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  I popped the locks. I reached across her body and flung open the door.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Ellie said. “Don’t do this, Ned.”

  “Well, you heard my story. I’ve been making them for years.”

  Call it the Stockholm syndrome in reverse, but I had grown a little attached to Special Agent Ellie Shurtleff. I knew she truly wanted to help me. She was probably the last, best chance I had. So I was sorry to see her go.

  “Not a wrinkle in your clothes, just like I promised.” I smiled. “Be sure and tell your partner that.”

  Ellie looked at me, with a combination of disappointment and frustration. She slid out of the van.

  “Answer me one question,” I said.

  “What’s that?” She stood, looking at me.

  “How come you weren’t wearing an ankle weapon, if you were in the field?”

  “My department,” she said, “it doesn’t call for it.”

  “What department is that?” I looked at her, confused.

  “Art Theft,” Agent Shurtleff answered. “I was following up on the paintings, Ned.”

  I blinked. It was sort of like Marvelous Marvin Hagler had stunned me with a short right to the chin. “I’m about to hand my life over to an FBI agent and she’s in Art Theft? Jesus, Ned, can you ever get it right?”

  “You still could,” Ellie said, standing there, looking incredibly sad.

  “Good-bye, Ellie Shurtleff,” I told her. “I have to admit, you were pretty damn brave. You never thought I was going to shoot you, did you?”

  “No.” Ellie shook her head. I caught her smile. “Your gun. It’s been on safety the whole time.”

  Part Three

  GACHET

  Chapter 34

  “I DON’T THINK he did it, George!” Ellie said into the speakerphone. “Not the murders, anyway.”

  The FBI Crisis Team in Boston had just debriefed her about her ordeal. Maybe she was a little out of her league, but she told them what she saw. That this Kelly was no killer. Just someone in way over his head who panicked. That until his picture flashed unexpectedly on the TV, she was sure she was about to get him to come in.

  Now, in the regional director’s conference room in Boston, she was able to report back to her boss in the Florida office. “You remember how the local police said alarms were going off all over town at the time of the theft, George? That’s what he did. He didn’t kill those people or take the art. He set off the alarms.”

  “Sounds like you two got pretty cozy in your time together,” Moretti said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellie asked.

  “I don’t know, just that it seems you were able to pick up so much about the guy. Heisted a car together, exchanged life stories.”

  Ellie stared at the speaker box. She had just spent eight hours with a gun pointed at her, the most nerve-racking day of her life. “I did mention he had a gun, didn’t I, George?”

  “You did—and not a single opportunity presented itself in all the time you were together, including two venue changes, to take it away from him? Or to get out of there, Ellie? I was only thinking, maybe another agent . . .”

  “I guess I thought I could bring him in without anyone getting hurt. My read was that it didn’t seem like murder was in the guy’s makeup.”

  Moretti sniffed. “You’ll pardon me if I just don’t buy into that, Ellie.”

  “Into what?” she asked, hesitating.

  “Your read. With all due respect, of course.”

  “On the basis of what?” she shot back. The asshole was holding back something from her.

  “On the basis that innocent guys don’t abduct federal agents,” Moretti replied.

  “I did say he panicked, George.”

  “And that we ran the guy’s picture around the Brazilian Court in Palm Beach. He was seen with Tess McAuliffe, Ellie. He had lunch with her. The same afternoon she was killed.”

  Chapter 35

  I’M PRETTY SURE that night was the longest and loneliest of my life.

  It was my third night on the run. I didn’t know whom I could trust, except Dave, and I was determined not to get him involved. Everyone else I would’ve gone to, who would’ve helped me out, was dead.

  The worst thing was, some of those people I couldn’t trust had the same last name as I did.

  I ditched the minivan and spent the night curled up in an all-night movie theater in Cambridge, watching Lord of the Rings over and over with a bunch of overenthused college students. I was bundled up in my hooded sweatshirt, too scared to let anybody see my face. When the final showing was over, I actually felt as though I’d been reprieved.

