“Okay,” Val said.
“Let’s also suppose they found out from the newspapers that the art was going to fall apart unless it was stored someplace with temperature and humidity controls. What do you think they’d do next?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m betting they’d turn to someone they could trust,” the fat man said. “Someone who had a way to keep the art safe and hidden until such time as it could be returned.”
“Makes sense,” Val said. “Are you saying that time is now?”
“Let’s suppose I am.”
“Why?”
“Because the thieves can no longer be charged with the theft. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“Why not just give everything back, then?”
“Because anyone holding it can still be charged with possession of stolen goods.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“There’s also the matter of the five million dollars the museum has offered for their return.”
Val raised an eyebrow.
“What I propose, Professor Sciarra, is that you serve as a go-between to get the art back where it came from. Do this service for me and 10 percent of the reward money is yours.”
Val flashed on what five hundred thousand dollars could buy. A luxury condo on the East Side. A new Ford Mustang to replace his aging Toyota Celica. The freedom to tell Higgerson to fuck off.
“Why me?” Val asked.
“Because you know the art world and the people in it, because you have experience with this kind of thing, and because I have always had the utmost respect for your family. As a Sciarra, you understand why we need to keep the authorities out of it.”
“I see. May I examine the rest of merchandise, then?”
“What for?”
“So I can satisfy myself that you have it and that it’s still in good condition.”
“Well, it’s not here,” the fat man said. “I suppose I could arrange a viewing . . .” He paused to think it over. “But it would be hard to set up, and I don’t see the need for it. Just take my word that I can deliver.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thanks for coming, professor. I’ll get back in touch in two weeks.”
The fat man rose and extended his hand. Val pulled himself from his chair and shook it to seal the deal. In the silence, he heard the faint clanging of a bell. It sounded like the one at Grace Episcopal. He glanced at his watch and saw that it had struck three minutes before the hour. Yes, he thought. He was still in Providence.
Moments later, as he was being tugged blindly out the front door, he heard the click of high heels on the sidewalk.
A woman’s voice: “Hungry yet?”
A man’s voice: “Famished. Let’s walk down the block to Andino’s.”
He wasn’t just in Providence, then. He was on Federal Hill.
*
That evening, after a blind, hour-long ride back to Brown, Val drove home, fired up his laptop, and scrolled through the Providence Dispatch archives. Forty minutes later, he stumbled on a three-year-old article about the arrest of Domenic Carrozza, fifty-two, of Providence, on suspicion of conspiracy to extort protection money from the city’s strip clubs. The story identified him as a capo in the Patriarca crime family, still called that even though Patriarca himself was long dead and buried. The story was accompanied by a photograph of a man being led away in handcuffs from an impressive Victorian condominium building on Slocum Street in Federal Hill. It was the fat man. A little more research showed that he’d beaten the charge, and that he was still living in the same condo.
Val bookmarked the stories, logged off, and then said, “Shit!” Too late, he realized he was better off not knowing any of this if he should ever be questioned by the authorities.
*
Val drove to the Fenway section of Boston three days later for a meeting at the Gardner. The museum’s security director, a former Secret Service agent named Percy Twisdale, walked him past the two huge, empty frames where the Rembrandt and the Vermeer once hung and then led him to a spacious meeting room.
“Have you had an opportunity to examine the stolen art?”
“I was shown only the Shang Dynasty ku.”
“And you believe it to be genuine?”
“I’m not an expert in that field, but it appeared to be, yes.”
“May I ask the circumstances under which you examined it?”
Val ran it down for him: the mysterious phone call, the muscle, the hood pulled over his head, and the long drive to an undisclosed location, leaving out the fact that he had a good idea where he’d been taken.
“I see. And what of the other treasures?”
“I have been assured that they have been properly stored and remain in good condition.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“I don’t. I’ve merely been asked to serve as a middleman to negotiate their return.”
“And to secure the reward for the people you represent?”
“That is correct.”
“And have you been promised a share of the reward?”