twelve

Friday, March 14, 12 Higgins Drive, 2:10 a.m.

Peyton needed a good night’s sleep, but didn’t get one.

When Tommy had gone down at the usual hour (9 p.m.), Peyton followed suit. She’d gone to bed with her Lisa Scottoline novel but woke two hours later with the hardcover book under her. Unable to fall back to sleep, she returned to the book but couldn’t concentrate. After two hours of thinking about Ted Donovan, Dariya Vann, and a painting that had been missing for a quarter century, she finally drifted off.

She was dreaming about a ship in a storm with a man asleep on the deck while those around him scurried to and fro. She was one of the scurriers—until a rumbling vibration and annoying gong woke her. She reached for her cell phone, the call terminating the dream before she learned how it ended.

“Yeah?” Her voice was raspy, her throat dry and sore. Had she been snoring?

“Peyton, this is Bohana Donovan. I don’t know who else to call. They’re all missing.”

“Who?” Peyton asked. “Who’s missing?” She rolled onto her side, saw the clock, and ran her hand through her hair, trying to clear her head. “Bohana, tell me what this is about.” She was sitting up now.

“Neither Dariya nor Ted came home tonight. And Michael still isn’t home. I called his best friend, who admitted he spent the day at his house. But he says Michael left before dinner.”

Peyton was struggling to take it all in. “Start again,” she said.

“I don’t know where any of them are. Steven and I have been waiting up all night.”

8 a.m., Garrett Station

“We don’t usually do missing persons,” Mike Hewitt said. “Up here, with so few local and state police, we go as backup on a lot of calls, but we don’t usually do missing persons.”

“Unusual circumstances,” Peyton said, “call for unusual actions.”

“These are desperate times?” Frank Hammond smiled.

Peyton wanted to say, Desperate enough to get FBI agents out of bed before nine, but Steven Ramirez, the one she wanted to insult, wasn’t in the room, and besides, she liked Hammond.

They were sitting around the break room picnic table. There were paper coffee cups, sugar spilled on the table, and new notes on the whiteboard: “Dariya Vann,” “Ted Donovan,” and “Michael Donovan” were written on the board with the last known sighting of each. Nothing there helped Peyton.

“We knew neither Dariya nor Ted came home last night,” Hewitt said. “The stakeout came up empty.”

“And Maude O’Reilly’s house?” Peyton asked. “Did Aleksei come home?”

“He was home after math team practice as planned.”

“Does he know his father is missing?”

“Not that we know of,” Hewitt said. “Sandy Teague couldn’t have known because she was with Aleksei all night, so we assume he knows nothing of it. Sandy is at the middle school now. We thought you were the logical choice to talk with him, Peyton.”

“I’m to relieve her?”

“That’s right,” Hewitt said.

“BOLOs came up empty?”

Hewitt nodded.

Peyton looked at Hammond. “Even with the feds looking for Ted’s pickup?”

Hammond nodded. “And we added Michael to the BOLO list.”

“Because you think there’s a connection between Michael and the other two men?”

“They’re his uncles.” Hammond shrugged and bit into a blueberry muffin. “No place has better blueberries than Maine.”

Peyton said, “Yesterday, Bohana thought Michael was avoiding the consequences of his drug bust.”

“What drug bust?” Hammond said.

Hewitt filled him in.

“Could be separate,” Sally Hann, the young female FBI agent who’d measured the flattened carpeting at Ted Donovan’s apartment, said. She pushed her green and orange glasses into place.

“The boy is planning to major in Art History, or something to do with art,” Peyton said. “I remember his mother mentioning it.”

“What are you saying?” Hammond said.

“Peyton,” Hewitt said, “something make you think he’s involved?”

“They all lived under the same roof. He and his uncle were apparently interested in art. It’s something they had in common. Now they’re both missing.”

Hammond looked at Hewitt. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Hewitt said. “You guys must’ve been building profiles on these guys for years. How does it fit?”

“After twenty-five years,” Hammond said, “I think it’s safe to say our profiles have been for shit. That’s pretty obvious.”

Hewitt smiled.

“Ted had a lot of art on his computer,” Hann said. “He was meticulous. Pictures in folders. His Internet Explorer history showed he was constantly reading articles related to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist and keeping up with the stolen artifacts’ values. And there’s at least one deleted email suggesting they are selling one painting.”

“Do you know which painting?” Peyton asked.

“No. It’s not named.”

“If the teenager is in on it,” Hewitt said. “It changes things.”

“We need to find them,” Hann said. “Frank, I think it’s time to bring the media in.”

“That’ll force their hand,” Hammond said. “Either drive them further into their hole or make them run. And after all this time, I don’t want the artwork damaged, if we can help it. Especially if you think this painting is all that remains.”

“It’s been twenty-five years,” Hann said. “The FBI has never been this close. Let’s splash the uncles’ faces on TV.”

“I agree,” Hewitt said. “It might be time to smoke them out.”

“Let me think about it and make some calls,” Hammond said.

“I’m going to the Donovan home before I go to the school,” Peyton said. “You okay with that, Mike?”

“Yes,” Hewitt said.

8:35 a.m., 7 Drummond Lane

Peyton was thinking she’d give her left arm to have a kitchen like this one. But she pushed kitchen envy aside and tried to focus on the situation at hand: Bohana, sitting across the island from her, eyes puffy and red, hand trembling as she held a pen, looked at her notes. Steven was beside her, rubbing her back.