  About eight the next morning I took a cab out to Watertown, fifteen minutes away. I caught a glimpse of the morning Globe on the cabbie’s front seat. LOCAL MAN HUNTED IN FBI HOSTAGE ABDUCTION. SOUGHT IN CONNECTION WITH FLORIDA MURDERS. I sank back in the seat and pulled down my cap.

  Watertown was one of those working-class suburbs of Boston, except instead of just the Irish and the Italians and the blacks, it was home to a lot of Armenians. I had the cab let me off on Palfrey, and walked back a couple of blocks to Mount Auburn. I stopped in front of an ordinary white Victorian just off the corner.

  A sign hung over the front steps: WATCHES REPAIRED. JEWELRY BOUGHT AND SOLD. A wooden arrow pointed up to the second floor. I climbed the steps and made my way around to the porch. A bell tinkled as I opened the door.

  A heavyset man with bushy gray hair in a jeweler’s apron looked up from behind the counter. His jowly face broke into a thin smile. “You’re taking a helluva chance coming here like this, Neddie-boy. But how the hell are you?”

  Chapter 36

  I FLIPPED a hand-scrawled sign to CLOSED. “I need to talk to you, Uncle George.”

  George Harotunian wasn’t my real uncle. It was just that I had known him my whole life. He was my father’s trusted friend, his business partner. His fence.

  When we were growing up, George was as close to a real uncle to Dave and me as we ever had. He always gave my mother money when my father was in jail. He had connections for choice Celtics seats at the Garden. Somehow he managed to steer clear of the law himself. Everyone seemed to find a way to like Uncle George. The good guys and the bad. So I was thinking, Is he Gachet?

  “Congratulations, Neddie.” George shook his head. “Always thought it would be for hockey, but you certainly made the big leagues now.”

  “I need to find Frank, Uncle George.”

  He took out his eyepiece and wheeled his chair back from the counter. “I don’t think that would be wise right now, son. You want some advice? You need a lawyer. Let me hook you up with somebody good. Turn yourself in.”

  “C’mon, Uncle George, you know I didn’t do anything down there.”

  “I know you didn’t do anything,” George said, tossing a copy of the morning paper on the counter, “but you got a helluva novel way of showing that to everyone else. You think your father was involved? Jesus, Neddie, you don’t know him now. Whitey’s too sick to do anything these days. Except cough and complain.”

  “He needs a kidney, right?”

  “He needs a lot of things, kid. You think your father would trade his brother’s son, and the rest of those kids, just to pee in a tube for a couple more years? You’re judging him a bit too hard, son.”

  “You know better than anyone that Mickey wouldn’t make a move without Frank,” I said. “I’m not saying he had anybody killed, but I damn well think he knows who set them up. He knows something, and I need to know it, too. My best friends are dead.”

  “Christ, Ned,” George wheezed, “you think your father knows the difference between a Jackson Pollock and a fucking Etch-A-Sketch? The man’s no saint, I know, but he loves you more than you think.”

  “I guess I figure he loves his life more. I need to find him, Uncle George, please. . . .”

  George came around the counter and stared at me, shaking his large, bushy head. �
��You must need money, kid.”

  He reached under his apron and peeled off five fresh hundred-dollar bills from a large roll. I took them and stuffed them in my jeans. Accessing my ATM account would have been like a homing signal now. “I know people you could stay with, but your best bet is to come clean.”

  “Tell my father I need to see him, George. Somewhere safe, if he doesn’t trust me. He should be pleased. I finally landed in the family business.”

  George’s hooded eyes grew soft. He stared at me for a long time, then shook his head. “Try calling me Thursday, Neddie. I may run into him by then.”

  “Thanks, Uncle George.” I smiled.

  He stuck out his fleshy palm, and when I took it, he pulled me close in a hard embrace. “Everyone knows you had nothing to do with what happened down there, son. I’m sorry about Mickey and your friends. But you’re in trouble, Ned, and I don’t think Frank can get you out. My offer stands. You think it over. Most of all, you take care.”

