Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic Page 13

  “And how long have you had this one?”

  “About eight years,” I said.

  “And when something, you know, God forbid, happens to her?”

  “There will be a Pearl Four,” I said.

  “That’s a little nuts,” Murphy said. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

  I shrugged. Pearl trotted up, carrying a rotten fish in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet. I thanked her and patted her head and she raced away in a wide, arcing circle, looking for more tasty treats from the sea.

  “Speaking of Gino Fish,” I said. “How’s he fit into this whole plan to rob the Winthrop?”

  “At one time, he was involved,” he said. “But he didn’t have the juice to move the paintings.”

  “With DeMarco’s crew?” I said. “Or later.”

  “DeMarco’s,” he said. “After they stole it, they didn’t have a goddamn idea of what to do with the stuff. You can’t just waltz into an auction and put up an El Greco or Goya. They were hoping for a little piece on the side. And if Gino Fish couldn’t arrange it, nobody could.”

  Devon Murphy limped along at a nice little clip. I realized he wasn’t making time for me, he just took me along on his daily walk. His breath was a little labored, and a fine sheen of sweat shone on his broad forehead. His face was ruddy against the white whiskers.

  “And then what?” I said.

  “You tell me.”

  “If I could tell you, I wouldn’t be down here,” I said. “Where did the painting go after the DeMarcos?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “It’s no longer with the DeMarco crew.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A local dealer is trying to put me in touch with the current seller,” I said. “With two out of three men dead, I think it’s safe to say the painting has moved down the line.”

  “You’re talking about fucking Alan Garner,” Murphy said, moving ahead, not looking up at me. “Gino’s little boy toy? Watch yourself, buddy. I wouldn’t trust that kid with nothing. This is way, way out of his league.”

  “What if I were to tell you he had the Picasso that got returned?”

  “I’d say so fucking what,” Murphy said. “That thing was sold off quick. It’s small and not so famous.”

  Somewhere behind us, inland, thunder made a low, rumbling sound. The rain intensified. Murphy looked up, shook his head, and made a “follow me” gesture with his hand. We walked back to where we’d parked our cars.

  “That little sketch was the only thing that DeMarco’s crew unloaded,” he said. “They got like thirty grand for it. Nothing. I think Gino must’ve had it warehoused a long time ago. No telling when Garner swiped it from him.”

  Pearl was back with us now, trotting so close to me that I could easily rest my hand on her head. She was panting hard, tongue hanging loose and free from her jowls. I wished I’d brought a tennis ball. To Pearl, a tennis ball was a close second to a dead fish or duck.

  “So who killed Benny Barboza?”

  “Come on, man,” he said. “Really? What are you trying to do here? Spoil my retirement?”

  “Okay,” I said. “How about why? Was it for the paintings?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “It was all drug business.”

  “And so who ended up with the painting?”

  Murphy stopped, his thin hair blowing wild now. His Irish face was reddened and wind chapped. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t lead you there by the hand. And I’ll tell you something: That’s somewhere you don’t want to go.”

  “I might disagree.”

  “If they find out you know, then you’ll be dead.”

  “Others have tried it,” I said. “Without much success.”

  “These guys will succeed,” he said. “Try this one on for size. You think I know who has the paintings? Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Why wouldn’t I try and get some of that reward money myself? I mean, you see the kind of car I drive. What a piece of shit. I could use a little cash infusion.”

  We were close to the parking lot and I unlocked my doors with my key chain. Pearl ran on ahead, soaked from head to claws and patiently waiting for me to let her into the backseat. Before we parted ways, Murphy stared right at me and tilted his head for emphasis.

  “If I find out who killed Benny Barboza, would I be getting warm?”

  “No,” he said. “You’d be so hot, you might just burn your dick off.”

  “That’s pretty warm,” I said.

  “Damn well better believe it,” he said.

  31

  BY THE TIME PEARL and I returned to the Navy Yards, it was late. I poured her some fresh water and chow and set about to cook dinner. The night before, I’d prepped a beef tenderloin from Stillman’s Farm with kosher salt and left it in the refrigerator. The tenderloin wouldn’t take long. It was meant to be very pink in the center, not more than a hundred and fifty degrees inside. I set the oven to 425° and set out to make the sauce. The meat, rubbed by the hands of the Gods and blessed by holy men, would take care of itself.

  I pulled out a large pan and melted a half-stick of butter over medium-low. I added in some chopped shallots with fresh rosemary, cracked pepper, and little cognac. I let everything cook down and added in a little cooking sherry and let the mix simmer. As I worked, I opened up a bottle of Bordeaux and set it aside. Then I cracked open a Sam Adams to hydrate me while I made a summer salad with mixed greens, pears, walnuts, and goat cheese. Besides the sauce, hydration was key to the cooking.

  Pearl had finished scarfing up her dinner and returned to the big leather sofa to rest. She’d had quite a day. I turned on the Sox game and let her watch the sixth inning.