“I’m trying to write things down,” Bohana said, “as I remember them—when Michael left, what Davey said—”

“Who’s Davey?” Peyton interrupted. She’d been writing on her iPad with a stylus.

“He’s Michael’s best friend. That’s where Michael went yesterday instead of school.”

“Have you talked to Davey?”

Bohana nodded. “Briefly.”

“Peyton, would you like tea?” Steven said.

“That would be great.”

Steven stood and went to the counter. The two women remained at the granite island. It was black with white specks; the track lighting overhead reflected off it.

“I talked to Davey briefly on the phone,” Bohana said. “He told me Michael left after lunch.”

That didn’t exactly jive with what Peyton had heard before. Who had said Michael left the friend’s home before dinner? It could be a difference of four hours. Someone had gotten the story wrong—or intentionally changed it.

“Did he say where Michael was going?”

“He didn’t know. I asked that right off.”

“Has Michael done anything like this before—gone off without telling you?”

“Never.” Steven sat down next to his wife again and put two cups of tea before the women.

Bohana was shaking her head.

“So his leaving was totally unexpected?”

“Of course,” Bohana said.

“Well,” Steven said, “maybe not totally … no, forget it. It was unexpected.”

“You hesitated,” Peyton said.

“It’s just”—Steven looked at Bohana—“Michael hasn’t been the same this year. Am I right?”

“It’s just the college-application process, Steven. It’s just the pressure. He’s the same great kid.”

“Bohana, even Ted said Mikey was cold toward him.”

“He’s never really liked your brother.”

“Why is that?” Peyton said.

“No idea,” Steven said. “Mikey and I used to hunt each fall. This year, Mike didn’t want to. He just didn’t want to engage with the family this year.”

“That’s an exaggeration, Steven,” Bohana said.

Letting the parents squabble over who was right would no doubt prove fruitless. Peyton moved on. “Bohana, where do you think his two uncles are?”

“I have no idea, Peyton. Why are you asking? Do you think he’s with them?”

“I have no theories. Is that what you think?”

“Don’t you dare put words in my mouth.”

“No one’s putting words in your mouth, Bohana. Your brother and brother-in-law are at the center of an FBI investigation. They disappear on the same day your son disappears. It’s a logical question. Some might say the thought that Michael is with them is a sound deduction. Any thoughts, Steven?”

“Mikey doesn’t like either uncle,” Steven said. “I can’t see him being with them. I think these are two different issues.”

“Yes,” Bohana agreed. “Michael is running from a problem—one he created, no less. He needs to return and accept responsibility for his actions.”

“Simple as that?”

Bohana nodded. She hadn’t touched her tea. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be?”

“I can be sure of it because I’m the boy’s mother.”

“There’s another way,” Peyton said.

“What way is that?”

“You’d know Michael wasn’t with them, if you knew where they were.”

“Is that what you’re accusing me of ?”

“Bohana, I’m not accusing you of anything. Please be clear on that.”

“I think it’s time for you to go now, Peyton.”

“Bohana, the woman is trying to help us.”

“I don’t think so, Steven.”

“Everyone wants your son to come home safely, Bohana. I hope you know that. I’m a mother too. If my son was missing, I’d be terrified. My heart goes out to you.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Bohana said.

“That’s unfortunate.” Peyton stood, rinsed her mug, and left it in the sink on her way out.

She’d just gotten behind the wheel of her service vehicle when the CB chirped. It was Hewitt.

“Call me,” was all he said.

CB radio transmissions were never private, so anytime something important needed saying, cell phones were used, despite the spotty reception in some areas of the region.

“Mike,” Peyton said, “I’m sorry I haven’t made it to Maude O’Reilly’s yet. I just finished up with Bohana and Steven Donovan.”

“It’s okay. I have some information for you. We found Michael Donovan’s pickup behind the high school.”

“He wasn’t in it?”

“No, but his wallet was there. It was empty.”

“Are you thinking robbery? Foul play?”

“Or the empty wallet was left as a distraction. There’s something else: Aleksei gave his cell phone to his father.”

“Why?”

“Dariya asked him for it. Aleksei apparently has no idea where his father is. But Dariya went to see him at school yesterday, about the time we were searching Ted’s place. He asked for his son’s phone.”

“Can you locate the phone?”

“It’s not on. The last transmission was a text sent to Michael Donovan.”

“When was that?”

“After Aleksei gave his father the phone, late yesterday afternoon.”

“It sounds like a family reunion,” Peyton said.

“Maybe. The FBI is going to give some of the story to the media.”

“Someone needs to go talk to Michael’s best friend,” Peyton said. “He was the last person to see him.”

“You do it. Everyone else is in the field.”

11:30 a.m., Paradise Court

The woman his uncles called Sonya brought him a sandwich. No silverware. Just a plate. Michael didn’t know who she was, but she was pretty. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and he was tired.

“Your uncle told me you have the painting,” she said casually and sat across from him.

She had an accent a little like Dariya and Aleksei’s.

The kitchen table had a formica top and chrome legs. It reminded Michael of something he’d seen in a Johnny Rocket’s.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Uncle Ted had surprised him when he’d produced his cell phone. And Michael had panicked and run. He vowed not to panic again.

“Oh, I think you do,” she said. “Your uncle tells me you love art. That you’re going to college to study it.”

The sandwich was ham with cheese, lettuce, and tomato. Only a little mayo.

“Would you like to know why I want the painting?” she asked.

It was the first time any of them admitted part of the plan to him.

He chewed and swallowed, not answering, and took another bite of the sandwich.

