Publisher Description

Iconic, tough-but-tender Boston PI Spenser delves into the black-market art scene to investigate a decades-long unsolved crime of dangerous proportions

The heist was legendary, still talked about twenty years after the priceless paintings disappeared from one of Boston's premier art museums. Most thought the art was lost forever, buried deep, sold off overseas, or, worse, destroyed as incriminating evidence. But when paint chips from the most valuable piece stolen, Gentlemen in Black, by a Spanish master, arrives at the desk of a Boston journalist, the museum finds hope and enlists Spenser's help.

Soon the cold art case thrusts Spenser into the shady world of black market art dealers, aged Mafia bosses, and old vendettas. A five-million-dollar-reward by the museum's top benefactor, an aged, unlikable Boston socialite, sets Spenser and pals Vinnie Morris and Hawk onto a trail of hidden secrets, jailhouse confessions, murder, and double crosses.

Set against the high-society art scene and the lowlife back alleys of Boston, this is classic Spenser doing what he does best.

Author Biography

Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring police chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010.

Ace Atkins is the New York Times-bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, two of which were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. In addition, he is the author of several New York Times-bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times, a crime reporter for The Tampa Tribune, and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.

Review

"Atkins perfectly catches Spenser's breezy voice and Parker's knack for creating vivid characters."—Seattle Times

More Praise for Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic

"Atkins . . . again captures all the qualities Spenser fans love in the series: smart-ass humor, a touch of romance, plenty of violence, and, of course, Spenser's complex sense of honor. Atkins adds his own touch in the form of complex plots with genuine mysteries at their center."—Booklist

Praise for Ace Atkins and the Spenser Series

"Handpicked by the Parker estate to be the keeper of the flame for the Spenser franchise, award-winning author Ace Atkins rises flawlessly to the occasion. In addition to the signature dialogue, all the familiars are fully resurrected: Susan, the sexy shrink; Pearl, the wonder dog; Hawk, the wonder sidekick; good cop Quirk, and, of course, Spenser himself, that consummate knight errant for the twenty-first century."—Kirkus Reviews

"It's a feat when a writer creates characters who live and breathe on the page and make readers care and keep coming back for more. To manage that with someone else's characters, let alone with an icon like Spenser, is a minor miracle. Ace Atkins pulls it off."—Chicago Sun-Times

"Atkins does a wonderful job with the characters created by Parker."—Booklist
 
"Classic Spenser—the Spenser of wry wit, tasty food and drinks, hard workouts and lethal confrontations...Once again, Atkins has delivered a thriller that evokes the best of Parker's Spenser series, not least the punchy back-and-forth of the dialogue."—Associated Press

"Atkins has done a splendid job of capturing the voice of the late Robert B. Parker."—Publishers Weekly

Review Quote

Praise for Robert B. Parker's Old Black Magic "Atkins perfectly catches Spenser's breezy voice and Parker's knack for creating vivid characters."-- Seattle Times "Atkins . . . again captures all the qualities Spenser fans love in the series: smart-ass humor, a touch of romance, plenty of violence, and, of course, Spenser's complex sense of honor. Atkins adds his own touch in the form of complex plots with genuine mysteries at their center."-- Booklist Praise for Ace Atkins and the Spenser Series "Handpicked by the Parker estate to be the keeper of the flame for the Spenser franchise, award-winning author Ace Atkins rises flawlessly to the occasion. In addition to the signature dialogue, all the familiars are fully resurrected: Susan, the sexy shrink; Pearl, the wonder dog; Hawk, the wonder sidekick; good cop Quirk, and, of course, Spenser himself, that consummate knight errant for the twenty-first century."-- Kirkus Reviews "It's a feat when a writer creates characters who live and breathe on the page and make readers care and keep coming back for more. To manage that with someone else's characters, let alone with an icon like Spenser, is a minor miracle. Ace Atkins pulls it off."-- Chicago Sun-Times "Atkins does a wonderful job with the characters created by Parker."-- Booklist "Classic Spenser--the Spenser of wry wit, tasty food and drinks, hard workouts and lethal confrontations...Once again, Atkins has delivered a thriller that evokes the best of Parker's Spenser series, not least the punchy back-and-forth of the dialogue."--Associated Press "Atkins has done a splendid job of capturing the voice of the late Robert B. Parker."-- Publishers Weekly

