Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic Page 8

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said. She pressed the door lock on her key chain. A black BMW’s lights flickered. “It’s nearly four-thirty. My day is shot anyway. Where are we drinking? The Taj? The Elliott?”

  “The Four Seasons,” I said.

  “Are we celebrating your release?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the checked baggage ticket. I played with it in my fingers like a card sharp.

  “A clue?”

  “Or a dead end,” I said. “What I think was there is probably there no more.”

  “And what was there?”

  “A very early sketch by Pablo Picasso.”

  Rita snorted and climbed behind the wheel. I crawled into the passenger seat, the car obviously not made for men of my size and shape. A garden gnome would have been completely comfortable riding shotgun. We zoomed away from the jail.

  “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”

  I told her about taking the job with the Winthrop, the recent letters to Marjorie Ward Phillips, and the little meet in the Boston Common.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “Who was the mystery man?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “He claimed he was just a courier. But he was holding this in exchange for the museum releasing the funds.”

  “You think the Four Seasons concierge has the Picasso?”

  “At best, they will,” I said. “At the worst, we can have a cocktail. And I can wash the bad taste of being arrested out of my mouth.”

  “Oh, it’s good for you,” she said. “It builds character. But why did you call me? Why didn’t you call Belson? Or Quirk? They might’ve untangled the whole mess easier than a high-priced lawyer in tight pants.”

  “Are they really that tight?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”

  “Quirk said the department was done with favors,” I said. “And the new head of Homicide isn’t my biggest fan.”

  “And I am?”

  “Who better?”

  Rita worked the gear shift like Mario Andretti as we headed down Storrow and back toward the Boston Common.

  18

  WE TOOK STORROW PAST the Hatch Shell and cut over to Arlington, by my old apartment on Marlborough, and edged the Public Garden. Rita braked to a fast stop at the Four Seasons entrance on Boylston and left her car idling, waiting for the attendant to open her door. “From the shithouse to the penthouse,” she said. “Just like you, Spenser.”

  “How are we feeling today?”

  “Double martini,” she said. “Ketel One. Straight up with extra olives. The word vermouth only whispered into the glass.”

  “Order me a beer,” I said. “I’ll be with you.”

  “And miss out on finding a Picasso?” she said. “Fat fucking chance, buster.”

  We walked into the lobby and over to the concierge station. The Four Seasons, as one might expect, was a fancy place. White marble, brass, oil paintings. The staff was attentive and mannered, even to a jailbird like me.

  I handed the ticket to a bellman and we waited.

  “Have you called the Winthrop?” Rita said.

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t you think they would’ve sent their attorney to bail you out?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “And why not?”

  “It was a secret mission,” I said. “Only known to me and the museum director. The board has already hired a new investigator. A real British dandy named Paul Marston. You’d like him. He smells like the fragrance aisle at Kmart.”

  After a long moment, the bellhop returned and handed me back the ticket. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “That item has already been retrieved.”

  I looked at Rita. And then shrugged.

  “Is Tommy O’Shea still your house dick?” I said.

  “Sir?”

  “Does Mr. O’Shea still run security around here?” I said.

  The bellhop nodded and asked if I’d like to see him. I said very much. I looked at Rita. “Tell him he can find us at the bar,” I said. “This lovely lady deserves a drink.”

  I offered my right arm to Rita and we made our way from the lobby into the cool coziness of the Bristol Bar. Many men noticed the fit of Rita’s pants as we passed.

  “You’re taking this whole thing awfully well.”

  “Win some,” I said. “Lose some.”

  “Really?” she said. “You must know something you’re not telling me.”

  “Extra vermouth,” I said. “Right.”

  She ignored me and we found a place at the edge of the bar. I knew the bartender and we made small talk for a bit. I introduced Rita and he expertly made a martini as cold as an aircraft wing. It looked so good, I forwent a beer and asked to have what Rita ordered.

  We clinked glasses.

  “I’m going to frame your mug shot,” she said. “Put it right on my desk next to my picture of my poodle.”

  “You have a poodle?”

  “The things you don’t know about me,” she said. “It breaks my heart.”

  I’d finished my martini and asked for a tall ice water when O’Shea walked up and took a seat next to me. He was a big guy with a lot of unkempt brown hair, packed like a sausage into the skin of his black suit. He looked like he could use some sleep and a shave.

  Sandwiched by the Four Seasons house dick on one side and Boston’s toughest legal eagle on the other, I felt safe enough to order another round.

  We shook hands. I introduced Rita.

  I lay down the ticket stub.

  “Sorry about this,” O’Shea said. “We’ve searched everywhere for it. Can you tell me what it looked like?”

  I held my hands about a foot apart. “Probably a package about yay big.”

  “Probably?”

  “A gift left by a friend.”

  “Is it very valuable?”

  “To some,” I said. “I noticed two security cameras in the vicinity of the concierge station. The item was probably retrieved between ten a.m. this morning and noon.”

  “And you would like me to roll the tape?” O’Shea said.

  “Pushy bastard, isn’t he?” Rita said. She put down her empty drink. “Why do we deal with him?”

