build the storage box and I made sure that it would keep the paintings
safe in the self-storage room.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Not for fifteen years. I managed to put the whole thing behind me; managed to tell myself that I had done the right
thing to protect my museum; managed to tell myself that Mrs. Jack would appreciate what I’d done for her, even. Only the empty
frames on the walls served as a reminder, but I managed, even, to live with them. Then two months ago I heard that the paintings
were being offered for sale. There have been rumors before, but not like this. Baxter made clear that this seemed to be genuine.
When I had been diagnosed six months before, I wrote out a note that told where the paintings were so they would be found
after I died. I thought that I might fix this all, in the end. With the offer to sell the paintings, though, all that was
slipping away, and it looked like they would be lost again. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took them?”

Bass nodded. “I took them. I watched the self-storage for two nights. Once I was convinced it could be done, I used the key
Bulger had left with me so I could get in and check on the paintings to make sure they were being preserved, and I took them.
It took me almost an entire night, and the exertion nearly killed me, but I did it.”

“And more people died.”

Bass looked down at his wine, and his face grew sad. “Rest assured, Mr. Finn, I will be judged by higher powers than you shortly,
and I don’t believe I will be judged well.”

Finn sat there for another few moments, with neither of them talking. He raised his hand to the waiter and pantomimed a signature
in the air to indicate that they were ready for the check. “One last question,” Finn said. “Why not return the paintings now?
You’d be a hero.”

Bass shook his head. “I’d be a Judas. I am an old man, with little life left in me. The only solace I have is Mrs. Jack’s
museum. It is the only thing in this world that ever truly gave me joy. If it was revealed that I had participated in the
robbery—that I had kept quiet all these years…? No, Mr. Finn, I would certainly not be a hero, and I have little doubt that
I would no longer be welcome in the museum. In my home. It’s selfish of me, I know, but I still believe I had the best intentions,
and I am not yet willing to give up the one thing that I love. Given how little time I have, it will be enough that the paintings
are returned upon my death, don’t you think?”

“That’s a question for your own conscience,” Finn said.

“It is.” Bass leaned forward. “The question for your conscience, Mr. Finn, is what will you tell the police?”

Finn took a twenty out of his wallet and put it down on the table to cover the drinks. “Do you have a will?” Finn asked.

Bass shook his head. “I have nothing of value.”

“Come by my office tomorrow,” Finn said. “I’ll have a will ready for you to sign.”

“You’re thinking about the paintings? The reward, maybe?” Finn nodded, and Bass nodded back. “Very well. I suppose you’re
entitled to the reward for ensuring the paintings find their way back to the museum.”

“I’m not entitled to anything, and I wouldn’t take it if I was. You’re going to leave the paintings to the girl, so she can
return them. She lost her father. If anyone is going to get a reward, it’s going to be her.”

Bass seemed to consider this. “Do you think it would work? I was involved in the robbery. If I leave them to her, can she
still collect the reward?”

“I don’t know, but if there’s a way I’ll find it.”

“Five million dollars for a young girl.” Bass let out a low whistle. “A lot of money.”

“It is,” Finn conceded. “I don’t even know whether she’ll want it. Those paintings killed her father. She may want no part
of the reward. But the decision’s gonna be hers if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Bass nodded. “That seems reasonable to me,” he said. “What time do you want me at your office?”

Finn stood up. “Early. Seven. Before anyone else is in the office. I don’t want anyone else to know about this.”

“I will be at your office at seven,” Bass said. “What will you tell the police?”

“Nothing. I’m your lawyer now. Anything you tell me is protected by the attorney-client privilege. Not only am I not obligated
to tell the police anything, I could be disbarred if I did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finn,” Bass said.

“Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for Sally. It’s what her father wanted and he was my client. I’m just doing what he wanted
me to. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be telling the police everything.” He turned and walked away without looking back.

Finn walked back to the museum along the Fenway. Summer was in full bloom and the garden park was full of joggers and strollers
and weary city souls seeking a respite as they trudged home from work. His car was parked just in front of the museum. A familiar
dark Lincoln was parked askew behind him, the ass end of the thing jutting out into the road. Detective Stone was sitting
on the hood, watching Finn approach.

He looked at his watch as Finn got within speaking distance. “You said five-thirty,” he said. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Finn said. “I got tied up.”

“So, what is it that you needed to talk about?”

Finn chose his words carefully. “I thought I would have some information I could give you that might be helpful.”

“What is it?” Stone asked. He was still leaning on the car, his head down, watching Finn carefully.

Finn shook his head. “I was wrong. There’s nothing useful I can tell you.”

Stone just continued to stare at him. “That’s why you asked to meet me? To tell me there’s nothing you can tell me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Stone repeated. He looked away, watching a fit young woman as she ran along the dirt park path across the
street. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Something you know. Something you’re not going to tell me.”

Finn shrugged. “What is it that you care about, Stone? What is it that you really love?”

Stone’s eyes continued to follow the young woman from behind. “I love catching criminals,” he said. “I love seeing the bad
guys go away.”

“What if there are no bad guys?” Finn asked. “What if there are just fucked-up people doing the best with what they’ve been
dealt?”

“Doesn’t matter what the hand is. If they play it crooked, they’re the bad guys.” The jogger rounded the corner and disappeared
from sight. Stone turned to Finn. “What is it you love, Counselor? What is it you really care about?”

Finn thought about it for a moment. “I care about my clients,” he said after a while.

“All of them?”

“Some more than others, but yeah, all of them.”

“What about the bad guys?”

“That’s not for me to judge.”

Stone stood up. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and slipped a business card out of the folds. He
handed it to Finn. “You change your mind, you decide you have something to tell me that might be useful, gimme a call.”