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Lissa looked up at Kozlowski and gave his hand another squeeze. “We are,” she said. “We’re ready.”
Fi
Nothing seemed normal anymore, though. He’d never felt like a third wheel with Lissa and Kozlowski until a few days before. They were a couple; he understood that. And yet they didn’t act like a couple. They didn’t cling to each other the way so many other couples did. Their relationship seemed built on stronger stuff than mutual dependence. As a result, his presence in the middle had never seemed to weaken it.
Things had changed. He had to give them a little more space now. When the doctor had pointed to her room and said that she could have visitors, Fi
Kozlowski didn’t argue. Fi
He was sitting on a bench, trying to focus on Sally’s kidnapping, working through all the various ugly possibilities, when Kozlowski walked off the elevator forty-five minutes later.
Fi
Fi
“She’s fine. They’re keeping her for a night, just to make sure.”
“The baby?”
Kozlowski nodded. “Still alive. Let’s go.” He turned and walked toward the lobby exit. Fi
Fi
Kozlowski shook his head. “I thought about it. This guy’s desperate. It’s not just about the money, there’s something else driving him. That means he’s unpredictable. The cops and the FBI work from a standard playbook that depends on predictability. We call them in, he’ll know, and he’ll kill her without even thinking twice. We need to get to this guy ourselves.”
“How?” Fi
“We won’t find him,” Kozlowski said. “There’s not enough time, and he’s smart enough to be holed up in a place we’d never locate.”
“So? What do we do?”
They were out at the car, and Kozlowski was opening the passenger-side door. He looked over the roof of the car at Fi
“What?”
“He wants them,” Kozlowski said. “Why not give them to him?”
Fi
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because every relevant law-enforcement agency in the world has been looking for those paintings for twenty years and hasn’t come up with anything. That doesn’t even include all the journalists, private investigators, art houses, and every profiteer with any knowledge of art.”
“We’ve never looked for them,” Kozlowski pointed out.
“You sure you’re not being a little bit overconfident?”
“Probably,” Kozlowski said. “You got any better ideas? Maybe this will give us back some control. Besides, we have a better reason than anyone else to find them.”
“How do we even know that they’re still in Boston? In all likelihood they were sold a long time ago and moved out of the goddamned country.”
Kozlowski shook his head. “They’re here. This asshole helped steal these things almost twenty years ago, and he’s here, now. Not only that, but he seems pretty fuckin’ sure that someone here knows something. He’s smart, we know that much; and he’s careful. Careful enough to torture and kill a bunch of people and not leave behind anything that’s got him caught by the cops. A guy like that doesn’t make the kinds of moves he’s making after twenty years unless there’s been some reason-unless he’s learned something concrete.”
Fi
“It may be, but if we want to have any hope of getting the girl back, we have to make that assumption. If it’s wrong, then we’re fucked and he’s going to kill her no matter what we do.”
Fi
“What is it?”
“Is this personal? Because of what he did to Lissa?”
Kozlowski took a deep breath. “He took the girl. The daughter of our client-a girl we were taking care of. He assaulted Lissa, and he could have killed my child before it was even born. It doesn’t get any more personal than this.”
Fi
“Where every investigation starts,” Kozlowski replied. “At the scene of the crime.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fi
“ Devon,” Fi
“What’s wrong?” his client asked.
Fi
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Devon said after a minute. “How? When?”
“A couple of hours ago. From her school.” Fi
“Was it him?”
“Yeah,” Fi
“Did you tell the cops?”
“No. He told us that if we did, he’d kill her. She’s your daughter, though. If you think we should get the cops involved, we will. It’s your call.”
“No cops,” Devon said. “He’s not the kinda guy who bluffs. He’ll kill her. I gotta deal with this myself. Can you get me outta here?”
“Probably,” Fi
“I don’t care what it costs. Just get me out. It’s me he wants. That’s her only chance. When do you think the judge will hear it?”
“He’s got a motions session tomorrow. I’ll try to get it scheduled for then.”
“Get it done. I gotta get outta this place.” Devon sounded deep in despair.
“It’s the best I can do,” Fi
“Okay,” Devon said. “Fi
“I know,” Fi
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. All this is my fault.”
“We’ll get her back,” Fi
“We will.” Devon sounded even less sure than Fi
The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum wasn’t far from the hospital. It covered half a block on Fenway Drive, next to Simmons College, just around the corner from the Museum of Fine Arts and Northeastern University. Across the street to the east was a patch of garden that was the last natural remnant of the swampy fens that had once covered much of the area west of downtown Boston.