Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  “You don’t remember anything else that she might have said?”

  Finn closed his eyes for a moment and tried to visualize their last conversation. The few shards of memory that pierced his consciousness were blurry and ill-defined. He tried to focus on the sound of Natalie’s voice during their last conversation, but it was no use; he’d felt so dizzy at the time that he’d effectively tuned her out while he tried to compose himself. He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, I really can’t remember anything more.”

  He was sorry, too. He wanted badly to help for Natalie’s sake, but also for Flaherty’s. He liked this woman.

  She wasn’t ready to let it drop, though. “Why did she bring the subject up that last night, do you think?” she asked.

  Finn felt his face turn red as he remembered. The topic had come up when he’d made a pass at her and she was fending him off. It was humiliating, and he had no intention of reliving the moment in front of this beautiful police detective. “I’m not sure,” he lied.

  “Did it come up in conversation?” she asked.

  “It must have.” He shrugged evasively. “I just don’t remember.” He looked away, and she noticed how uncomfortable he was.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there, Finn?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, but he was unable to meet her eyes.

  She looked at him as they sat in prolonged silence.

  “You two were lovers,” she said. It came quick and sharp, and it took Finn by surprise, slicing through his facade. It came from Flaherty as a statement, not a question, and he knew that denial was unrealistic.

  He looked her straight in the eyes. “We were together for a short time,” he said. He could sense her tension from across the table, and he took a deep breath. “It was a couple of years ago, and it never amounted to much.”

  “Just a quick roll in the hay between friends?” Flaherty tested.

  “No,” Finn said quietly. “No, it was much more than that. I cared about her, probably more than I’ve ever cared about any woman.” He looked away again.

  “How long did it last?” she asked.

  Finn shrugged. “Not long. Natalie wasn’t really the type to commit.” He smiled ruefully. “She was great at some things, but intimacy wasn’t one of them.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I suppose, in some ways, we had that in common.”

  “What happened?”

  “I thought there was something more. I mistook a friendship with fringe benefits for something more meaningful. She broke it off as soon as she saw it was something more than lust for me.” He looked straight at Flaherty again and smiled. “She had bigger fish to fry.”

  “Did it hurt?” Flaherty pressed.

  “Sure,” Finn said. “I don’t know how much of it was pride, and how much genuine feeling, but it did hurt at the time. If you really knew Natalie, though, you could hardly be surprised. She was remarkable in so many ways—a great friend, a great lawyer, a great wit—but she had her own agenda. I knew that, as much as I tried to ignore it, and deep down, I wasn’t surprised. And because I wasn’t surprised, we were able to stay friends.”

  Flaherty searched his eyes for some sign of deception, but found only depth and confidence. Suddenly she realized she’d been staring into his eyes for an unusual amount of time, and she averted her gaze, feeling slightly self-conscious.

  “Hey, listen,” he said cheerily, trying to break the mood. “Can I call you something besides ‘Detective’? It makes me feel like either a lawyer or an ex-con.”

  She hesitated. She knew she should avoid getting too close, but the honesty of his responses, and the depths of his feelings, made her feel like she’d already crossed that bridge. “Linda,” she said finally.

  “Linda.” He tried it on for size and liked it. “Linda, why are you asking me all these questions? If Little Jack killed Natalie, then it was a random killing, right? What does it matter who she was dating or had dated in the past?”

  “We don’t know for sure that she was killed by Little Jack.”

  “Is there anything that makes you believe she wasn’t?”

  “No,” she lied. “But we have to chase down every lead and angle.”

  He studied her face as she talked. She was pretty, and he liked her, but he wasn’t convinced she was telling him everything. “Be honest. Something has happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I can’t discuss the investigation. You were a defense lawyer once, you know that.”

  “Ah, so you’ve done a background check on me,” he said, smiling. “C’mon, Linda. I was her friend, I deserve to know.”

  She looked long and hard at him. He was good-looking, she couldn’t deny that, but then looks had never really attracted her before. Looks could never make her feel the way she was feeling. There was something more; something in the eyes. She decided to trust her instincts. “Look, Finn, you know I can’t give you any specifics. All I’ll say is that there are some differences about Natalie’s killing that make it inconsistent with the others.”

  “What differences?”

  “I’ve already said more than I should have, and you know it.”

  “All I know is that Natalie is dead, and you want my help in figuring out who killed her, but you aren’t willing to share information with me.”

  “Nice try, but there’s nothing I can do, so you might as well drop it.”

  Finn sighed. “Fine, I’ll drop it.” He looked at her again. “On one condition.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “What?”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ISHOULD NEVER HAVE HAD WINE, she thought as they walked along Devonshire Street up toward Chinatown. But then she’d done a lot of things that evening that weren’t wise. Like ordering the twelve-ounce porterhouse.

  “How can you possibly look this good when you eat like that?” he joked.

  “I don’t really look that good, you’ve just been drinking,” she quipped. He had been drinking, but not to excess. No, it was more that he seemed enchanted. It had been a long time since she’d felt that from a man. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t normally get to eat like this on a lieutenant’s salary.”