  I nodded and patted him on the back. I made my way toward the door.

  “No offense, kid,” he said, stopping me, “but you mind leaving through the back?”

  The stairs led to a small parking lot that hooked around to an alley. I waved back at Uncle George as he watched me go. I knew he loved me like a real nephew.

  But he had made a mistake, and I caught it.

  In no report I had read or seen on TV had anyone mentioned a Jackson Pollock being stolen.

  Chapter 37

  ELLIE WAS FUMING and, actually, she liked herself best when she got like this—feisty, combative, standing up for herself.

  She’d been conned. She’d gone to bat for Ned and he’d let her down. The sonuvabitch knew, she kept telling herself over and over. He knew Tess McAuliffe. He was with her the day she was killed. She felt like a complete fool.

  Ellie was still in the Boston office, but was headed back home that night. She spent the day fielding calls—a frantic one from her parents in New Jersey, one from the regional director of the FBI, going over her ordeal with the Crisis Team one more time. And then trying to dig up someone in the business who had gone by the name Gachet.

  She knew the name, of course. Anyone with an art degree did.

  Gachet was the subject of one of van Gogh’s last paintings. It was finished in Auvers, in June of 1890, only a few weeks before he died. The famous doctor with the achingly sad blue eyes. It was first sold from van Gogh’s estate for 300 francs, $58. In 1990 a Japanese businessman paid $82 million for it, the most ever paid for a piece of art at the time. But what the hell did any of that have to do with the theft in Florida?

  She also spent some time pulling up whatever she could find on Ned Kelly. His friends’ police records. His father’s. The older brother, who’d been shot in 1997 by the police in the middle of a robbery, possibly set up by the father.

  That stuff was all true.

  Then she found Ned in a team picture of the 1998 BU hockey team on the university’s Web site. She checked with Stoughton Academy. He had been accused, unjustly, by a female student. And cleared a few weeks later. Just as Ned told her. He hadn’t been lying about that.

  Just about the past four days?

  The guy had never been in any real trouble in his life; now he was wanted for two sets of grisly murders? No matter what the evidence said, Ellie still felt sure: he was no killer. A liar, maybe. Someone in totally over his head. A womanizer, possibly. But a cold-blooded killer? Shit, he didn’t even know how to use a gun.

  She pushed herself away from the desk. Maybe Moretti was right. Stick to the art. Sure, it was fun playing with the A team for a while, but her days of chasing murderers were through.

  “Shurtleff?” One of the Boston agents stuck his head in her cubicle.

  Ellie nodded.

  “Someone for you on line two.”

  “Who is it?” she asked. The story was all over the media. She’d been dodging calls from the press all day.

  “Celebrity call,” the agent said with a shrug. “Someone named Steve McQueen.”

  Chapter 38

  THIS TIME she was determined to handle it right. By the book. Not like the day before. Though the crack about Steve McQueen was making her suppress a smile. Ellie pressed a button to record the call. She cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to the agent, Trace this call.

  “You miss me, Ellie?” Ned Kelly said when she came on the line.

  “This isn’t a game, Ned,” Ellie said. “People here think you’re guilty as shit. I told you we had one chance to help you, but that chance is fading fast. Tell me where you are. Let me come get you. Give yourself up.”

  “Guess that’s a no,” Ned sighed, as if disappointed.

  “You want to know what I miss?” Ellie said, feeling herself getting angry. “I miss not taking that gun from you and putting you in cuffs when I had the chance. I trusted you, Ned. I went way out on a limb for you. And you didn’t tell me the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, caught by surprise.

  “About the Brazilian Court, Ned. About Tess McAuliffe. About the part that puts you with her that very afternoon. Or was that just something you forgot to slip in when you were going through your life story?”

  “Oh.” Ned cleared his throat. There was silence on the line. He was probably running through what he could say to save his charade. “If I told you about that, Ellie, would you have believed anything else I said?”

  “Whatever would give you that idea? At two murder scenes within just a few hours. Busy day, huh, Ned?”