Excerpt from Book

1 i''m dying, spenser," the man said. I nodded, not knowing what else to say. An early-summer rain beaded down my office window, dark gray skies hovering over Berkeley and Boylston as afternoon commuters jockeyed for position out of the city. Their taillights cast a red glow on slick streets. Somewhere a prowl car hit a siren, heading off to another crime. The man sitting before me smiled and nodded, his hands withered and liver-spotted. His name was Locke. "How long have we known each other?" Locke said. "A long time." "But oddly never worked together?" "Our work as investigators seldom crossed paths," I said. "Different peepholes." "Recovering stolen art isn''t really your thing." "I''ve done it," I said. "Once. Or twice." "You''re familiar with the theft at the Winthrop?" "Of course," I said. "It made all the papers. And TV. Biggest theft in Boston history." "Biggest art theft ever," he said. "Next year will mark twenty years. I''ve chased those paintings most of that time, traveling from Dorchester to Denmark with not so much as an inkling of where they ended up. It''s beyond frustrating. Maddening, really. And now, well, with things the way they are-" "One was a Picasso?" "That was the least valuable of the three," he said. "Picasso, Goya. But the prize of the Winthrop was also stolen, the El Greco. The Gentleman in Black. Are you familiar with the painting?" "Some," I said. "I recall seeing it years ago. When I was young." "When we were both young," Locke said. He smiled and reached into his double-breasted suit jacket and pulled out a slick photocopy of a very serious-looking dude with a pointy black beard. The man wore a high-necked lacy shirt and a heavy black cloak. His eyes were very black and humorless. "He looks like a guy who used to kick field goals for the Detroit Lions," I said. "Benny Ricardo." "The subject is reputed to be Juan de Silva y Ribera, third marquis of Montemayor and the warden of the Alc++zar of Toledo." "Oh," I said. "Him." "El Greco painted him in 1597," he said. "Well before the Pilgrims set foot in America. Long regarded as unimportant by the romantics, El Greco found new appreciation and fame among the impressionists and surrealists. Picasso in particular was a great admirer of El Greco. You see the distorted length of the man''s neck, the off-kilter perspective?" "Some have noted my own perspective is off-kilter," I said. "Although I admit to having more of an affinity for the Dutch Masters." "I spotted your Vermeer prints when I walked in," he said. "You also have many fans at the Hammond. You helped recover, what was it? Lady with a Finch." I nodded and offered him something to drink. It was that time of the day when I could bend to either whiskey or coffee. Locke, being a man of the arts, approved of the whiskey. I pulled out a bottle of Bushmills Black gifted to me by Martin Quirk and found two clean coffee mugs left to dry upside down beside the sink. "Without being trite, that painting you recovered from the Hammond is nothing but a Rembrandt footnote," he said. "This work is something altogether different. A cornerstone of Spanish and art history." "How much?" "One can''t always put a price on the priceless," he said. "But somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty or seventy million." Like any serious art connoisseur, I gave a low whistle. "I wanted to recover the piece myself," he said. "But now? I have to understand the realities of my situation." "I''m very sorry." "And I''m sorry to march into your office with such maudlin conversation," Locke said. "But my doctor told me to get my affairs in order, whatever the hell that means. I figured this was the first order, have someone to pass along my files, endless notes, and potential leads. I grew too old for this case two years ago. The Winthrop continues to push, with the anniversary coming up next week and these letters arriving every other week." "Letters?" "Yes," Locke said, sipping the whiskey. "Not really ransom notes. But from someone who claims to have knowledge of the theft." "Do you think they''re real?" "Perhaps," Locke said. "The letters were very specific about details of the theft. The writer was also aware of an arcane detail of the painting. El Greco himself had written on the back of the canvas in his native Greek." "Have they asked for money?" "No," Locke said. "No demands have been made. And no means of communication has been offered. The letters have been addressed