by David Hosp
“Hey, I know that, Nat. I was just kidding around.”
She hesitated. “I’m seeing someone else now.”
He looked away from her, knowing he wouldn’t react well to the news. “That’s great,” he said, realizing how forced the words seemed. “Really, I’m happy for you. Who’s the lucky guy?” As soon as the question left his lips he regretted asking. It was bad enough she was seeing someone else; he realized he didn’t really want to know the details.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. He’s older,” she said, “and there are complications. But he’s been really good for me, teaching me a lot.” She continued talking, but Finn was no longer listening. The drinks and his mortification caught up with him quickly, and his light-headedness quickly turned to nausea. He tried to focus on the television above the bar, just to get his bearings, but it was no use, he had to get out of there. As she continued talking, he pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the table.
“What are you doing?” she asked, interrupting her monologue.
“Listen, Nat, I’m sorry, but I’m feeling a little under the weather. The tequila’s hitting me a little harder than I thought it would,” Finn responded. “This should cover our drinks, and then some.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I know, I feel bad about it, but I’ve really got to head out. I guess I just can’t drink the way I used to when we … when I was younger.”
“But I have something I need to talk to you about,” Natalie protested. “I really need your help. That was the reason I asked you to meet me tonight.”
Finn forced a laugh. “You mean it wasn’t just for the pleasure of my company?” He heard his voice, and it sounded petty and weak. He had to get out of there before she lost all respect for him. He pasted a smile on his face and patted her on the shoulder clumsily. “I really am sorry, but I feel like shit. Let’s do this another time—maybe we can get together for lunch early next week, okay?” She didn’t respond, but just looked up at him with an expression of hurt that made him want to take her in his arms. He had to leave. “Okay then, I’ll see you Monday.”
As he walked out the front door, he turned to look at her, and she flashed him a look of anger that settled in his memory even through the alcohol. He knew he’d have trouble sleeping well again until he made things right between them. After all, in spite of their problems, they were still good friends.
That she would in fact forgive him was not a question in his mind. She’d understand, he knew. That was the thing about their relationship; strained though it was at times, they understood each other. Finn knew he’d never have made it this far in the rarefied environs of Howery, Black if he hadn’t had Natalie Caldwell to turn to. She’d have to forgive him.
Shaking himself free from the memories of Friday night, Finn picked up the phone and dialed her extension. The phone rang four times before the automated voice-mail system picked up. He put the phone back down. No point leaving her a message. He’d catch her when she got in. An apology might go over better in person anyway.
He turned back toward the window and looked out over the harbor again. From his vantage he could see police lines set up near the edge of the rusted Northern Avenue Bridge, close to the Federal Courthouse, where he spent much of his time. That must be where they found Little Jack’s latest victim. Like everyone else in Boston, he’d followed the investigation for the past few months. With the infamous Red Sox curse no longer holding his attention, the saga of murder was one of the few entertainments left in the newspapers. He looked down on the few police officers that were still at the scene, covering every inch of the lot as though they might actually find something useful. Poor bastards.
He took a deep breath as he surveyed the rest of the harbor and the islands that lay to the south, running their way down toward the tony shoreline suburbs and beyond to Cape Cod. Yeah, things were about as good as they could get from up here on the forty-fourth floor. He just had to make it through the next year or so, then he could relax a little. He raised his arms in a stretch, smiling as he did.
Then he pulled out the razor and shaving cream from his top desk drawer and padded down to the men’s room.
Chapter Four
“HIS TASTE HAS GOTTEN BETTER,” said Farmalant.
Flaherty was examining the pile of clothes and personal effects on the table in the corner of the room and wasn’t listening. “What?” she asked.
“Little Jack,” he said. “His taste in prostitutes has gotten better. The first six we had in here were in pretty ragged shape— even before he got to them. Malnourished, needle tracks up the arms, scars, the works. But this one’s a real beauty. Clean, pretty, nice musculature. Maybe he figures that, with his new fame, he can afford call girls instead of streetwalkers?”
Flaherty couldn’t tell whether Farmalant was kidding, but she made a mental note to have someone do a quick check of the different escort services around the city.
“She’s even got expensive clothes,” Farmalant pointed out, nodding at the table in front of Flaherty.
It was true; Flaherty had already noticed it. The leather skirt she’d been wearing was from Giordano’s, a chic fashion boutique on Newbury Street. The matching leather jacket didn’t have a store label, but it was a Ferragamo design. Even the lingerie, which made up the rest of the outfit, was high-quality: stockings and a garter belt from Victoria’s Secret, and a satin bustier from Saks. There were no panties, Flaherty noticed without surprise.
“Anything come in with her besides the clothes?” she asked.
“That’s pretty much it,” Farmalant replied. “No wallet, no credit cards, no purse. Just the pack of matches we found in her jacket pocket over there.”
Flaherty picked up the matches lying on the corner of the table. The cover was entirely black except for a bright red imprint of a lipstick kiss emblazoned in the middle.
“The Kiss Club,” Flaherty said.
“What?”