“My father is a Rembrandt aficionado. And he’s an old man, dying of cancer.” She shrugged and looked down casually. “I just wanted to do something nice for him, to give him something he thought he’d never be able to have before he died.” It sounded believable, even to her.

“It wasn’t created to be owned.”

“What are you saying?” she said.

“You don’t have that right,” he said.

She pushed back from the table, crossed her legs, and looked at him. “I’m being lectured by a teenager?”

He only shrugged.

“How do you think the museum acquired it?” she said. “Isabella Stewart Gardner bought it. So spare me.” She stood and started toward the kitchen sink.

He turned to Ted. “Do my parents know?”

“About what?”

“Are they in on it?”

“No, Mikey,” Ted said. “Just me.”

“It was in their house for twenty-five years. And so were you.”

“You think it looks bad for them?” Ted asked.

Michael nodded. It was the first time he’d engaged in conversation with any of them.

“You’re worried about them,” Marfa said and put a dish in the sink. “You can help them by helping us. The sooner we get the painting, the sooner it’s out of your parents’ lives.”

He pushed the sandwich away.

“It’s up to you, Michael,” she said.

“You can’t hold me here.”

She stopped and turned back. “We don’t want to hold you here.”

In fact, he was a major problem for her. Ted and Dariya were a lot to deal with already. She wasn’t sure how the money-for-the-painting exchange would go, but her plan didn’t involve a financial transaction. It involved Ted and Dariya going the way of Pyotr. But this was a boy, no older than seventeen.

“We’d be happy to pay you for the painting,” she said. “But I must tell you we’re not going to play games for long, Michael. There are ways to get you to tell us where it is.”

“‘It wasn’t created to be owned,’” Dariya repeated. “Crazy. Everything can be owned. Everything has price. Everything.” He was across the room and turned on the TV.

CNN flashed Breaking News across the screen: Authorities claim break in quarter-century-old art heist. Manhunt is on. The news anchor promised an update momentarily.

“What?” Ted moved across the room. “What’s this?”

His face and Dariya’s were splashed on the TV screen.

“Oh my God!” Ted said.

“Nyet!” Dariya yelled.

Ted looked at Michael. “Look what you’ve done!” He started toward the teenager.

Marfa cut him off. “Everyone sit.” She turned to the TV. “Let’s see what they say.”

“We need to move,” Dariya said.

“No,” she said. “Let’s see what they say.”

Kate Bolduan was on CNN saying, “There may be a new development in a twenty-five-year-old case. According to sources, the FBI is in northern Maine looking into a possible lead …”

Marfa looked down at her Nokia phone. Another text from Nicolay. This one wasn’t asking about the account. This one was direct: Your father is dead. Call me, he had texted in Russian.

“You will tell us where it is!” Dariya shrieked and leapt at Michael, knocking him out of his seat.

“No!” Marfa yelled.

And everyone turned around to see her 9mm Glock.

“I’ve known Mikey his whole life,” Ted said. He helped Michael up. “I held him the day he was born. He’s a smart, rational guy. He’ll tell us where it is, right, Mikey?” He moved close to Michael, leaned, and whispered, “I don’t want them to hurt you. Just tell us.”

Marfa was staring at her phone. “Just don’t hurt the boy. I’ll be right back.” She picked the Nokia off the kitchen table and left the room.

“Where are you going?” Ted said.

“Don’t touch the boy,” she said, staring at the phone and walking outside.

11:35 a.m., WalMart Parking Lot, Reeds

Nicolay answered on the first ring. He was in the Camry, a guitar case in the trunk next to his bag now.

“Tell me about Father.”

“Why did you do it, Marfa? He loved you.”

“He loved Dimitri. Mother loved me.”

“She’s been gone a long time,” he said and thought, Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s what it’s all about—because she didn’t have a mother.

“I always wanted to please him. But it couldn’t be done. So I’ll beat him at his own game.”

“No you won’t, Marfa.”

“Watch me.”

“No one can beat him now.”

“You’re lying,” she said.

“He had a heart attack. I told him about the accounts, about what his only daughter did. It killed him, Marfa.”

“I don’t believe you. This is about the money. You want me to think it’s mine now anyway so I’ll come back. That’s what you’re trying to do.”

He smiled at that. Let her think that. She didn’t need to come to him; he’d come to her. His GPS said he was four miles from the address he’d found in her email, and the clear cell phone reception was nearly a confirmation.

“The money is yours,” he said, “but not all of it. And you know what I mean.”

“He promised you something?”

“Quite a lot, Marfa. I think we both know that.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Where are you?” He wanted to see how much information she’d give him. He also wanted to know what she was up to—why northern Maine?

“Far away,” she said.

“What are you doing? When are you coming for the children?”

“How much money did Father promise you?”

He told her.

“That’s out of the question,” she said.

“That’s a fair amount,” he said. “I worked for your father for forty-five years.”

“That’s too much.”

“Are you coming back for your children? They miss you.”

She hung up.

12 p.m., 31 Monson Road

When Davey Bolstridge opened the front door, he looked ill. Terribly thin with a sallow face. She feared Michael Donovan’s prediction—that his best friend was dying—was correct.

She introduced herself, and he invited her in.

She followed him to a sparse living room that reminded her of a bachelor pad. Davey’s laptop was plugged into the TV, and Blue Bloods was streaming. The sofa was tired, and the carpet had several large stains.

