Among Thieves

Baxter nodded to Fi

Kozlowski and Fi

“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?” Fi

“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.”

Fi

“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 co

Baxter looked u

“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 co

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 Fi

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.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Do you think he was telling the truth?”

Kozlowski asked the question once Baxter had left the room. He and Fi

“About what?” Fi

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

Fi

“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,” Fi

“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. Fi

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 Fi

“Why not?” Fi

“It was in Mrs. Gardner’s will.” The accent was unusual. It was Bostonian in origin, but muddled. Fi

Fi

The man rose from the chair, and Fi

“No,” Fi

“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,” Fi

“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.”

Fi