  I set the table for one and pulled out the roast. I placed it toward the center of my cooking island to let it rest without fear of Pearl. The sauce was nearly done and I turned down the heat.

  I mixed a dressing of olive oil, vinegar, and lemon juice in a coffee mug and then checked on the roast. A few minutes left.

  From my kitchen, I could see the sun setting across the moored boats. A large fishing boat was sliding up toward the dock, two men on the bow. One jumped off and the other tossed him the line, tying up for the evening. There was a little bit of wind and the boats rocked softly but strongly tethered to the docks.

  I drank some wine. I watched the Sox. The room smelled pleasantly of roast and the sweetness of the sauce.

  I ate dinner, did the dishes, and finished the ball game.

  After walking Pearl for the evening, I returned to my kitchen table and poured a third glass of wine. I’d checked out a book from the library on El Greco but over the last few days had little chance to look beyond the cover. As Pearl snuffled and snored, legs sticking straight up at the ceiling, I looked through the big, bold images of Christ, the Virgin Mary, many Saints and noble Spaniards. St. Francis and the stigmata. The view of his beloved Toledo on the hill. I found out he was born in 1541 in Crete and died in 1614 in Spain. In between, he lived and trained in Venice and Rome, in post-Byzantine art and something called mannerism. Being a master detective, I then read that mannerism was about the askew proportions Locke had told me about. Stylized poses and lack of clear perspective.

  To understand the lack of clear perspective better, I drank some more wine. Pearl snored as I flipped through the pages.

  I read that when El Greco first saw the Sistine Chapel, he wasn’t impressed. He told the pope that Michelangelo was a good man but didn’t know how to paint. He offered to redo the job himself. Soon El Greco became persona non grata in Rome and was being called a foolish foreigner. He packed his bags for Toledo, Spain, where he developed his own style and technique.

  Maybe that’s what I needed. A fresh perspective. As Toledo—either Spain or Ohio—was out of the question, I considered
some local options. I was studying Assumption of the Virgin when my cell phone buzzed.

  “Spenser,” I said. “Master of off-center perspectives.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Everyone wants to talk to me,” I said. “I’m a popular guy.”

  “It’s Garner,” he said. “There’s something you need to see.”

  I looked at my watch. It was past midnight.

  “Now?” I said.

  “This can’t wait until morning,” he said. “Can we meet at my gallery?”

  “It’s past midnight,” I said. “I’m stuffed with a beef tenderloin and nearly a bottle of red wine. I plan on finishing the bottle. How about a hint?”

  “Either you come,” he said, “or I’ll call that fellow Paul Marston. Nice guy for a Brit. I don’t think he’d have an issue rolling out of bed on a moment’s notice if it’s a chance to see The Gentleman in Black.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “Is that what you’re offering?”

  “I am,” he said. “The seller is very interested in coming to terms with the museum. Since you and I have a so-called shared history, and I know you’ll do as you say, I’m giving you first dibs.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” I said. “What’s the seller want?”

  “No deal yet,” he said. “That will have to be orchestrated. But the museum will want proof of life, and I’m here to provide it.”

  “Tonight?” I said. “As in right now?”

  “I thought the private-detective motto was ‘We never sleep.’”

  “That’s the Pinkertons,” I said. “I have a different motto.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Coffee before justice.”

  “Well, then,” Garner said. “I’ll put on a pot. I’ll pour you a mug before we take off.”

  “I thought the painting was at the gallery?”

  “Think of me what you will, Spenser,” he said. “But I’m not stupid. We have a nice little drive ahead of us.”

  “If I’d known we were taking a road trip, I’d have made a mix tape,” I said. “Do you like Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan?”

  “Never heard of them,” he said. “Hurry up, Spenser. Everyone is nervous about this. Plans change every hour or so.”

  32

  FINDING AN OPEN PARKING SLOT on Newbury Street was much easier at nearly one a.m. I found a spot at the corner of Gloucester and walked across the empty thoroughfare. A light was on in the corner of the ivy-covered building, and I called Garner back to buzz me in.

  He greeted me on the stoop with a full coffee mug.

  Garner didn’t look as if he’d been rousted from his sleep. His longish blond hair was perfectly styled. He had on a pair of skinny black pants, pegged at the bottom with shiny patent leather boots, and some type of lightweight khaki jacket over a designer T-shirt. The T-shirt probably cost more than everything I had on. I was more a Levi’s-and-Hanes kind of guy.

  “Do you want me to put it in a travel mug?”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “Ah,” he said. He smiled big and held up a finger. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re concerned about the interior of my car,” I said. “Or you’re driving?”

  “I’m driving,” he said. “You can leave your vehicle here. You can’t know where I’ll be taking you.”

  “I am a trained detective,” I said. “I might spot a few things on the way.”

  “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a long strip of black material. I watched him with amazement when he showed the blindfold.

  “Do you plan to shoot a cigarette out of the corner of my mouth?” I said. “Because if not, I’m not wearing it.”