“Am I in trouble?” He sat on the sofa. He wore nylon athletic shorts and a faded Garrett High Baseball T-shirt that looked like he wore it often, but which hung off him as if two sizes too big. Clearly, he’d lost a lot of weight.

“Not at all,” she said, taking the Lay-Z-Boy across the room.

His blue eyes darted around the room, as if searching for help or waiting for something bad to happen.

“I need to ask you some questions about Michael Donovan.”

“You’re the Border Patrol agent who was in Houlton with him the other night, the one at the state police barracks?”

“I was there with him,” she said. “That’s correct.”

“He described you.”

“And what was his description?” She saw a faint smile cross his face but let it go.

“Is everything okay? His mom called here all freaked out last night. Mikey came here yesterday. He looked like he’d run a marathon when he got here.”

“Did he run here?”

“No, he drove. He said he’d just come to hang out. But, from what his mother said, it seems like he was in trouble. I don’t think he wanted me to worry. He knows I have my own problems.”

“You’re sick? You’re the one he was growing pot for?”

“Yeah,” he said and flinched. “They say it’s on my spine now. Hurts bad sometimes. Mikey was just trying to help me. He never once smoked.”

“I believe you,” she said. “He sounds like a good friend.”

“You really mean that?”

“Yes, why?”

“Not many cops would say that about someone who grew dope.”

She shook her head. “I’m not a cop. And I think you might be wrong.”

He sat in silence for a moment.

“Why do you think he looked so harried when he arrived here yesterday?” she asked.

“Harried?” He chuckled. “Never heard anyone use that word. Anyway, I don’t have a clue. And he parked behind the house. When I asked why, he said it was plowed, and he was saving the driveway for my parents. I thought he was just being nice.”

“And you don’t think that now?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Has he contacted you since he left yesterday?”

“No. And I sent a few texts.”

“Tell me how he looked when he arrived.”

“It wasn’t so much his breathing. He was sweating, his hair was messed up, and his face was red. His mother said she didn’t know where he was. Is he in trouble?”

“We don’t know, Davey. You’ve known him a long time?”

“Since as long as I can remember. We were going to room in college. But …”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Was he even eighteen? He had seen his last Christmas. Her mind ran to Tommy. Was she spending enough time with him? Her roles of mother and agent clashed far more often than she’d like. This week had been a perfect example.

“Where do you think Michael might be? Is there any place he might go?”

“To hide? Not really, just the shack in the woods. But you know all about that.”

She did, but no one had looked there.

1:15 p.m., Garrett Station

“Change in plans?” Peyton asked as she entered the front door.

“Yeah.” Hewitt was holding a manila folder. “No need to go to the shack again.”

“You found Michael?”

“Possibly. We’ll follow it up before you hike a couple miles in the woods.”

Peyton saw Sandy Teague sitting at her desk with Aleksei Vann.

“We had Sandy bring Aleksei here,” Hewitt said. “He didn’t want to leave school. He’s missing a math test.”

“Wish some of that would rub off on my son,” Peyton said. “Why does he need to be here?”

Hewitt looked around to make sure Aleksei was out of earshot. “Because we don’t know what Dariya is up to, and he’s used the boy once. I don’t want him doing anything stupid.”

“You’re talking about a potential hostage situation,” she said.

“Just taking precautions. That’s all.”

“Tell me about Michael,” she said. “His friend says he looked pretty rough yesterday.”

“Ever hear of a StingRay?”

She nodded. “Phone tracker, yeah.”

“We found his phone,” Hewitt said. “ICE is on the way. We probably won’t wait for them, but they’re coming.”

ICE was Homeland Security’s branch of law enforcement, the Border Patrol’s investigatory brethren. She knew things were moving along now. She’d missed something.

“What’s going on, Mike?”

“Logan Airport surveillance picked up two people entering Boston from St. Petersburg, Russia, in the last few days.” Hewitt opened the folder and handed Peyton two photos: one was of a man in his sixties with a thick white beard; the other was of a woman, much younger, wearing dark glasses and designer clothes.

“Who are these people?”

“This is Victor Tankov’s longtime right-hand man, Nicolay Fyodorov. Tankov is a notorious Russian mafia figure. He’s also personal friends with Vladimir Putin. He’s one of the guys who had assets frozen by Obama in an attempt to squeeze Putin into leaving the Ukraine.”

“This is where Dariya Vann comes in,” she said, “isn’t it?”

Hewitt nodded. “The woman is Tankov’s daughter, Marfa Tankov. Remember when you said Dariya’s arrival was important because it shows they’re getting ready to move the painting after twenty-five years? Well, it would make sense that these are the buyers.”

“That’s why ICE is coming aboard.”

“Victor Tankov is notorious. And artwork is a hot item right now among organized crime members. Usually, there’s no black market for stolen Rembrandts because there’s nothing you can do with them. You can’t display them, and it’s hard to sell them because you can’t have anyone authenticate them. But Tankov is dying. Cancer.”

The comment reminded her of Davey Bolstridge, who wasn’t a criminal. Just a simple teenager who wanted to go to college and room with a friend.

“So Victor Tankov wants to own the painting before he dies?”

Hewitt shrugged. “Or he wants it for the reason most people like him do: It’s a great bargaining chip, should he—or Nicolay or Marfa—get caught. Two years ago, a guy convicted of fraud, murder, and money laundering copped a plea and got only ten years in a federal country club when he traded a Rembrandt.”

Peyton shook her head. “That’s disgusting.”

“The judge said the Rembrandt was worth it. And now all of those guys know about it.”

