Still As Death (20 page)

“You’re saying someone specifically wanted that chest?”

“That’s right. It wouldn’t be very efficient otherwise, would it? I mean, you might risk your neck taking it and then not be able to find a buyer.”

“Who are we talking? International?”

“I’d say so,” Ian said. “If I remember correctly, the Gardner museum theft was supposed to be the Boston mob, right? On behalf of the IRA.”

“We don’t know for sure. That was one of the theories. There was a guy who came forward a couple of years ago and claimed to know where the paintings were and said he could get them back in exchange for the release of an IRA prisoner. The IRA haven’t been afraid to use art theft as a method of financing their operations. There are other international crime syndicates we could talk about too, but the key thing is that these crimes are always very well planned.

“I was wondering about the significance of the chest being Egyptian,” Quinn said. “Do you know about any Middle Eastern groups that might be involved?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Ian said. “My understanding is that thefts of antiquities in that part of the world tend to be carried out by criminal figures on the ground but masterminded by international bigwigs.”

Quinn nodded, impressed. “So how would something like the chest be sold?”

Sweeney watched Ian sip his wine, then take off his suit jacket and hang it over the back of his chair.
Elegant
, she thought. He was the most elegant man she’d ever known. “The person who would buy something like the chest—or who would buy any piece of stolen art—is obviously very wealthy, someone for whom money is no object. This person has no compunction about owning stolen goods, and must not care that he or she can never display the object. It has to be someone who loves art so much, someone who is so gratified by the … the nearness of a thing of beauty, that he or she is satisfied with mere ownership. This is important. There are very, very few people in the world like that. Most of us would hardly find it worth owning something extraordinary if we couldn’t show it off.”

“So there are unscrupulous art dealers who would broker this kind of deal?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry to say I have many colleagues who can be bought for the right price. The art dealer might act as the go-between. He might have contacts with these wealthy clients who are looking for specific works of art. He might put the word out that a certain piece is desired. You see what I mean?”

Quinn nodded. “How do I get in touch with these people?”

“Tell you what. There’s a guy I know in London. He’s a good enough chap, but I’ve always suspected him of having questionable connections. I could kind of drop a hint to him. Ask him if I knew someone who was looking for something like the chest, who would I talk to. You get the idea.”

“Sure, okay,” Quinn said. “Are you going to be going back there soon?” He glanced at Sweeney as he said it.

“That,” Ian said, “depends on Sweeney.”

She felt herself flush. “Well, we’re still figuring that out,” she said, her voice a little too high to her ears. “We have a lot to figure out about all this …” She reached for her beer and tipped it up, forgetting she’d already finished. They both watched her, and she tried to
cover up by waving the waitress over. “Where is that waitress? Doesn’t she know I need another drink?”

Ian studied her for a minute, then turned back to Quinn. “I’ll ring him up. I can do it tomorrow and let you know. I won’t use his name, obviously, but he may give me a direction you can go in.”

Quinn looked uncomfortable and said, “Thanks. Well, I should be getting home.” He stood up, then seemed to remember something. “Sweeney, I wonder if you could keep me updated on what’s happening at the museum. You know the routine.”

“He wants you to spy on your colleagues,” Ian said, smiling, but with a little bit of an edge to his voice.

“Sure,” Sweeney said. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

He smiled at her in an unfinished way. “Great. Then I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Why did you tell him about London?” Sweeney asked once they were out in the balmy night, walking back toward her apartment. Her pleasantly buzzed feeling had turned to dull sadness. She’d had one drink too many. Or too few. She’d tried to get Ian to go somewhere else for another after she’d finished her last beer, but he’d said he was tired and wanted to go home, and she hadn’t pressed the issue because she knew she’d get a lecture about her drinking.

Ian took her hand. “Well, he asked me how long I was going to be in Boston. I didn’t know what to tell him. Besides, he’s your friend. I thought maybe he could convince you.”

