“It was twenty-three years ago, Charles. I was twelve years old, for godsakes.”
“Where are you going?”
“My afternoon class starts in ten minutes.”
“Higgerson wants to speak with you.”
“He can wait.”
*
Thursday evening, Val was lying on his Salvation Army couch, drinking his third beer and watching the Red Sox–Rays game on his nineteen-inch flat screen, when his cell phone barked. He checked the number, didn’t recognize it, and answered it anyway.
“Professor Sciarra?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Mulligan. I’m a reporter for the Providence Dispatch. I’m working on a story about stolen art, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
“Not right now,” Val said. “I’ve got the Sox on, and Buchholz is about to take a no-hitter into the eighth.”
“No shit? Call you back later.”
Kelly Johnson, the Rays’ first hitter in the eighth, splintered his bat on Buchholz’s second pitch but managed to loft a fly that dropped for a cheap hit in shallow right field. Val threw his empty Budweiser can against the wall, and the cell barked again.
“Lucky bastard!” the caller said.
“Yeah.”
“So can we talk now?”
“What was your name again?”
“Mulligan.”
“Liam Mulligan?”
“Uh-huh. But my friends just call me Mulligan.”
Val knew the name. He’d seen the byline on the organized crime stories he’d read in the Dispatch’s archives. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mulligan?”
“My editor wants an update on some old art museum robbery in Boston. I don’t know a damned thing about art, professor, so I was hoping you could help me out.”
The reporter asked about Val’s background, his research, and his work with the Association for Research into Crimes Against Art, establishing his credentials, before turning to the matter at hand.
“So what can you tell me about the unsolved heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?”
“All I know about that is what I’ve read in the newspapers, Mr. Mulligan.”
“I understand, but a lot of conflicting stuff has been written about it, so it would be a big help if you could summarize the facts for me.”
Val did so.
“And that’s all you know?”
“It is.”
“Well, you’ve been a big help. Thanks a lot, really. But listen, not that this has anything to do with my story, but I’ve written a lot of stuff about the mob over the years, and I can’t help but wondering. Are you related to Rudy Sciarra?”
Val explained the relationship, but he had a feeling the reporter already knew the facts.
“Must be cool to have such a notorious relative,” Mulligan said.
“Actually, it’s not.”
“Oh. Okay. Just one last question, then. A law-enforcement source tells me you have been questioned in connection with the Gardner case and that the FBI executed a search warrant on your home and office. Can you confirm that for me?”
Aw shit. “I have no comment.”
“What is your involvement in the case, professor? Do you know who stole the art? Do you know where it is?”
“Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Mulligan,” Val said, and clicked off.
Later, as he watched the Sox postgame show, he wondered, Was Mulligan really that good, or was the leak an attempt by the FBI to ratchet up the pressure?
*
First thing next morning, Val strolled down to Broadway, bought a black coffee and a cinnamon-raisin bagel at the Seven Stars Bakery, and fetched a copy of the Dispatch from a sidewalk vending box. Back at his apartment, he sat on the couch, drank his coffee, and skimmed the story on the Sox game before turning to the front page.
In the lower-left corner, below the fold, a two-column headline read: Brown Prof Questioned in Boston Museum Heist.
The story under Mulligan’s byline said the FBI had identified Val as “an associate of the Patriarca crime family,” a relative of a notorious mob hit man, and “a person of interest” in the Gardner Museum robbery.
If the idea was to ratchet up the pressure, it was working.
Val snatched the remote from the end table and flipped to the Fox News affiliate to see if the morning show was carrying the story. Instead, it was running a live feed from in front of the Victorian condominium building on Slocum Street. The first thing Val saw was a tall guy in an FBI hat carrying a clear plastic evidence bag out the front door. Val couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the ku was inside. Three minutes later, Agents Burns and Hanrahan led Domenic Carrozza out. The mobster was wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe and bedroom slippers, and his hands were cuffed behind him.
Jesus! How did they know? Then it came to him: they’d found the research about Carrozza on his computer.