  “The world is round,” O’Shea said. “What can I say? I owe him one.”

  “Or two,” I said. “But who’s counting?”

  I downed my drink in record time and we followed O’Shea to the security office in a room behind the front desk. A smallish guy in glasses and a blue knit shirt and khakis sat at a computer keyboard. O’Shea told him where, when, and what we were looking for. With some deft strokes of the keyboard, we looked over his shoulder at a large monitor. I saw two concierges appear on the screen. A man and a woman. The man was showing a middle-aged woman a map, marking locations. Soon a man in a business suit appeared and there was talking, but the door behind the stand didn’t open. The counter read 10:08. We watched a variety of people come and go. Directions, advice, and a few large pieces of luggage came and went from the left luggage room. When the marker hit 10:35, a tall, thin man arrived at the desk. We couldn’t hear what was being said. But he presented a room key and identification. The woman at the desk looked at the ID and handed it back to the man. She nodded to the male concierge and he disappeared into the back room.

  “Looks like he’s a guest,” O’Shea said.

  The security guy at the desk fast-forwarded the footage and the bellhop reappeared with a small package, about yay big, as I’d surmised. The man reached into his pocket, handed him some cash, took the package, and headed out of the camera’s frame.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Back it up.”

  The guy backed it up to the arrival of the man. Rita stood next to me and craned her neck in to study the man’s face. “Handsome ma
n,” she said. “Well dressed. I bet that suit cost a few thousand bucks.”

  I asked for the image to be frozen. And then if we could zoom in and take a closer look at his handsome face. The guy at the keyboard did as I asked in about two seconds. I leaned in to the desk. I studied the man. Rita was right. The guy had style. He wore a light blue linen jacket over a pink button-down and crisp white pants. I couldn’t see the shoes, but I’m sure they were equally impressive.

  He had styled blond hair and delicate features. The same slim build, narrow shoulders, and lean frame. He was clean-shaven, with perfect hair.

  “Let me call the concierge on duty,” he said. “Maybe he’ll know the guest.”

  “Not necessary,” I said.

  “You know him?” Rita said.

  “Yep,” I said. “We go back a long way. He doesn’t look like he’s aged a bit.”

  “And,” Rita said. “Are you going to enlighten us?”

  “His name is Alan Garner,” I said. “He used to be the personal secretary to Gino Fish. Alan was the gatekeeper to him. Some said they were more than friends. He worked the front desk at Gino’s operation.”

  “You know where to find him?” O’Shea said.

  “That won’t be hard,” I said. “I can’t wait. I’m absolutely giddy with questions.”

  19

  LATE THAT NIGHT, Marjorie Ward Phillips left me a curt message on my voicemail. The board wished to see me early the next morning at the Winthrop. I was advised not to be tardy, as important business needed to be addressed. There was no mention of the Picasso sketch, the botched exchange in the Common, or my subsequent arrest.

  I listened to the message, deleted it, and went to bed. Early the next morning, Pearl and I went for a long walk through Charlestown and down along the Navy Yard marina. I ate eggs scrambled with locally sourced sausage, took a shower and shaved, and drove to the Winthrop.

  It was raining that morning as it had been on my first visit. The meeting was in the second-floor boardroom. This time, the room was filled with Marjorie, Topper, and, as I’d guessed, many of Topper’s friends. They were all older white men. Many of them indistinguishable from the next.

  When I entered, Marjorie asked me to sit. This time someone brought me coffee. It was even worse than I recalled. Topper sat at the head of the table. He again presented his outdoorsy look with a casual green plaid shirt, khaki cargo pants, and hiking boots. He held his cane in his hand as he directed the board to please take their seats. His white hair, damp and lifeless, hung limp to his shoulders. His eyes were magnified in his big circular glasses as he took a seat and theatrically shuffled papers.

  Since I had walked into the room, Marjorie would not make eye contact. She sat with her chubby arms under her bosoms. Her face locked in a sour look.

  “Mr. Spenser, we understand you were arrested yesterday,” he said. “The Winthrop will not tolerate that type of behavior. Nor can we stand a barrage of bad press at this moment. Your role was made clear at our last meeting. Whatever you were doing in the Boston Common yesterday was of your own design and of your own volition.”

  “No,” I said. “It wasn’t. Perhaps Miss Phillips would like to explain.”

  Marjorie tightened her sour expression. She shuffled in her seat and worked to look even farther in the opposite direction. Had she been an owl, she might have been able to rotate her thick neck in a complete circle.

  “Miss Phillips has discussed how you involved her in this ill-conceived plan,” he said. “Your first payment will be your last. We will not pay for any of your services moving forward. If you have something to say, say it now. But our decision is final.”

  “Gee,” I said. “This is the perfect place for a Spanish Inquisition. Perhaps you’d like to tie my arms behind my back and tie me to the ceiling.”