“So Victor Tankov sent Nicolay and Marfa to get the painting?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“How is he buying it, if his assets are frozen?”

“I said some of his assets are frozen. He has lots of assets and more cash than you or I can imagine, Peyton.”

“Do we know where they are?” she asked.

“Ramirez is working on that.”

“Where does Michael Donovan fit in?” she said. “His parents deny that he’d have anything to do with his uncle.”

“Maybe, but it’s becoming harder and harder to imagine that he’s not with them.” Hewitt took the pictures back and slid them into his folder.

She looked at the one conference room in the back. Ramirez was there. He had a laptop open and something Peyton had never seen before.

“That looks like an old VCR,” Peyton said.

“That’s the StingRay,” Hewitt said.

She’d never seen one before, but knew it acted like a cell tower and tricked a cell phone into giving it data. It could also locate cell phones, even when they weren’t in use.

Peyton was in the break room spreading cream cheese on a bagel when she heard the commotion.

“Frank,” Ramirez called, “you’d better come look at this.”

Peyton beat Hammond to the conference room. Ramirez was looking at a GPS map of the area. A dot pulsated on the screen.

“I know where that is,” Peyton said. “That’s the Hampton Inn in Reeds.”

1:30 p.m., a dirt road near Paradise Court

Nicolay climbed a ridge and crouched behind a balsam fir, where he lay the guitar case down in the snow and opened it. A red hawk circled overhead. He’d parked the rented Camry to the side of the dirt road. If it had been summer, he’d have driven it farther off the road and parked in a wooded area. But that wasn’t possible with four-foot snow piles lining the dirt road. He had binoculars around his neck and wore a black knit cap, black gloves, a dark hoodie, and Gore-Tex boots. He was prepared—and willing—to spend a long time outside, if it came to that.

A slight breeze tickled the treetops, and light snow drifted down. He could see his breath in the afternoon air, but the sun was bright and warm on his back. The case, although shaped like a guitar, was foam lined and contained a 9mm handgun and a 12-gauge as well as ammunition for each. No one in Boston knew Victor was dead yet, and Victor had done a guy a favor in Europe once, so the case and its contents had been free.

Nicolay used binoculars to look at the house. What was going on? The email that led him here said Marfa was meeting Pyotr, but Pyotr was nowhere in sight. What he did see were three others—two men nearly fifty and one teenager. What the hell was going on?

He wanted to speak to Marfa alone, to tell her what she would do, and to explain how she would do it: the funds were to be moved directly to his account. But the additional men complicated things. If they were working with her, they might very well have to go. The thought made him wish he’d requested a long rifle with a scope; a shotgun would do little from the ridge.

He hated it when a part of his plan needed to change.

When he’d been younger, his confidence never wavered. Who had written the line, “You have youth, confidence, and a job. You have everything”? Hemingway? Nicolay knew, at sixty, he was no longer the man Hemingway described. But he had something Hemingway hadn’t considered: anger. Marfa had taken two things from him—his best friend and a great deal of money that he rightfully deserved.

He would get even for Victor.

And he would get what he had coming.

He jacked a round into the chamber of the 12-gauge, tucked the 9mm into his waistband, and started moving tree to tree, edging closer to the house.

1:45 p.m., the Hampton Inn, Reeds

Hammond, Hann, and Ramirez along with Hewitt, Jimenez, and Peyton arrived in one black Suburban and one Border Patrol Expedition. No flashing lights. No sirens. To passersby, they could’ve been arriving for a late lunch meeting. Except, behind the tinted windows of the Suburban, Ramirez was in the back with his laptop open.

When the Suburban stopped, Hewitt hit the brakes on the green-and-white Expedition. He got out and walked to the FBI vehicle, talked to Hammond for a few minutes, then returned.

“I’m going to the front desk to show some photos,” Hewitt said.

“Will the StingRay lead us to the phone?” Peyton said.

“Not to the exact location.” Hewitt turned and went into the hotel lobby.

Jimenez watched Hewitt walk away. “Are we going room to room?”

“I don’t know,” Peyton said, “but if the desk people don’t recognize the pictures, there won’t be much choice.” She could see Hewitt talking to a blond woman at the front desk.

Jimenez looked at the four-story hotel. “Doable, but it’ll take a while.”

Peyton got out of the Expedition and walked to the Suburban. She opened the back door and slid in.

Ramirez looked surprised to see her. “What’s up?”

“You tell me,” she said.

“I got a hit on Aleksei Vann’s phone.”

“Just that one?”

“So far.”

“And it’s here?”

“Somewhere.”

“If we go room to room, it could take forever,” Hann said. She took her glasses off and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

Peyton got out of the Suburban and stood thinking.

“So where does this leave us?” Peyton said.

Hewitt and Hammond had their people huddled between the vehicles. The sun reflected off the wet street and icy snow, and Peyton wore sunglasses and a ski cap.

“What’s bothering you, Peyton?” Hewitt said. “You look impatient.”

“This feels like a setup. Only one cell phone? And it’s Aleksei’s, the expendable one.”

“What are you saying?” Hammond said.

“I’m saying, I bet the phone is in one of these garbage cans.” She pointed to the receptacles around the parking lot. “They have something to move. It makes sense to draw some of us here.”

“I’m getting three phones now,” Ramirez said.

“That changes things,” Hewitt said. “Sounds like a meeting.”

“Let’s spread out and go floor by floor, room to room,” Hammond said. “Someone stay out here.”

“Excuse me.”