“The matches. They’re from the Kiss Club in the leather district. It’s a pickup joint owned by one of Whitey Bulger’s old crew. Sleazy, but in an upscale sort of way. It’s very popular with high-end hookers looking for out-of-towners with some money to spend. It draws in the local scumbags, but it also gets some of the yuppies looking for a night out on the wild side.”
“Sounds pretty sketchy. I’m surprised you’d turn a blind eye to someplace like that, Detective. That doesn’t seem like your style.”
Flaherty shrugged. “Not my call. I work homicide, not vice. Besides, I think people are afraid of who we might find in there if we ever raided the place.”
Farmalant nodded and turned back toward the autopsy table. He flipped the switch on the microphone that hung around his neck to record his observations.
“The deceased is a female, Caucasian, approximately twenty-eight to thirty-five years old. Body length has been recorded at sixty-eight and a quarter inches; weight before incision is one hundred and twenty-two pounds, seven ounces. Fingerprints have been taken, as have external prelims. Judging from the state of rigor and the level of decomposition at the time the body was found, the time of death has been estimated between one and four a.m. on Saturday morning.
“The deceased has a large incision in her chest and abdomen, running from the top of her sternum to approximately two inches above her navel. There’s significant lividity at the edges of the wound at the bottom, much less at the top. It’s apparent that the sternum has been cleaved and the rib cage opened. The wound has been partially sewn together with what appears to be either a light fishing line or a heavy surgical suture. I’m proceeding to open the stitches, and I’m spreading the rib cage to examine the chest cavity.
“There’s significant surface damage to both lungs, as well as to the trachea. The damage appears to have been caused by a straight blade with a fine edge, possibly a surgical scalpel.”
Farmalant switched off his microphone. “He’s losing his p
atience,” he said to Flaherty.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s never been what I would consider a skilled surgeon. I mean, I wouldn’t want him operating on me. But he’s always shown a reasonable amount of proficiency. He’s known what he’s after, and where to get it. In the past there’s been relatively little damage to the other organs. This is a hatchet job by comparison.”
“You think he may have rushed this one?”
“It’s possible. But we still haven’t established that this woman’s killer is in fact Little Jack.” He turned the microphone back on. “I’m now separating the lungs to reveal the thoracic cavity.” He paused as he ran his hands around the insides of the body. “There’s a defined severance of the aorta at approximately one-quarter inch. There’s a similar severance of the pulmonary artery. There’s significant arterial and tissue damage to the surrounding area.” He paused again and looked at Flaherty. “The deceased’s heart has been completely removed.”
“Little Jack,” Flaherty said under her breath.
“Little Jack,” Farmalant repeated. He didn’t realize his microphone was still on.
Back in Farmalant’s office, Flaherty sat in one of the doctor’s matching leather chairs. He’d clearly bought these himself, she thought. The city didn’t spring for such luxuries.
“I thought we might be dealing with a copycat when I saw the damage to the lungs,” Farmalant was saying. “It just didn’t seem like Little Jack’s work.” He said it casually enough, but to Flaherty it still felt like a sharp jab.
“We haven’t told the press about the missing hearts, though. So how could a copycat have known what to mimic?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. Still …”
“If somebody had leaked something like that, it would have been in every newspaper in Boston. We haven’t even told everyone on the task force. That’s on a need-to-know basis. It’s hard to see how the information about the hearts could have gotten out when we’re even keeping it from our own guys.” Flaherty leaned back and looked at the ceiling. The truth was, she didn’t want to consider the possibility that they had a copy-cat on the loose. That would mean they had two serial killers to catch. The thought was more than she could bear.
“You’re probably right,” the coroner admitted. He said it without conviction, though.
“I’ve gotta get this guy. Did you see anything in there that might give us some direction?”
“Not really. Just what we already know. We’re almost certainly dealing with a white male in his twenties or thirties. All of the victims have been prostitutes, so there may be some sort of moral or retributive motive. And the skillful cutting of the previous six victims suggests it’s someone with at least some medical training. Finally, given the location where the bodies have been found, it’s likely our boy lives or works either in downtown Boston or in Southie.”
“Thanks,” Flaherty said. “You just summarized my last memo.”
“Like I said, I don’t have anything you don’t already know.”
Just then the door to Farmalant’s office banged open. Detective Tom Kozlowski stood at the threshold. He was short and squat, but powerfully built. It looked for a moment like he wasn’t going to get his shoulders through. As usual, his graying hair was mussed and his collar was crooked. A thick, ugly scar ran from the corner of his left eye halfway down his cheek. He was an old-school cop in every way, and he and Flaherty had been partners for three years. His skill at the job kept him on the force, but his temperament kept him from advancing. Since they’d been partnered together, Flaherty had been promoted twice, while Kozlowski had remained a detective sergeant.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly from four decades of cigarettes. He seemed tired in that immovable sort of way that comes only after cops reach twenty years on the force and have locked in their pensions. It gives them a certain resistance to the pressures that bear down on them on a daily basis. Kozlowski had passed his twenty years more than half a decade ago. “I had the tech guys put a rush on Jane Doe’s fingerprints.”