She pulled her hand back. “I don’t like being forced into things. You had no right to go around talking about it before we’ve decided anything.”

“Well, why don’t we decide it, then, so I can
go around
talking about it.”

“I’m not ready to decide. I’m trying to get ready for class, and this whole thing with Olga …”

“Well, when will you be ready to decide? Because it doesn’t seem
like you’re getting any closer, and I need to start making plans.” He turned to look at her and she could see that he wasn’t angry, but rather hurt, and for some reason, seeing it on his face made her angry.

“Why can’t you understand that I just need a little time?”

“Because it isn’t as though I’m asking you whether you want to buy a carpet from me. I’m asking you if you love me, if you want to move to London with me. But I’m starting to get a feeling of what the answer is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He raised his eyebrows.

She stopped and looked at him. “Are you saying that you don’t think I love you?”

“I’m saying that you don’t act like someone who does. I don’t know what to think. I keep telling myself that you’re not over Colm, that you need more time to get over him, and that if I wait around patiently, eventually you’ll be ready, but I’m getting tired of waiting.” He walked ahead, leaving her standing there beneath the maple tree at the end of her street.

She hurried and caught up with him outside her building. In the dusky light, it suddenly looked old, sad. Perhaps it
was
in need of a renovation. She hadn’t noticed how bad it had gotten. She stared up at the building, feeling the scotches and beers doing their work. She was a little nauseous now and she closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them again, he was standing in front of her.

“I don’t like it when you yell at me,” she said. “It makes me feel like the worst person in the world.” He blurred in front of her then, and she stepped back to steady herself, stumbling a little on the sidewalk. Everything spun and she closed her eyes again, but that only made it worse.

“I don’t like it when you drink so much,” he said. “It seems to be a bit of a regular thing lately.”

There wasn’t any use telling him she’d had only a beer or two because she now felt like she was going to throw up. She pushed past him, running up the stairs and fumbling for her keys in her pockets.
The apartment was dark and she stumbled over something on the floor in the hallway, then banged into the bathroom and sank down on the floor. She had been sure she was going to be sick, but the feel of the cold tile against her cheek calmed her stomach, and she closed her eyes, drifting off for a moment before Ian’s voice came out of the darkness.

“Are you going to be sick?”

“No,” she managed. “I don’t think so.”

She felt him lift her to her feet. “Well, you don’t want to fall asleep in here.”

She let herself be led into the bedroom, felt him ease her tank top over her head, help her step out of her jeans. She got under the top sheet in her bra and underwear, her head throbbing now. There was pressure against her back and she reached down and felt the General’s fur. He had curled up against her back, and his purring sounded too loud, the vibration like a jackhammer in the quiet room.

“If you want me to move out, I’ll move out,” Ian was saying. He sat down on the bed next to her and stroked the hair away from her forehead.

She turned and tried to focus on him, but in the darkness he was only a shape. “Oh, no. That’s not what I want.” She heard herself say the words and felt him begin to stroke her hair again, but she could feel herself slipping into dark, kind sleep. She tried to fight it, forcing her eyes open and trying to sit up. “I’ve made such a mess of things,” she said, and just before everything went dark she remembered that it was something her mother had said.
I’ve made such a mess of things. Oh, Sweeney, I’ve made such a mess of things, haven’t I?

When she woke up, it was still dark, and through her blinding headache, she made out the numbers on the clock next to the bed: 3:30. She rolled over toward Ian but found the bed empty. She sat straight up, trying to ignore the pain in her head, and listened to the
silent apartment. Where was he? She felt a moment of panic. What had he said last night? That he’d leave if she wanted him to?

But he hadn’t gone. He was sitting at the kitchen table, working on his laptop, the General curled up on the table next to him.

When he saw Sweeney, he got up and took the bottle of Advil from the shelf over the sink and got her a glass of water. She took two tablets and finished the water, then leaned against the sink. “I feel like shit,” she said. “But I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I.” He watched her, and it struck her that he was scared.