  “You mean I’m the only guy willing to take you out?”

  “You didn’t take me out,” she corrected him. “I’m conducting an investigation.”

  “Good, then I still have our first date to look forward to.” With that, he took her hand in his as they walked. It should have seemed such an odd gesture, clumsy and adolescent, but it didn’t. It felt wonderful, and she hated how good it felt.

  Damn you, Kozlowski, she thought as Finn’s light conversation blurred into the rhythm of their footsteps. She might not have noticed her attraction to Finn if Kozlowski hadn’t made a point of bringing it to her attention. Now it hung like a fog on her brain, mixing with the wine and making her extremities tingle.

  “You’re not listening to me, are you?” Finn’s voice penetrated her thoughts.

  “No, I am,” she protested. “You were talking about growing up in Charlestown.”

  “I’ve been talking about myself all evening, haven’t I?” There was disappointment in his voice. “I’m sorry, I hate it when people do that. I’m not normally so self-absorbed.”

  Flaherty hated when men did that, too; rambled on about themselves in an effort to impress her. This had been different, though. It didn’t seem like Finn had tried to impress, but to connect. The rhythm of his voice had been easy, lacking the self-consciousness that so often accompanied other men’s conversations. “You weren’t that bad,” she reassured. “Besides, you’ve led a more interesting life than most.” He had, too. The stories of Finn’s childhood sounded like something out of a Dickens novel, only without the charm. She couldn’t imagine growing up without any family, without anyone to care for her, subject to the whims of the state and the cruelties of foster parents who all too often were more focuse
d on the stipends provided by the government than on the well-being of their vulnerable charges. She was sure she would never have survived.

  Finn had survived, though; more than that, he’d overcome, and kept his sense of humor to boot. So many men Flaherty knew defined themselves in shallow terms and were driven by cardboard notions of success—the perfect job, the perfect wife, the perfect car. She’d observed that firsthand long ago in her ex-husband, and the marriage had ended in less than six months. A fellow detective, he had been unable to see beyond her role as wife-as-possession, and his demands had strangled their relationship.

  Flaherty saw none of that in Finn. He was driven to succeed, that much was clear, but there was also an even stronger need to connect—to someone or something—that was hiding under the surface.

  “I want to learn more about you, though,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t have told you anything anyway.” She pointed at a building up ahead. “Here we are,” she said. They were walking toward an old converted warehouse in the leather district, just outside of Chinatown. “This is home.”

  Finn looked up at the dark brick building, with its hinged windows hanging high on the floors. “Nice place,” he said.

  “It’s a loft,” she explained. “I bought it before lofts were trendy, so it was affordable. And the neighborhood”—she looked around the narrow street, taking note of the trash piled on the curbsides awaiting the morning garbage trucks—“well, it’s getting better, but let’s just say I was an urban pioneer when I moved in.”

  “I like it,” Finn said. He was looking at her when he said it, though, not at the building.

  “Listen, thanks for dinner, and it was nice of you to walk me home, although it wasn’t really necessary,” she said quickly, patting her gun for emphasis. Her heart was racing, and she needed to get control of the situation fast.

  “So that’s it, huh?” Finn said, smiling. “You’re just going to use me up for some dinner and information, then dump me on the sidewalk with the rest of the garbage?”

  “Well, let’s face it, you weren’t able to give me any decent information,” she pointed out. “Now, if you’d offered something really good—something I might be able to use—well, we’d probably already be upstairs between the sheets.” She’d meant to keep it light, but the mention of the two of them in bed together, even in jest, made her blush. She was glad it was dark outside so he couldn’t see her turning crimson.

  He seemed taken with the idea as well. He cocked his head to the side. “With an incentive like that, I’ll try harder next time.” He moved closer slowly, almost imperceptibly, and she felt her entire body tense. Then, as he was leaning in, he stopped. A thought seemed to crinkle his forehead. “There was something else, now that you mention it.”

  “Oh, right,” she mocked, but he’d pulled away from her and was concentrating hard, trying to kick something free in his brain.

  “No, I’m serious. Natalie said at one point that she couldn’t tell me who the older guy was, even if she wanted, but that she was learning a lot from him.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “I don’t know. God, this is frustrating. She said something else about him, but I wasn’t paying attention. For some reason, though, I got the feeling he was a political mover and shaker— connected in some important way.”

  Flaherty frowned. “Who was it, do you think?”

  Finn was staring off into space, trying to remember more, but there was nothing else. “I have no idea,” he said at last. “Natalie certainly knew a lot of politically connected people from her days at the Justice Department, working on the Whitey Bulger case. She was also involved in last year’s mayoral campaign, helping to get Tribinio elected, and she spent a bunch of time wining and dining with the party honchos.” He searched his memory again. “I don’t know who else. We traveled in different social circles, so it could be just about anyone.”

  Flaherty thought hard for a moment. “Can you come up with a list of some of the connected people you think she dealt with?”

  “Sure, I can have that for you in a day or two.”

  “Great, that would really be helpful.”