They turned to see the blond woman from the front desk.

“Agent, may I have a word?”

Hewitt walked to her. She spoke. He nodded, looked at Peyton, and said, “Yes, I’d like to see it.” He followed her inside and returned holding a plastic garbage bag.

2:35 p.m., Garrett Station

“Are they legit?” Hewitt asked Ramirez.

Ramirez, Hann, Hammond, Peyton, and Hewitt were in the break room. Three cell phones were on the picnic table.

“Are they actual phones owned by Marfa Tankov, Aleksei Vann, and Ted Donovan? Yes, they appear to be.”

“And they didn’t lead us to anything,” Hewitt said. He was looking at Peyton. “What tipped you off ?”

She shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

“If you’re right,” Hann said, “it means they’re still in the area.”

“You didn’t find Michael Donovan’s phone?” Peyton asked.

Ramirez shook his head. “And I haven’t picked it up yet, either.”

“Nicolay Fyodorov’s phone?” Hammond asked.

“No,” Ramirez said.

Peyton picked up the phones. “Which one is Marfa Tankov’s?”

Ramirez pointed.

Peyton tried to access the phone; it was password protected. “Can you open it?” she asked.

Ramirez took it. “Probably. Why? If she planted it for us to find, I’m sure she wiped it.”

“Most likely,” Peyton said. “But let’s leave no stone unturned.”

“I get it,” Ramirez said. “Give me some time.”

3:10 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive

Peyton waved to Margaret Jones, Tommy’s bus driver.

“Hi, Peyton,” Margaret said through the open driver’s side window. “I saw you on CNN this afternoon. You were walking around the Hampton Inn.”

Peyton couldn’t remember seeing a CNN van, which made sense; the reporter would’ve flown into Reeds and rented a car. Regardless, a CNN reporter obviously followed them from Garrett Station to Reeds.

“It’s finally feeling like spring,” Peyton said.

Margaret had been Tommy’s bus driver for as long as Peyton could remember. Her husband Bill was his Little League coach.

“Can’t talk about it?”

“Not unless you have information for me.”

“Wish I did.”

“Thanks for driving my son. Tell Bill I say hi.”

“You got it,” Margaret said and pulled the narrow driver’s-side window closed before driving off.

Tommy wore his backpack and a Patriots sweatshirt as they started up the driveway.

“Where’s your coat?”

“In my bag.” He smiled.

She reached down and squeezed his knee. He jumped and laughed.

“Tickle point,” she said. “I know them all. And I’m deadly with them. Where’d you get the sweatshirt?”

“Stone. When I spent the night, it was cold. He gave it to me, said to keep it.”

“The other night?” she said. “When we went to his cabin?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool. I wish we bought a cabin on the lake.”

“We’d have to give up the house,” she said, “and then you probably wouldn’t have your own bathroom. But there are plenty of places for sale.”

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

She stopped walking and stood stock-still in the center of the driveway, then pulled out her phone. She dialed her real estate agent Kathy St. Pierre.

“Mom, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, sweetie. It’s just that there are too many places for sale.”

Kathy answered, and Peyton heard the eagerness in the agent’s voice. Unfortunately for her, Peyton wasn’t looking for a home to buy.

She was looking for a desperate seller.

Fifteen minutes later, she thanked Kathy St. Pierre and turned to Tommy, who was doing homework at the kitchen table.

“I hate to do this again, Tommy.”

“I know what you’re going to say: Gram is on her way to stay with me.”

Her stomach sank. This day, she’d spent time with a seventeen-year-old with only months to live. And here she was leaving her own son—whom she’d seen for all of an hour in the past twenty-four—to go back to work. Worse, he could predict her abandonment.

“That’s right, pal. I’m very sorry.” She turned and stared out the window over the sink at the snow-covered back lawn.

“It’s okay, Mom. I know you work hard. And I know you do it for me.”

“Wow, thank you, Tommy. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Stone told me some stuff.”

She heard the single horn honk in the driveway: her mother Lois’s cue that she’d arrived.

“I want to hear about that later, okay?” she said and dashed out the door.

4:15, dirt road near Paradise Court

“You’re sure this is it?” Hewitt said, climbing out of the Expedition.

They’d parked at the end of the dirt road and gathered at the back of the huge Ford vehicle. Hewitt took a 12-gauge and pumped a round into the chamber. Peyton felt for her .40 on her right hip. She also took a 12-gauge.

“No,” Peyton said. She closed the passenger door quietly. “I’m not sure of anything. But Kathy St. Pierre is the region’s busiest realtor, and she rented this house to a man with a Russian accent just a few days ago. And he rented it for only one month.”

Using the toe of his boot, Ramirez crushed an ice ball. “Who would rent someone a house for only a month?”

“Someone who’s been trying to sell since the damn feds closed the military base and took half the region’s population with it.”

“I do believe I struck a nerve,” Ramirez said.

“When the Cold War ended, Washington closed Loring Air Force Base. The region’s economy hasn’t been the same since.”

Ramirez shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

“My point exactly.”

“This political debate is fascinating,” Hewitt said, “but I’d like to see if the painting is in the house. Put your earpieces in. We don’t know much about these people, so proceed with caution.”

“They’re Russian mob,” Ramirez said.

“They’re art thieves,” Hewitt said.

“I don’t want the painting damaged,” Hammond said. “Take it slowly.”

They started to walk toward the house. Peyton and Hewitt were on the north side of the road walking up a ridge, Ramirez and Hann were in the woods on the opposite side of the road, and Hammond was walking on the side of the dirt road.