“I’m sorry. I’m not going to do that again. You’re right that I’ve been drinking too much.”

He got up and came over to her, and she reached out for him. They stood like that, her face pressed against his cheek. “I do love you,” she whispered into his ear. “I do.”

His mouth was pressed hard against her ear and he said, so quietly she wouldn’t have heard it otherwise, “I love you too.”

After a few minutes, he pulled away and went through to the living room, then came back holding his briefcase. “I got these yesterday,” he said, taking out a thin white envelope. “They’re tickets to Mexico. Five nights at what’s supposed to be the best resort outside Oaxaca City, which apparently is a great place for Day of the Dead, and then three nights at the youth hostel of your choice. I don’t quite understand why that’s an important part of the equation, but …”

She reached for him again and held him tight.

“So you’ll go with me?” he whispered.

And though she wasn’t sure what he was really asking her, she whispered back, “Yeah,” and pulled back to look at him. “I’ll go.”

LACEY WAS STILL UP. Fred pulled into the driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes, watching the lit kitchen window. It was nearly midnight and all the other houses on the street were dark, but that one rectangle of yellow light both beckoned him and kept him in the car. What was he going to tell her? He’d hoped she’d be asleep and he could slide into bed, press himself against her back, and answer any murmured question about where he’d been with a whispered, “Work. It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

But Lacey knew him too well for that. Over the last few days, he’d caught her watching him, and he knew she knew something was wrong. It was evidence of just how well she knew him that she hadn’t asked. She knew it was bad and he was afraid. For all of Lacey’s warmth and openness, she was terrified of conflict, bad news. When they’d gotten the call that her mother had died, Fred had almost had to pin her down on the living room couch to give her the details. She had run from him and put her hands over her ears like a child, as though it hadn’t happened if she didn’t hear it.

He felt tears come to his eyes.
Oh, Lacey
. What was he going to do?

“Hey,” he said, coming in the back door. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

Her hair was unbraided and fell in kinky waves over her shoulders. She faced him but didn’t look him right in the eyes as she said, “You thought I’d be asleep? Why would you think that? You didn’t tell me you were going to be late, you didn’t answer your cell phone. I thought you were dead!”

She had been crying. And from her face, he could see she really had thought something had happened to him. Her face did something to him, and he embraced her, nearly crying himself. “Oh, Lace, I’m so sorry. I should have called. I’m okay, everything’s okay.” It wasn’t true, of course.

She pushed him away and went to the sink, where she turned on the water, then turned it off again and turned to look at him. “Well, where were you? Are you going to tell me?”

He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. “No, because I don’t want to lie to you.”

“So don’t lie to me!” The loudness of her voice surprised him. “Tell me. Freddy, what is going on? Are you having an affair?”

“No, it’s nothing like …” He didn’t even know what to say. “Do you love me, Lacey?”

“Of course I love you.” As angry as she was, she didn’t hesitate and it gave him hope. Maybe there was a way to make it all come out right.

“Well, I need you to love me. I need you to just love me as much as you can, without knowing what’s going on, without knowing anything.” Suddenly he was more sure of this, that this was what he needed, than of anything he’d ever said to her.

“How can you ask me that? How can you ask me to say that without telling me?”

“Do you love me? Would you love me if I had done the worst thing you can think of. Whatever that worst thing is? Would you still love me? Would you help me?”

“Freddy? What have you done?”

“Lacey, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. If you would love me anyway, then you don’t need to know.” He was sure of his logic and
he smiled at her. He stood up and lifted her hair and buried his face in it, smelling the fresh green scent of her shampoo. “Do you remember the night we met? I’ve been thinking about that lately, all the time. You were so beautiful and you were so kind to me. I loved you from the minute you opened your mouth.” He nuzzled her neck, just smelling her, taking her in. “Would you?” he whispered.

She thought for a moment. “I would still love you. I would help you.”

He took her in his arms, kissing her face, her throat, her shoulders. “Okay, then,” he said. “Okay.”