let it go to your head. In my book, I still don’t know whether this ‘partnership’
is gonna work. I like to work alone, and I don’t trust people easily. We’ll see where this goes; that’s the best I can do.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m just looking for a chance. You may even find it’s easier to do the job if you have someone you
can rely on.” He took a final sip of the coffee and put down his mug. “One question,” he said.
“What is it?”
“How do you know so much about the robbery?”
She frowned at him. “I may be old, but I can use the Internet, too.”
Special Agent Hewitt paid the barista for his coffee at the Starbucks in Government Center. It was overpriced, but he’d gotten
to the point where he could no longer drink the swill that dribbled from the 1950s coffeemaker at the office. There were some
sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make, even in the name of justice.
He walked out of the Starbucks and across the brick tundra that surrounded City Hall. He looked up at the building and grimaced.
Boston’s City Hall had been built in the 1960s, and was the most renowned example of the Brutalist school of design popular
at the time. A monumental nine-level cement inverted pyramid set on eight acres of brick and stone, it won praise from the
architectural community as a notable achievement in the creation and control of modern urban space. In a poll of historians
and architects, it was voted the sixth greatest building in American history. To Bostonians, though, it was an eyesore. With
all the warmth of a mausoleum, it loomed over the classic architectural beauty of Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market across the
street.
The Boston field office of the FBI was housed in the John F. Kennedy Federal Building next to City Hall. It was a nondescript
concrete structure in the heart of Government Center, close to the backside of Beacon Hill.
Hewitt flashed his badge at the guard standing next to the metal detectors and walked around the line. He took the elevator
up to the eighth floor, walked through the gray industrial-carpeted hallways, past a warren of cubicles inhabited by dull-eyed
functionaries trying to make it through another day on the government payroll, and into his office. It was small by the standards
of those he had gone to law school with years ago who now made millions representing huge corporations in the great glass
towers of private practice. The furniture was faux-wood laminate over particleboard, and the cabinetry was gray-steel government
issue. Nonetheless, he was comfortable there. It was where he belonged.
As he hung up his coat on the hook behind the door he heard a voice coming from behind his desk. “Robert,” it said.
Surprised, Hewitt spun, his hand involuntarily going to his hip, where his gun was encased in a holster.
“No need to shoot, Robert. I’m one of the good guys.” The voice belonged to Angus Porter, special agent in charge of the FBI’s
Art Theft Program.
“Porter,” Hewitt said with a heavy sigh. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Hewitt wondered how he’d managed to enter the
office and hang up the coat without noticing the man sitting in his chair. On the other hand, it was Porter. He couldn’t have
been taller than five-seven, and if he weighed more than one hundred and twenty-five pounds with his shoes on, Hewitt would
have been surprised. He had wispy blond hair growing out of a pale scalp that looked too small for his skull. It was pulled
impossibly tight and gave off a dull shine. He had the spoiled air of someone who’d grown up without having to worry about
money.
“I told you on the phone I was coming to Boston,” Porter said with a smile. His teeth had been whitened, and were brighter
than the starched collar of his tailored shirt.
“I don’t mean here in Boston, I mean here in my office.”
“You’re the only person here I came to see. Where else should I be?”
“I’m
is gonna work. I like to work alone, and I don’t trust people easily. We’ll see where this goes; that’s the best I can do.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m just looking for a chance. You may even find it’s easier to do the job if you have someone you
can rely on.” He took a final sip of the coffee and put down his mug. “One question,” he said.
“What is it?”
“How do you know so much about the robbery?”
She frowned at him. “I may be old, but I can use the Internet, too.”
Special Agent Hewitt paid the barista for his coffee at the Starbucks in Government Center. It was overpriced, but he’d gotten
to the point where he could no longer drink the swill that dribbled from the 1950s coffeemaker at the office. There were some
sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make, even in the name of justice.
He walked out of the Starbucks and across the brick tundra that surrounded City Hall. He looked up at the building and grimaced.
Boston’s City Hall had been built in the 1960s, and was the most renowned example of the Brutalist school of design popular
at the time. A monumental nine-level cement inverted pyramid set on eight acres of brick and stone, it won praise from the
architectural community as a notable achievement in the creation and control of modern urban space. In a poll of historians
and architects, it was voted the sixth greatest building in American history. To Bostonians, though, it was an eyesore. With
all the warmth of a mausoleum, it loomed over the classic architectural beauty of Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market across the
street.
The Boston field office of the FBI was housed in the John F. Kennedy Federal Building next to City Hall. It was a nondescript
concrete structure in the heart of Government Center, close to the backside of Beacon Hill.
Hewitt flashed his badge at the guard standing next to the metal detectors and walked around the line. He took the elevator
up to the eighth floor, walked through the gray industrial-carpeted hallways, past a warren of cubicles inhabited by dull-eyed
functionaries trying to make it through another day on the government payroll, and into his office. It was small by the standards
of those he had gone to law school with years ago who now made millions representing huge corporations in the great glass
towers of private practice. The furniture was faux-wood laminate over particleboard, and the cabinetry was gray-steel government
issue. Nonetheless, he was comfortable there. It was where he belonged.
As he hung up his coat on the hook behind the door he heard a voice coming from behind his desk. “Robert,” it said.
Surprised, Hewitt spun, his hand involuntarily going to his hip, where his gun was encased in a holster.
“No need to shoot, Robert. I’m one of the good guys.” The voice belonged to Angus Porter, special agent in charge of the FBI’s
Art Theft Program.
“Porter,” Hewitt said with a heavy sigh. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Hewitt wondered how he’d managed to enter the
office and hang up the coat without noticing the man sitting in his chair. On the other hand, it was Porter. He couldn’t have
been taller than five-seven, and if he weighed more than one hundred and twenty-five pounds with his shoes on, Hewitt would
have been surprised. He had wispy blond hair growing out of a pale scalp that looked too small for his skull. It was pulled
impossibly tight and gave off a dull shine. He had the spoiled air of someone who’d grown up without having to worry about
money.
“I told you on the phone I was coming to Boston,” Porter said with a smile. His teeth had been whitened, and were brighter
than the starched collar of his tailored shirt.
“I don’t mean here in Boston, I mean here in my office.”
“You’re the only person here I came to see. Where else should I be?”
“I’m
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