“There’s a Camry with Massachusetts plates on it,” Hammond said. He felt the hood. “Hood’s cold.”

“We’ve got something,” Peyton said. “Empty guitar case. It’s lined with foam and looks like it held a long gun and a pistol. Tracks lead to the house.”

“Wait for us,” Ramirez said. “Hann and I are crossing the street.”

“This is a road, city boy,” Hammond said. “Not a street.”

They huddled at the top of the ridge.

Hewitt examined the guitar case. “Foam cutouts are certainly shaped for guns. Whoever was here went tree to tree until they reached the house.”

“Looks like they went in the front door,” Peyton said and handed the binoculars to Hammond. The sun was dropping, and a late-winter breeze was kicking up.

“Maybe someone got wind of the sale,” Hammond said, “and wanted to get the painting before it went underground again.”

“Can you see any movement inside the house?” Hewitt asked.

“No,” Hammond said. “We need to be closer.”

4:17 p.m., Paradise Court

For the first time, Michael was really scared.

The guy had simply appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a shotgun. And when Uncle Ted stood, the guy with the Santa Claus beard just knocked him down—one punch, while keeping the gun leveled on the room. He’d taken the pretty woman’s purse and pulled a small handgun from it. Then he sat them in a semicircle in the living room: Dariya and Ted on the sofa, Michael and the woman like bookends in leather chairs.

Michael didn’t know who the man was or what he was saying in Russian. But he sensed the tension among the adults, and he could feel sweat on his brow.

“Where’s Pyotr?” Nicolay asked Marfa and glanced over his shoulder, guarding against an ambush.

“With my father, if what you say is true, and since you’re here I assume it is.”

Ted rubbed his jaw. “What’s going on, Sonya?”

The big man shook his head. “Sonya?” he said in English. Then to Marfa in Russian: “They don’t even know your name.”

“What’s going on?” Dariya said.

“What is going on, Nicolay?” Marfa asked.

“You know why I’m here.”

“The money?”

“First, the money, yes. You’re going to transfer what is owed to me.”

“And then?”

“Then I go. And you do whatever you were going to do to these poor …” He searched for a word, couldn’t find it, settled for a headshake. “Sonya?” he said again. “That’s what the gun in your purse was for, wasn’t it?” He turned to Ted and spoke in English again: “She’s killed two already—her father and husband. You’re next.”

“No,” Ted said, eyes on Marfa.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Pyotr and now these three? And a boy?” He shook his head in disgust. “A boy? You didn’t get that from your father.”

They were speaking English now, and Michael started to cry.

“No?” Marfa said. “My father never killed anyone? If that’s true, we both know who did it all for him.”

“You’re wrong about all of it.”

“And you’re a liar.”

“No time for this. Where’s your computer?”

“I don’t have it, Nicolay. I didn’t bring it.”

“It’s on the table over there. I see the red sticker on the front. That’s yours. I’m going to bring it to you, and you’re going to transfer the money. I have someone watching my account. When he gives me the signal, I leave.” He walked backward slowly, the shotgun still leveled at the room. Michael saw the big man glance at the window and do a double take.

“Nyet! Nyet!” Nicolay said.

“What’s going on?” Ted shouted.

Nicolay ignored him. “I came for two things,” he said to Marfa. “One is lost now.”

“What?” she asked. “Who is out there?”

Michael could see the rage in the big man’s eyes as he took three steps into the center of the room.

“I might lose out, but your father won’t,” he said and pointed the 12-gauge at the pretty woman.

Michael saw the realization on the woman’s face, watched as she desperately pressed herself up and backward, as if trying to scamper over the back of the leather chair.

“Nyet,” the man said for a third time, this time softly as he shrugged and pulled the trigger.

4:20 p.m., Paradise Court

Peyton heard the blast and sprinted. Hewitt paused to call for backup. Hammond went to the right. Ramirez went straight at the house and reached it first. He went up the front stairs and kicked the door in. A shotgun’s blast reverberated, and Peyton saw Ramirez leap to the side of the door and off the stairs.

“Motherfucker!” Ramirez shouted.

“Are you hit?” It was Hammond’s voice in Peyton’s earpiece.

“No, I’m fucking pissed!”

“Assess the situation, Ramirez,” Hammond said. “Stand down and assess.”

Peyton kept running, circling to the rear of the house. The basement door was open. She entered and went to the stairwell. She reached for the wall switch and killed the stairwell light. She crouched as she started up the stairs, the 12-gauge leveled in front of her. It was a pump-action. She wished she had a semiautomatic.

“I see someone in the window!” It was Ramirez’s voice. “I’m taking the shot!”

“How many guns are there?” Hewitt said. “Do you have a visual?”

“I see someone,” Ramirez said. “I’m taking the shot.”

“Assess the situation, Ramirez!” Hammond said.

Peyton heard breaking glass and a shotgun’s boom, then a scream from inside the house. She thought the voice was Ted Donovan’s.

“Hold your fire unless fired upon!” Hewitt said.

Peyton was halfway up the stairs when the door flew open. Nicolay Fyodorov took two steps, his head down to see where he was going in the dark, the shotgun at his side. He looked up and froze.

“Drop it!” Peyton yelled, her 12-gauge leveled at his chest.

“I lose,” he said quietly.

“Drop it!” she yelled again.

“No prison for me.” He smiled and raised his shotgun.

She pulled the trigger.

