Among Thieves

“One more, downstairs,” the Irishman said. “Let’s go.”

Devon followed him. As he headed out of the room, he grabbed a small Oriental-looking vase from a display and slipped it into the bag. The Irishman gave him a lethal look, but said nothing. Devon didn’t care anymore.

They headed downstairs. “I’ll get the last one,” the Irishman said, consulting his list and the hand-drawn map of the museum’s layout. “You go to the security office and make sure the alarm hasn’t been tripped.”

“I thought you said you were sure about the alarm?”

“I am. Check it out anyway.”

Devon frowned, but headed back to the security office. It made no sense; if an external alarm had been tripped, then they were doomed either way. Checking on it wasn’t going to do any good. He was in the office before it occurred to him that the Irishman might have sent him off to prevent him from lifting any more artwork.

The Irishman was only gone for a few minutes. Devon had just finished looking over the electronics on the security desk when he walked in carrying a painting of an effete man in a top hat. It was still framed. “Any problems?” he asked.

“None that I can see,” Devon replied. “How the fuck should I know?”

The Irishman nodded and went to work on the frame. It took only a few moments before he had effectively dismantled the thing and was pulling the canvas off the remnants. He rolled the work up and slipped it into his bag.

“That’s it?” Devon asked.

“That’s it.”

“Okay, let’s get out of here.”

They headed back to the door where the guard had buzzed them in earlier that evening. “You ready?” Devon asked.

The Irishman frowned. “Shite,” he said. “I forgot something.”

“What?” Devon said.

“The security tapes,” the Irishman replied.

“You kidding?”

The Irishman handed his bag to Devon. “Go. I’ll be right there. If you’re not in the car when I get there, I’ll kill you. Slowly.” He was gone before Devon could argue.

Devon shook his head. The next two minutes would be dangerous. A man walking out of a museum at two-thirty in the morning carrying a couple of sacks would draw attention, police hat or not. He opened the door and walked out into the darkness.

There was no one on the street; not that Devon was looking. A key to getting away cleanly was to act as if there were nothing unusual about your behavior. He reached the small, beat-up car still parked on the street and opened the hatchback, putting the two bags in and closing the door. He climbed into the front seat, put the key in the ignition and waited. It felt as if he were lying naked on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park.

It took only a moment for the Irishman to show up. He got into the car. “Drive,” he said. Devon didn’t need any encouragement.

“Did you get the tapes?” Devon asked.

The Irishman nodded. “I took care of it.” He held up three VHS cassettes.

Something in the way he responded sent fear through Devon. “You didn’t go back for the guards, did you?”

“I went back for the tapes,” the Irishman said.

“Jesus Christ,” Devon said. “If you killed them, we’re fucked.”

“I went back for the tapes,” the Irishman said again. He looked at Devon, and Devon took his eyes off the road for just an instant to look back at him. He was impossible to read. The man’s eyes betrayed nothing. Devon turned his attention back to the road and directed the car through the streets of the city, back to Southie. He was eager to be done with the Irishman.

The next day the newspapers reported that the guards had been found alive. They were lucky, Devon knew. To the Irishman, there was little difference between retrieving a security tape and putting a bullet in a man’s head. Both were operational issues and nothing more. Devon prayed he would never see the man again.

Chapter Twenty

Fi

Fi

When Fi

“Holy shit,” Lissa said.

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“Yeah. You call us here and tell us our client was responsible for the biggest art theft in history? Sorry, ‘Holy shit’ is all I’ve got for the moment.”

Fi

“I’m with her,” he said. “Holy shit.”

“I need a little help here.”

“Where are the paintings now?” Kozlowski asked.

“ Devon doesn’t know. They took them back to Southie and gave them to Bulger. Devon’s understanding was that the Irish guy paid Bulger for the paintings, and they were smuggled back to Ireland.”

“Why’d the Irish guy come back now?” Lissa asked. “It’s been almost twenty years, for Christ’s sake.”

“Nobody seems to know. Apparently the guy isn’t entirely right in the head.”

“Nobody who did Vi

“He doesn’t know,” Fi

“Like what he had with Murphy and Ballick,” Kozlowski said.

“Exactly. If he wants to find out anything useful, he actually has to get Devon alone to talk to him-torture him if necessary. As long as Devon ’s in jail, that can’t happen, so for the moment that’s where he wants to stay.”

“Who cares what Devon ’s go

The two men looked at her. Fi

“We can’t bring them in on this art theft thing?” Kozlowski asked.

Fi

“He won’t let us?”

“He won’t. He’s afraid that he’ll be prosecuted for the theft.”

“Seems like he should be more worried about this Irish guy,” Kozlowski said.

“What if we could cut a deal with the cops?” Lissa suggested. “He tells them what they need to know, and there’s no prosecution? They might be willing to go for it.”

“They might-if he could produce the paintings. Unfortunately he can’t, so I doubt there’d be much interest. Besides, it’s not just the cops Devon ’s worried about. Bulger’s still on the run.”

“Are you serious?” Kozlowski said. “Bulger’s been on the run for fifteen years. There’s no way he’s go

“Probably not,” Fi

“So what do we tell Sanchez and Stone?” Kozlowski asked. “We can’t tell them anything?”