  “If that’s all you wish to say,” Topper said. He lifted his chin and pursed his purple lips. “Then we are finished. It’s a rainy day. Please watch the slick steps as you leave.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not all I wish to say. Sit down, gentlemen. And Miss Phillips. If you want to fire me, fire me. But I’ve had enough secrets. I was asked by Marjorie Phillips to accompany her to the Common. She was the one who hired me and she asked me to provide security at an exchange for the stolen Picasso print.”

  “At which you failed miserably,” Phillips said. She grumbled as she spoke, like a cornered cat over a morsel of food.

  “No,” I said. “The go-between didn’t bring the sketch. You demanded to see it before transferring the money. Instead of giving me the signal things had gone astray, you gave away my position. When you told me to stop the man, I did. That’s what landed me in the clink.”

  “You were the one who spooked him,” she said. “You don’t know how to keep your place, Mr. Spenser. You were told to sit and wait. I had the situation firmly in hand. We nearly lost the sketch forever, along with any contact with those who have the Goya and El Greco.”

  “A creative take on events,” I said. “Good luck moving forward.”

  Topper licked his lips. He played with the cane at his side, stroking the silver handle. He tilted his head and smiled at me, nodding. “Oh, we don’t need luck,” he said. “We only needed the right man for the job.”

  He reached in front of him and tilted upward an oblong sketch, about as large as a legal piece of paper. It was a sketch of muted blues, whites, and browns. The Picasso sketch.

  “Our curators verified the authenticity this morning,” he said. “No thanks to you, it will be hanging back on the museum walls by the end of the week. With great promise that The Gentleman in Black will follow.”

  I shook my head and stood. Many gray heads with saggy necks watched me. No one spoke. Marjorie Ward Phillips continued to place her gaze directly on Topper. “A check is waiting for you at the front desk,” he said. “Do not expect us to validate any further expenses.”

  To punctuate his comments, he rapped his cane against the board desk. The rain continued to sluice down the great bank of windows behind him. The iron bars locking us all into the small, tight-aired room.

  “I’ll grab a Winthrop T-shirt on the way out,” I said.

  Marjorie turned to see if I was leaving. I caught her gaze and nodded in her direction. I grabbed my ball cap and left the room. I got the check, walked down the marble steps, and found Paul Marston standing at the landing. He was eating a green apple.

  “Tough break, Spenser.”

  “When did the second call come in?”

  “About noon,” he said. “I took the call, made the arrangements, and voilà.”

  “And who was it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Because you have no idea.”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss the details,” he said, smiling. He took another bite of the apple and chewed. He was wearing a blue plaid suit with a light blue shirt and a yellow tie. A bright yellow flower adorned his lapel. He looked a lot like a Depression-era carnival barker.

  “Can you shoot water out of that flower?”

  “Funny, Spenser.”

  Even at a safe distance, the smell of his aftershave made my eyes water. “You won’t get back the painting,” I said. “You just paid double the value of that sketch is all. It wasn’t a lead. It was a shakedown.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “At least I didn’t get arrested.”

  “See you around,” I said.

  “Give it a few days,” he said. “I’ll be back in London within the week. And The Gentleman in Black will be hanging right and proud back on the wall.”

  “Not if I get it first.”

  He pushed off the stairs and laughed. “Haven’t you heard, sport?” he said. “You’ve been terminated.”

  “That puts the reward in play, doesn’t it?” I said.

  He placed the apple core on the marble rail
ing and walked toward me. For a moment, I wondered just how far I could toss a dandy Brit. But I worried I’d be thwarted by his ominous stench.

  “Stay away, Spenser,” he said. “Any reward rightly belongs to me.”

  “You couldn’t find your way around Boston on a Duck Boat.”

  “And what the hell is a Duck Boat?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The only thing you know about this case is from tailing me.”

  “No one cares where this all started,” he said. “Only where it ends.”

  “True,” I said. “But if you don’t want to go back to London in a steamer trunk, you better stop following me.”

  “You’ll never know.”

  “Maybe lighten the aftershave,” I said. “Just a little dab will do. I can smell you a mile away, Marston.”

  He snuffled some kind of retort and I walked back into the rain, directions to Alan Garner’s apartment already loaded onto my phone.

  20

  ALAN GARNER LIVED OFF Shawmut Street in the South End in a very stylish-looking row house swallowed in ivy. The building was red brick, with windows and a front door painted a funereal black. Flower boxes bloomed with impatiens and ivy. Rain tapped at the hood of my car and I hit the windshield wipers to clean my view.

  I’d had a long time to admire Garner’s house, as I’d been sitting across from it for nearly four hours. A zippy little green Mercedes coupe, registered in his name, was parked within a few steps of the stoop. As I waited for Garner, I listened to Ron Della Chiesa’s “Strictly Sinatra” and “Music American” on WPLM. Despite the Frank-heavy name, Ron had selected Tony Bennett’s “Are You Havin’ Any Fun?”

  I checked in with Susan to let her know an early dinner was doubtful.

  “Another woman?” she said.

  “If you must know,” I said. “Rita Fiore bailed me out of jail yesterday.”

  “That tramp.”

  “I know,” I said. “The nerve.”

  I ran down yesterday’s events.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You were out with colleagues late,” I said. “And I was up early to meet with the museum board.”