“Patrick, after all the shite, all the trouble, all the heartache, you go and do this.” There was a pregnant pause when Patrick wasn’t convinced his uncle wasn’t going to pull out a gun and shoot him. “Lad, you just pulled off the crime of the century. No one can ever know about this, but you’ll know. Even a whisper over a pint at the pub and it’s over. You take it to your grave, but you did it. They’ll be talking about this heist for decades.”
And just like that John Reardon had somehow, scot-free, gotten his hands on the most highly publicized, mysterious, and valuable art heist in half a century. And he was as far from a suspect as the Pope. That night in September, six months after the heist, after Patrick had left, John laughed and howled so loud, his wife, Bridget, came barreling into the living room to see about the commotion. When he showed her the loot, she simply stared, slack-jawed. Tears rolled down her cheeks. When she finally looked up she simply said, “I want the Vermeer.The Concert. Do what you want with the rest.”
John embraced his wife and smiled. “Where would you like me to hang it?”
“The library, just for us to see. It’s too coincidental for a ‘reproduction’ to show up in our living room.” She paused for a moment in thought. “Maybe in a few years.”
“Of course, darling. I’ll move it in there now. I’ll hang it myself. Maybe I’ll even build a private room, just for us and our treasures.”
“Thank you, John.”
“Anything for you, my love.”
“John?”
“Yes.”
“You know what’s funny?”
“Hmm?”
“The robbery? The day those paintings were stolen? It was the same day our first great-grandchild was born. Our Elizabeth was born on March 18.”
“You know I always joke about luck, but this really takes the cake.”
Bridget Reardon hugged her husband from behind as he plucked the painting she had selected from the stack.
“Yes, my dear, sweet man, it truly does.”
Patrick Reardon never saw the paintings again; he never really looked at them when he stole them. He saw pictures in the paper though. Saw the dollar signs. John had told him that first night to leave the loot and never speak of the heist to anyone ever. John set Patrick up with a small house and a job selling cars at a local dealership. Patrick was bored to tears, but he knew when his luck had run out.
So he sold cars, and tended his small garden, and went for a pint at the neighborhood pub. He died of prostate cancer in 2002, at the age of 71. He never spoke of the Gardner Museum Heist, but he died with a smile, knowing he was the slick bastard who had pulled it off.
The crime of the century.