to the museum''s director, Marjorie Ward Phillips. Have you and Susan ever met Marjorie at a fund-raiser?" I shook my head and picked up the coffee mug. The mug advertised Kane''s Donuts in Saugus, a place I considered to have made many fine works of art. "Marjorie is a determined, if altogether unpleasant, person," Locke said. "Her staff calls her Large Marj." "A big personality?" "How do I put this?" he said. "She has an ass the size of a steer and the disposition of a recently castrated bull." "Lovely," I said. "Can''t wait to meet her." "Oh, she''ll charm you," Locke said, chuckling. "At first. There will be martinis and long talks of art''s value to the city of Boston. But don''t ever disagree with her. Or challenge her in front of the board. Once that''s done, you will be visited by the hatred of a thousand suns." "If you''re trying to talk me into this," I said. "You''re failing miserably." "You must take this case, Spenser," Locke said. "You must. If not, they''ve threatened to offer the contract to this British investigator. A young man from London who, recent successes aside, has all the earmarks of a four-flusher." "At the moment, I''m working two separate cases," I said. "Did I mention the five-million-dollar reward, plus covering your daily rate and all expenses?" I smiled and turned over my hands, offering my palms. "Perhaps I could find time to meet with Large Marj." "I know you''re joking," he said. "But for God''s sake, don''t let her ever hear you say that." "Hatred of a thousand suns?" "And then some." Locke smiled, straightening in his chair, and buttoned the top button of his jacket. Both eyes stared at me, one slightly off and one roaming my face with deep sadness and intelligence. His face sagged, his blue eyes drained of much color and life. "It might be months," he said. "But probably weeks. I have a driver. He''s waiting for me downstairs now." "May I help you out?" "First," he said. "Will you accept an old man''s dying wish?" "Damn, Locke," I said. "You do go for a hard sell." "I don''t have time to mince words," he said. "I really think they''re onto something now. And the last thing the museum needs is an amateur, unfamiliar to Boston, skulking about. This other detective is of the worst sort. He''s trying to charm the board into letting him take the case. But they need someone who understands thuggery and violence well beyond red-velvet walls." "I should add that to my business card." Locke laughed and reached for the Irish whiskey. He drained it quickly and replaced the mug on my desk. "Why did you stay on this long if you felt like it was hopeless?" Locke smiled. "There''s something almost mystical about this painting," he said. "Believe me, you''ll see. Maybe a way of touching the past. We are all just passing through this world. We''ll be gone soon enough. But this painting has remained for more than five hundred years. Perhaps recovering it would have been my shot at immortality?" I nodded. I refilled our glasses. "To immortality." We sat and drank the rest of the whiskey in silence. After a bit, he stood, shook my hand, and without a word walked out the door. 2 large marj?" susan said. "Do you know her?" "I''ve met Marjorie Ward Phillips from the Winthrop," she said. "But I''ve never heard her called that horrible name." Susan and I stood at my kitchen island in my Navy Yard condo as I stirred a fork in my cast-iron skillet simmering with kale, onions, and hickory-smoked bacon. The sprawling brick building had once been a dockside warehouse with big picture windows looking onto the harbor and across to Boston. Pearl snuggled in a ball on the couch as the rain continued in the night. Every few minutes, she''d lift her head and sniff for the bacon scent. "I understand the nickname is only whispered by museum staff." "I don''t know her all that well," Susan said. "We''ve met socially. She gives to both Community Servings and Jumpstart. As far as I know, she is both well-liked and respected in the art scene. She seems like a perfectly lovely woman." "Tomorrow morning, I meet with her and the head of the museum board," I said. "A man named Topper." "Oh, no." "Yeah," I said. "It''s going to be hard not to ask." "If he''s being haunted by the ghosts of Cary Grant and Constance Bennett?" I saluted her with my Sam Adams. "What could possibly go wrong?" "Hard to turn down Locke." "How bad?" "The worst," I said. "He said it could be weeks. Months at best." "God." I added a bit of

Details