  “We have strict instructions on how you are to view the work.”

  “And I have strict instructions on watching my own ass.”

  “Oh, please,” he said. “You’ll be completely safe with me.”

  “I don’t know where we are going,” I said. “Or who we are meeting. Or how long it’ll take us to get to wherever we’re going. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Be that as it may.”

  “I wouldn’t let you blindfold me if you were a French maid wanting to swat me with a feather duster.”

  “No blindfold.”

  I drank some coffee. “Not a chance.”

  “I’ll have to speak to my people.”

  I made an offhand gesture and took a seat by the window. I heard him walk into another room and convey my request. He agreed to a few things and then came back into the room.

  “We have a van.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It’s a large van,” he said. “Used to transport paintings. You’ll have to sit in the back until we arrive at the location, and again on the way back to the gallery.”

  “You’re making this tough, Alan.”

  “It will only be you and me.”

  “So you say.”

  “I give you my word,” he said. “No one will interfere with the viewing of the El Greco. You can keep that gun on your hip. And the one you probably have strapped on your ankle.”

  “How about the Ka-Bar I often hold in my teeth?”

  “Fine,” Garner said. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you like. But we really must be going. We have a limited window here and we don’t want anyone to change their mind. This wasn’t easy to set up. Some very, very nervous sellers here.”

  “How far?” I said.

  “A little more than an hour.”

  I nodded. I finished off half the coffee and set down the mug on a wooden table. Garner picked up the mug and wiped away the slight wetness where it had been.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said. “This is a very rare opportunity. The Winthrop misses out on this and I fear the painting will be gone forever.”

  “Forever?”

  “There are other buyers,” he said. “And let’s just say they don’t reside close to this area code.”

  Against my better judgment, and about any other sane person’s, I crawled into the back of a black Mercedes cargo van. He seemed amused watching me take a seat on a wheel well and look for a place to hold on.

  “And I’ll need your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d be able to track every turn,” he said. “You could follow the van by map.”

  I hesitatingly handed over my phone and he shut both doors. The car started and we moved off. A divider separated the cargo area from the driver and passenger seats. I felt like I was a prisoner being transported. But unlike a prisoner, I wasn’t shackled and I carried two guns, as Garner suspected.

  The guns boosted my confidence a great deal.

  However, I did not have Hawk, or Z, to follow the van to wherever the hell we were going. I had thought about calling Vinnie, but calling Vinnie to watch my back with Alan Garner would’ve been a laughable offense. Besides, I didn’t want to involve Vinnie unless I absolutely had to. I knew I’d pushed him about as far as I could against competitors in his same line of work. It was bad for business.

  I had a light in the back of the van but no windows. I had no phone. About the only thing I could do on the long ride was to count bullets in my gun. So I counted the bullets in my gun. I counted the extra bullets in my pocket. I whistled “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” I planned out what I would do if Garner opened the doors to a surprise.

  But I had little reason to think Garner would double-cross me or wanted to see me harmed. I wanted to find the painting. Garner wanted money. And the person who held the painting wanted a reward. It was in everyone’s best interest that this plan worked out. All one big, happy family.

  The ride seemed to last for much longer than an hour, but accor
ding to my watch took somewhere right over fifty minutes. My legs ached and my backside was sore. Finally, Garner pulled to a stop and killed the engine.

  It was two-ten in the morning.

  I had my .38 in hand. If there was a surprise party waiting, I’d take a few with me.

  The doors broke open, and bright light flooded into the van. Garner seemed to be alone. He waved for me to get out. We were in some type of big indoor loading bay. I followed Garner up a concrete ramp to two large doors. As he punched in a passcode, I looked around the loading bay. Gray, industrial brick walls. Four large rolling bay doors. One door was open where we entered, but I couldn’t see far into the dark. I looked around for any signage that might tell me where I was, but I saw nothing.

  I followed Garner into a long, broad hallway to an industrial elevator. The lights above were bright and fluorescent, the floors smooth concrete. A map on a far wall noted directions to different blocks of units. We were in some kind of storage warehouse. But I still didn’t see a name or any indication of where we were.

  “Quit looking,” Garner said. “We could be anywhere.”

  “I have the tracking skills of a bloodhound.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “Even if you know where we are, the art will be in a different location tomorrow. This is just a viewing area.”

  I looked at him as the elevator doors pulled open. He turned to the right on the fifth floor of the facility. Given that there were about five hundred thousand similar places outside Boston, we could be absolutely anywhere. It was cold and metallic-smelling. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as we walked, turning a few times to arrive at the storage unit.

  “I was in a place just like this earlier today,” I said. “Never knew I was such a good packer.”

  Garner didn’t answer me. He turned the key in the padlock and pushed up the rolling door. The ceiling was wire mesh, and I could see most of the space in the unit was wide open. There was a folding table set up in the center of the unit. One folding chair and several boxes off to one corner. Garner pulled out a big section of what looked to be poster board with several clamps on each corner.