  “I didn’t do it, Ellie.”

  “Is that your answer to everything, Ned? Or only for homicides and interstate trafficking of stolen goods? Oh, yeah, the sexual harassment of minors, too.” A low blow, Ellie told herself as soon as it left her mouth. She wished she could take it back. She knew it wasn’t true.

  “I guess I deserved that,” Ned said, “but I figure by now you already checked with Stoughton, so you know I was telling you the truth. Are you tracing this, Ellie?”

  “No,” she quickly replied, though she knew it sounded more like Of course I’m taping this, you dope. I’m with the FBI.

  “Great.” Ned blew out an exasperated breath. “Guess there’s not a whole lot more I have to lose. Okay, I was with her, Ellie. But I didn’t kill Tess. You don’t understand. . . .”

  “Here’s one thing I understand perfectly, Ned. You say you’re innocent—then prove it. Turn yourself in! I give you my word I’ll make sure every part of your story gets fully checked out. You never threatened me yesterday. That was good. That can work for you. But, please, I’m trying to help you, Ned. This is the only way.”

  There was a deep, extended pause. For a while she wasn’ sure if she had lost him. Finally Ned sighed, “I think I should go.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ellie heard the emotion in her own voice. “Get yourself killed?”

  He hesitated a moment. “You find Gachet?”

  She glanced at her watch. She was sure they had had enough time to establish some kind of whereabouts for him. He was probably in a phone booth anyway, and in a minute he’d be gone. “No,” she replied, “we haven’t found him yet.”

  “Then keep looking, Ellie, please. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong about Tess. I would never have killed her, Ellie.”

  “Another lifelong friend?” Ellie said, angry, blowing out a frustrated breath.

  “No,” Ned said softly. “Nothing like that. You ever felt yourself falling in love, Ellie?”

  Chapter 39

  DENNIS STRATTON was fuming.

  He had a copy of USA Today on the desk in front of him—and a Boston Globe.

  This total fucking amateur was screwing up everything in a major way.

  As Stratton read about the botched FBI arrest up in Boston, the lining in his stomach began to tighten. He had told them to get professionals, and who had they sent? That bitch from the Art Theft Department down here. Now they had
blown it. This Ned Kelly character could be anywhere.

  And the son of a bitch had something very precious that belonged to him.

  The FBI had bungled things. Damn it, he had warned them. Now he couldn’t take any more chances. Kelly needed to be found. He didn’t give a shit what happened to him. As far as he was concerned, Kelly should have ended up in that house in Lake Worth with the rest of them. Stratton straightened the newspaper and read. FBI sources said they had no direct leads on the suspect’s whereabouts. This was becoming a very public nightmare for him.

  Stratton took out a cell phone and punched in a private number. After three beeps, a familiar voice answered. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

  Stratton waited impatiently, checking the morning faxes. He had nurtured this particular relationship for a long time. Now it was time to call in the chits. He’d been paying for the guy’s godforsaken kids in private school. For bonefishing trips to his house in the Keys. And right now, Stratton needed to collect on his investment.

  The voice came back a few seconds later. “You’ve seen the morning papers, huh?”

  “I’ve seen them,” Stratton spat into the phone, “and I’m not liking what I read. The FBI has made a mess of things. Kelly has something very important that belongs to me. Don’t be fooled—he has the goods. You said you were handling things. So far, I don’t see any evidence that the situation is ‘handled.’ It’s only getting worse.”

  “It’ll be taken care of,” the man said, trying to sound calm. “I have a man in the area already. He assures me we have a lead on Mr. Kelly.”

  “I want what’s mine. I don’t have to make that any clearer, do I? Whatever else happens is of no concern to me. This is just business.”

  “I think I get the picture, Mr. Stratton. Relax,” the man said. “I know you’re a busy man. Play some golf. Get yourself a massage. I should be hearing from my man anytime. You can count on him. Like I told you a hundred times, Mr. Stratton”—the man laughed—“what’s the point of having friends —”