“Did we get lucky?” Flaherty was leaning forward in the plush leather chair now.
“Sort of. I guess it depends on your point of view.”
“Let me guess,” the medical examiner interrupted. “Numerous arrests for solicitation? Maybe one or two for indecent exposure or disturbing the peace, right?”
“Close, but not quite, Doc.” Kozlowski looked at Flaherty, hesitant to reveal his information in front of Farmalant, who wasn’t technically on the task force.
“Well?” Flaherty prodded.
“Actually, she was in the FBI database.”
“FBI?” Farmalant raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” Kozlowski nodded grimly. “Turns out she was once a federal prosecutor.”
“She was what?” Flaherty almost fell out of the comfortable leather chair.
Kozlowski nodded. “Unless the system is completely screwed up, the lady lying on that table is former assistant United States attorney Natalie J. Caldwell.”
Flaherty took a deep breath, blowing it out through puffed cheeks in a massive sigh. “Aw shit,” she said finally.
“Yeah,” Kozlowski agreed. “Shit.”
Chapter Five
FINN HAD NO IDEA where the day had gone. He’d started reading deposition transcripts in one of his cases, and by the time he looked up it was after three. I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun, he thought with a note of sarcasm. Sadly, there was nothing fun about what he was reading. There, in front of his eyes, was the testimony that would likely send one of the firm’s clients to jail. It was a securities fraud case, and the firm was representing one of the principals at a Fortune 500 company, the stock value of which had fallen eighty-five percent in five months. The particular executive they were representing, Paul Miller, had gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar—up to his elbow, actually—trading on insider information as his company crashed around his feet.
Rich people baffled Finn. Miller had stashed away tens of millions of dollars already, and management had created enough golden parachutes for everyone in the upper echelons. Even if the company flew straight into the ground, Miller was sure to land gently in the middle of his ten-acre estate on Martha’s Vineyard, where he could spend the rest of his days living in luxury off the interest in his holdings. Apparently, that hadn’t been enough. When Miller saw the writing on the wall, he began dumping his company holdings. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also shorting the stock, making millions by betting that the company’s stock would go down. It wasn’t just criminal; it was criminally stupid. Finn shook his head. How could he have possibly thought he wouldn’t get caught? Even the street thugs Finn once represented as a public defender would have laughed at the man’s idiocy.
Ah well, Finn sighed. This was what he’d signed up for when he came to play in the big leagues. Regular folks couldn’t afford the fees that generated his salary. Not even the innocent ones—particularly not the innocent ones. Only the fabulously wealthy could afford to break the law, secure in the knowledge that the brilliant legal minds at Howery, Black & Longbothum, PC, would work tirelessly to protect them from any hint of justice.
And Finn and his colleagues would probably get Miller off in the end. They’d cut a deal with the Securities and Exchange Commission and the feds, and their guy would walk with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Afterward, the partners would marvel at Finn’s brilliance as they lunched at Hamersley’s or Locke-Ober, and Finn’s salary would continue to grow. As hard as it was to stomach, he knew there were worse ways to make a living.
The buzzer on his phone brought him out of his trance. He hit the intercom button. “What is it, Nancy?”
“There are two people out here who want to talk to you.” His secretary lowered her voice to a whisper. “They have badges,” she said quietly.
“Badges?”
“Yes.”
“
What do they want?”
“All they’ll tell me is that they want to speak with you.”
“All right, you can bring them in, but buzz me in five minutes and pretend you’re reminding me about a meeting.”
Badges. For a moment, Finn considered the possibility that the folks from the SEC were ready to pitch a settlement in the Miller case, but he was on good terms with Sarah Golden, the lead prosecutor, and she would have called to set up a meeting.
As a lawyer, he shouldn’t have been bothered by badges. He certainly had dealt with the police all the time when he was in the Public Defender’s office, and he should have gotten over his fear of the law. But badges still reminded him of some of the darker moments of his youth, before he gained control of his life. He took a deep breath and straightened his tie as Nancy brought the two badges in.
Finn’s first reaction was one of shock. The woman who followed Nancy through the door was stunning. She had shoulder-length dark hair, brushed back neatly in a simple but stylish manner, and the face and figure of a model. It made him reevaluate his notion of what it meant to be one of Boston’s Finest. For just a moment he let himself believe this might be a pleasant experience.
Then he noticed the Neanderthal behind her. He was much more typical, Finn thought grimly. He was shorter than Finn, but much thicker—particularly through the shoulders and chest. Finn estimated him to be at least ten years older, but suspected that it had been a hard decade—the kind that produces a particularly hard man. The man gave the impression of being someone you wouldn’t want to mess with.
“Mr. Finn?” Detective Flaherty said. She was smiling, but her voice contained a strange lilt that sounded almost like sympathy. It unnerved Finn. “My name is Lieutenant Linda Flaherty with the Boston Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Tom Kozlowski. We’d like to take a moment of your time, if that’s all right?”