Among Thieves by David Hosp Page A

said. “It’s never been a partnership at all.”
    She took a deep breath. “Look, you seem like a decent kid—”
    “No,” he interrupted her. “I’m not a decent kid. I’m a good cop.”
    “You may be,” she said.
    “No, not
I may be
. I am. You’d know that if you gave me a chance. So I’ll ask you again, what is the IRA doing knocking off a Boston mob boss?”
    “I think it’s about art,” she replied after a moment.
    “Art who?”
    “Not art
who
;
art
, as in paintings.”
    “Okay, I’ll bite. What does this have to do with
art
?”
    “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. How old were you in 1990?”
    He thought for a moment. “Ten,” he replied.
    “Jesus,” she said. She rubbed her forehead wearily. “I’m too goddamned old.”
    “What happened in 1990?”
    “You remember the theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?”
    He sat back in the kitchen chair. “Not from back then, but I know about it now. Two guys got away with a couple of paintings,
     right?”
    “That’s one way of putting it. Another way would be to say that it was the greatest art theft in modern history. They say
     the stuff that was stolen would be worth close to half a billion dollars today.”
    “Billion? With a ‘b’?”
    “Yeah, billion.” She stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?”
    “Sure. Black.”
    She pulled out a coffee brewer. It had tubes coming out of it and looked as if it would take a degree from MIT to operate.
     He wondered where her money came from.
    “It was the easiest robbery imaginable, too,” she said, her back to him as she continued to brew the coffee. “There were just
     two of them, and they faked their way into the museum. The guards were amateurs; not real security guards at all. They weren’t
     properly trained; they didn’t follow proper procedures. The robbers tied the guards in the basement and spent an hour and
     a half pulling artwork off the walls, then left. The paintings have never been found.” She brought two mugs over to the table.
    “Interesting,” he said. “What’s this got to do with Murphy’s murder?”
    “People have searched for these paintings for twenty years,” she said. “The police, the FBI, Interpol, private detectives,
     insurance detectives, art historians, treasure hunters. People have spent an enormous amount of energy trying to find these
     things, but no one has done it yet. There have been lots of theories about who was responsible. The most popular is that the
     IRA teamed up with the Boston mob to do the job, then split the take between the two groups.”
    Stone considered this. “It’s an interesting idea. But it seems like a pretty big stretch to assume that this is what Murphy’s
     murder was about, isn’t it?”
    “Maybe,” Sanchez said. “But one of the works stolen was a painting by Rembrandt. It was one of the most valuable pieces the
     thieves got away with. The title of it was
Storm on the Sea of Galilee
.”
    It took a moment for the connection to register with Stone. “‘The Storm.’ You think that was the message that was being sent?
     That whoever did this was coming for the paintings?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to go on at this point,” she said. “Do you?”
    He shook his head. “No. It just seems a little thin.”
    “It does,” she agreed. “But it would also fit with the
Padre Pio
they pulled on Murphy. Back in 1990, nothing happened in this town without Whitey Bulger’s say-so, and Murphy was working
     closely with him
at the time. Maybe this has nothing to do with the art theft. Maybe it’s just a beef between the IRA and the boys in Southie
     over drugs or guns. But then why paint ‘The Storm’ in blood?”
    “Okay,” Stone said. “It’s a possibility. I’m not sold yet, but it’s someplace to start.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Thanks
     for sharing. It’s almost like we’re partners.”
    She was looking at him across the table. “Don’t