In the confined area, the blast shook the house as if struck by a car. Nicolay ran backward before landing on his back at the top of the steps. His shotgun clattered down the stairs, landing on the basement floor.

Peyton took three more steps toward the open door.

“Freeze!” The voice was Sally Hann’s. “I said, Freeze!”

A second figure appeared in the doorway.

Peyton pointed the shotgun at the figure. Ted Donovan stopped short.

Dariya peered over Ted’s shoulder. “Run!” he said and shoved Ted. Then he saw Peyton and turned back.

“On your knees!” Hann said. “There’s nowhere to go and too much bloodshed already. Get down!”

Peyton watched Dariya crouch. At the top of the stairs, she looked around the room. The woman in the photo Hewitt had shown her was no longer recognizable. Part of her face was missing; there was blood and brain matter on the wall behind the leather chair. Dariya was on his hands and knees, vomiting, and speaking rapidly in Russian.

“He’s saying something about a sick wife, about using his son.” Hann pulled him onto his knees and cuffed him. “He says he wants to die.”

Across the room, Hammond was talking to Steven Ramirez near an overturned loveseat beneath a broken window. Hammond was whispering but waving his hands. Ramirez’s face was red. Peyton saw Adidas sneakers and blue jeans protruding from behind the loveseat.

“Who’s that?” she asked and moved closer.

“Is he …?” Ted said. He forgot he was supposed to kneel. He stood and moved closer to his nephew. “Is he dead?”

As Ted shuffled toward the overturned loveseat, Hewitt was next to him all the time, his. 40 drawn, an arm on his forearm.

Ted got to the loveseat, peered around it, and immediately vomited.

“He was just trying to jump out the window!” Ted shrieked. “You fucking killed him! He had no gun! Now he’s gone!”

Peyton heard Ramirez say, “The window broke, and he started out. I thought he was going to shoot. It was a good shooting.”

“He never cleared the window,” Peyton said. “Mike asked for your visual.”

“It was a good shooting,” Ramirez said again.

Hammond looked at Ted. “Where’s the artwork?”

“We don’t have it. Michael took it. We don’t know where.”

“There is no weapon near him,” Peyton said. “The boy was unarmed.”

Ramirez looked at Hammond. “It was a good fucking shooting, right Frank?”

Peyton looked from Hewitt to Hammond. They locked eyes. Then she walked outside.

9:30 p.m., Garrett Station

This time only Hewitt, Hammond, Hann, and Peyton were at the break room table. Steven Ramirez was meeting with state police officials, including Stone, to discuss the shooting of Michael Donovan.

“So what are we left with?” Hewitt asked.

The whiteboard had changed. “Dariya” and “Ted” had lines through them. “Michael,” “Marfa,” and “Nicolay” each had the letter D next to their names.

“Those two”—Hammond pointed at the names Ted and Dariya on the board—“are facing federal charges, and everyone else is dead.”

“Nicolay wanted to die,” Peyton said. Her interview with state police officials had lasted thirty minutes. “I’ve never been forced to …” She couldn’t find the words.

“Help someone kill themselves?” Hewitt finished her sentence.

“Yes,” she said. “He said he wasn’t going to prison. And then he smiled.”

Hammond shook his head. “There are no winners here.”

“Is Ramirez coming back?” Hann asked.

“He might be facing a murder charge,” Hammond said.

“Everybody loses,” Peyton said, “and we don’t have the painting to show for it.”

Hammond nodded. “We don’t have any of the missing pieces.” He was drinking Diet Pepsi. “The Gardner Museum called for an update. Both Ted and Dariya say the same thing: Michael took one painting and hid it. They don’t know where. And I had to tell the museum the other works might be lost.”

“Ted told me that same story in the truck on the way here,” Peyton said. “I believe him.”

“If he had the painting,” Hewitt said, “now would be the time for him to use it.”

“These guys don’t have it,” Hammond said.

Sally Hann rubbed her eyes. Then she pointed to the board. “So three people are dead and two others are going away for a long time. And the painting stays lost, after coming this close? We’ve spent twenty-five years looking and it stays lost?”

“Maybe that’s its destiny,” Hewitt said. “Maybe it’s just fate.”

Peyton didn’t say anything.

“Why would Michael take it from the uncle?” Hewitt said.

“No one knows, but it’s part of some tough conversations I’m having with the boy’s parents,” said Hammond.

“Dear God,” Peyton said. “I can only imagine. Who broke the news to them about their son?”

“Stone,” Hewitt said.

“That’s shitty,” she said.

“The worst part of being a state cop.”

“What happens to Aleksei,” Peyton asked, “if his father is in prison?”

“Dariya’s son?” Hammond shook his head. “That’s way beyond my pay grade.”

“I think Bill Hillsdale will be very involved in that decision,” Hewitt said.

“The kids were pawns in all this,” Peyton said. “One is planted here by his father, that father goes to prison, and now the boy probably gets sent home to care for his ill mother. And, for whatever reason, Michael tried to prevent the sale of the painting and ended up dead.”

The room fell silent.

“Nothing more is happening tonight,” Hammond said. “Go home, everyone. Get some rest.”

Hewitt was nodding.

“I can’t thank you all enough, especially you guys.” Hammond pointed at Peyton and Hewitt. “You sort of fell into this shit storm, and it produced two arrests and not much else.”

Peyton stood. At the door, she said, “Mike, can I ask a favor?”

“Sure. What?”

“I haven’t been much of a mother the past few days. Is anyone using the snowmobile tomorrow?”