  Finn smiled wickedly. “Really?” he said. “Didn’t you say that if I gave you something useful we’d be upstairs between the sheets?” They were close to each other again now. It took Flaherty by surprise, and she could feel the electricity running through her. She wanted him, she realized. The closer together they came, the stronger the feeling was, until she was literally fighting to control the moment.

  Their lips were only inches apart when she managed to speak. “You haven’t given me the information yet,” she protested, but her voice was breathy and desperate.

  And then they were kissing. Finn leaned in and their lips brushed together; soft at first, his closed mouth moving over hers, tickling just the outer edge. Her lips parted on their own, without his prodding, and then they were locked in a passionate embrace; hands and tongues exploring desperately for a moment; then two; then three; until she could feel herself gasping for breath.

  He pulled away from her finally, and they looked at each other, embarrassed, surprised, and excited. She didn’t know what to say, which was unusual for her. Then he smiled and whispered into her ear, “I’ll get you that list as soon as I can.”

  He kissed her cheek and backed away, still looking at her, and still smiling. Say something, she told herself. Ask him to stay, a part of her screamed. But she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t know if it was the circumstances of how they met, or her Catholic upbringing, or some hidden cop’s instinct, but she knew she wouldn’t ask him to stay. Instead, she stood there in silence, watching him pull away, until he waved and turned around, heading up the street and around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE LITTLE HOUSE on Cypher Street was dark. Night had closed in around it softly, as if to avoid stirring the odd proclivities of its inhabitant. Cloistered in the windowless basement, he was oblivious to the dying of the light as he sat rocking on a small scrap of cloth in the far corner of the antiseptic room. In front of him, the makeshift shrine glowed with candles, seven in all. Six were placed in front of large jars, their contents deep red, surrounded by baubles and trinkets and locks of hair as talismans to guard against the souls of their former owners. The seventh candle sat apart, next to an open jar on a lonely corner of the shelf, its heat mixing with the formaldehyde fumes that wafted up from the jar, turning the air sickly sweet.

  Rocking, always rocking, he repeated the verse like a mantra, blurring the words into one another until he was no longer speaking in a recognizable language, but in a gibberish; like an ancient tongue, secret and powerful.

  The waters you saw where the whore sits

  are people, multitudes, nations, and languages.

  The beast and ten horns you saw shall hate the whore.

  They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.

  They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …

  They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …

  Theywilleatherfleshandburnherwithfiretheywilleather

  fleshandburnherwithfiretheywilleatherfleshandburn

  herwithfiretheywilleatherfleshandburnherwithfire …

  He’d settled his mind—or God had. That was what he liked to believe. It was time for another sacrifice. This was the time he most enjoyed, the anticipation of divine intervention—the feeling that he no longer controlled his actions, that they were guided by a force far greater than his own will. The abdication of control gave him a warm, protected feeling. It wasn’t heaven, he knew, but that reward would come in time. And for now, this was the closest thing to heaven he could imagine. Sometimes, when he was in these trances, he could close his eyes and almost touch his parents. They were beaming at him with pride. Pride and acceptance; those two gifts he’d sought and been denied. They were his now.

  When he was finished with his
meditation, he left the candles burning and headed upstairs to get changed. The fear that gripped the city—the fear he’d created—made his task more difficult. The streetwalkers were wary. Many had taken to carrying weapons, or were staying off the streets entirely. He needed a new plan, and he’d spent days perfecting it.

  There were places he’d researched on the Internet where prostitutes gathered in groups, looking to tempt men’s weakness; bars that catered to ugly, discreet meetings and vile, no-strings-attached affairs. He’d use them as his hunting ground. It was thrilling to begin moving freely in public, fulfilling his duty in plain view of a city unaware of the approaching apocalypse.

  Of course, hunting in bars meant he’d have to blend in. That had never been easy, and he’d spent a week working hard to look normal. The perversity of the need almost excited him. Almost.

  They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.

  They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …

  They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked.

  They will eat her flesh and burn her with fire …

  As he walked upstairs, he was humming. As a child, he’d hummed when he was most happy.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  STONE NOTICED HIM almost immediately. He was in his thirties, short, with sandy brown hair that was thinning badly on top. In an attempt to make his hair look thicker, he’d grown it long in back and then brushed it forward over the bald spot on top. The effect was the opposite of his intent. He looked like the victim of some late-night infomercial.

  Under normal circumstances, Stone wouldn’t have given him a second look, but after losing the man who’d attacked the hooker a week before, he’d redoubled his efforts to scrutinize everyone at the Kiss Club. Mr. Infomercial caught his attention on the second pass.

  The guy was sitting alone at a small table against the wall, his head turning on a swivel, taking everything in. He looked out of place with his forward-swept hair and his starched white shirt buttoned all the way to the collar, tight around his neck. But it was the look in his eyes that really startled Stone. The man watched each of the working girls strut by him with a cold, hard stare. Most of the men at the bar watched the women; there was nothing unusual about that. Men leered at their feminine parts with hunger. The stranger’s glare was different, though. There was no heat to it, no yearning. It was judgmental and calculating, as though he were meting out silent justice.