Hailey hadn’t recognized the painting in the photo when Nick had first shown it to her in the stairwell, but she’d definitely heard of the famous heist. She’d been rough on the details, but Nick had filled her in on the rest at the diner, while she’d picked at a stack of pancakes. Despite his rough exterior, Nick wasn’t stupid, and he’d obviously done some deep digging while he was still locked up. The Vermeer and the rest were incredibly valuable, but they were also extremely recognizable, which made them almost impossible to sell. Probably why they’d remained hidden for so long, though Nick had his own theory. Apparently, the guy who most investigators had pinned the heist on—a brash mobster named Bobby Donati—had been murdered a year after the theft. Beaten, stabbed twenty times, throat cut, then shoved in the trunk of his Cadillac, which was left parked on a street in Revere. Nick’s theory was that it had been a mercenary operation; Donati had been paid by someone to rob the museum of some particular works of art, and not always the most valuable. Then he’d hidden the stash, and either died before he’d been able to turn it over to whomever had hired him, or had died because he’d been unwilling to turn it over.

Either way, according to Nick, those paintings had remained hidden in various basements and safe houses in Boston for three decades.

“In a matter of speaking,” Nick said, responding to Hailey’s question as they headed up the path toward the warehouse. “According to my notebook, my redheaded friend had been clued in to the stash by the daughter of one of Donati’s associates. Gail Gustiano—her father, Richie Gustiano, had supposedly had something to do with the theft, might even have been involved. Gail was too afraid to try to move the paintings herself. Red had promised he’d keep her at arm’s length, and that he and his buddies—a couple of Southie hoods—had the necessary connections to move the paintings.”

“And now you’re along for the ride.”

“We’re along for the ride,” Nick corrected. “I stepped into the easiest part in the play. The go-between; show the proof of the stash to the fence, get the down payment. Everything looks good, I bring Jimmy the paintings, and then I contact Gail and deliver her cut. She keeps her hands and identity clean, and everyone leaves happy. Or so it was supposed to go.”

“There wasn’t pushback when you took over for the redheaded kid?”

Nick shrugged.

“Everyone in this is here for the same reason: to get paid.”