by David Hosp
Finn kept silent as he considered the feelings he sometimes had about his own profession. The irony was not lost on him.
“You brought this on yourself,” Flaherty continued, faced with his silence. She was standing at the window looking out at the vast expanse of the southern Massachusetts shoreline that receded from Boston Harbor.
“That’s bullshit,” Finn shot back. “And what’s worse is, you know it’s bullshit. You want some sympathy? Fine. But you’ve looked into my eyes, and you should know in your heart that I didn’t do this.” He looked at Flaherty, and he could see she believed he was innocent. She knew he’d seen it, and she turned away. The only question was: did she believe it because it made sense, or did she believe it merely because she wanted to?
“So you can tell me you’re just doing your job, and I’ll accept that. But don’t tell me I brought this on myself. A few weeks ago, I was just cranking through my life minding my own business. I might not be perfect, but I most certainly didn’t bring this load of crap down on my own head.”
Flaherty had no response. She wanted to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come.
Finn pulled his hand out of one of the large cardboard boxes. “I found it,” he said.
Flaherty looked down and saw that Finn was holding a picture frame. “She had a little wall of fame where she hung pictures of herself with all of the celebrities she knew,” he explained.
He turned the frame around so Flaherty could see it. It startled her. She’d never seen a picture of Natalie Caldwell when she was alive, and while she knew Natalie had been a beautiful woman, she didn’t realize how beautiful. She was standing there flashing a perfect ivory-white smile, her blonde hair falling to her shoulders, and those eyes—the eyes that Flaherty had first seen staring up at her from below the surface of Boston Harbor—leapt off the glossy picture and dragged Flaherty in.
She was so mesmerized by the image of the living Natalie Caldwell that it took a moment for her to notice the person standing next to her in the picture. There, with his arm around her shoulder, a wide, goofy grin on his face, and his chest puffed out like a robin in springtime, was William H. Clarke, governor of Massachusetts. There was also an inscription in black felt-tip pen across the picture’s bottom. It read: Natalie, Thanks for all of your help on the Committee. We couldn’t have done it without you! Bill.
“He lied,” Flaherty said simply.
“I know,” said Finn. “And I told the truth.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TIGH MCCLUEN SAT IN his usual spot on the stack of crates in the warehouse in Southie. The graying wood creaked under the weight of his enormous frame, groaning with every slight shift in his posture. He was tempted to stand, but knew the movement would only draw the ire of the old man as he counted the cash in the envelopes. Tigh wasn’t particularly worried about the old man’s wrath; he’d been earning too well for too long on the organization’s behalf to worry about the minor letdown with respect to Little Jack. Nonetheless, he had no interest in dealing with any more hassles than necessary.
“You’re short,” the old man said once he finished his counting. “Again.”
Tigh nodded. “No more than to be expected with the volume I’m doing at the moment,” he said matter-of-factly. He knew the money wasn’t the cause of the old man’s annoyance.
“I told you to cut the deadbeats loose.”
Tigh’s back stiffened. There was a delicate line between self-assertion and disrespect that he’d learned to walk a long time ago. “I run my end of the business properly,” he said in measured tones.
“Not so well you can’t fuck up,” the old man replied sharply. Here it comes, Tigh thought. “I also told you we needed to find Little Jack before the cops got to him.”
“You did,” Tigh said calmly.
“So what happened? You’re always telling me nothing goes on out there on the street without your knowing about it.”
Now Tigh rose, straightening his back to accent his full height, though careful to keep his arms loose, hanging from his shoulders in a nonthreatening manner. “From where I sit, there wasn’t much chance to catch the man.”
“The cops caught him,” the old man pointed out. “You saying the cops are smarter than you are?”
Tigh shrugged. “Dumb luck,” he said. “If you’ve got nothing but luck to rely on, you’ve got nothing but luck to blame.”
“Another piece of wisdom from the fuckin’ motherland, Tigh?” The old man was angry, but he barely raised his voice.
“What’s this all about, Vin?” Tigh asked. “The sick bastard is off the street and the girls are safe again. What’s it matter if the cops got the guy instead of us?”
The old man shrugged. “The bosses wanted him dead. Apparently he has some information that could hurt some of our people.”
“What sort of information could a psycho like that have on any of our people?”
“How the fuck should I know? You think they tell me anything? All I know is that they were counting on you to take this guy out of the picture, and you fucked it up.” Vinnie’s face was red and his voice had grown louder.
Tigh looked serious as he crossed his arms. “If you’ve got a message to deliver, Vinnie, you’d better be out with it.” He knew how the game was played, and he was ready to call anyone’s bluff when it was necessary.
The old man held up his hands and shook his head. “Hey, no message here, Tigh. Our people may take a hit on this, but no one’s blaming you. At least, not to worry about. I think the bosses are just a little disappointed, that’s all.”
“Oh, they’re disappointed, are they?” Tigh’s voice was more menacing, and there was no mistaking the message that he’d been pushed as far as he was willing to be pushed.
The old man leaned back in his chair. By all rights, he was Tigh’s superior in the organization, but they both knew that meant precious little in the real world. In the real world, Tigh was young and strong and was worth far more to his bosses than the old man. “Don’t worry about it, Tigh. It’s not our problem anymore.” He sighed. “I don’t know what they expected in the first fuckin’ place anyways.”
Tigh was silent, but his glare was penetrating.
“Seriously, Tigh,” Vinnie said. “Forget I mentioned it. You just go back to doing what you do so well, and you’ll never hear another word about it.”
Tigh relented at last, unfolding his arms and sitting back down on the crates. “All right, then.”
The old man pulled on his earlobe and looked at him from across the room. “You may be able to help us on something else, though,” he said.
“If I can, I will,” Tigh said briskly.
“We need some information on a lawyer who lives in Charlestown, right on your turf.”
Tigh’s eyes narrowed. “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Finn,” Vinnie replied. “Scott Finn.” He looked at Tigh closely. “You know him?”
Tigh was silent for a moment as he contemplated his answer carefully. Then he shook his head. “Never heard of him,” he replied.
The old man stared at Tigh briefly, pulling on his earlobe again as he cocked his head to one side. Then he went back to stacking the bills on the card table. “It was worth a shot,” he said.
“Why is the organization interested in this guy?” Tigh asked, sounding nonchalant.
Vinnie shrugged. “Like I said, you think they tell me anything anymore?”
Tigh regarded the old man sitting in the warehouse as he considered how far he could push the questions. Vinnie sat hunched over on a flimsy folding chair at the card table. It was such a pathetic existence to which he’d been relegated, sitting in a cold, stinking shell of a structure, counting out the cash in each greasy envelope that the local captains brought to him every week. Vinnie had once been one of the princes of Boston’s underworld. He had everything then that “the life” was supposed to offer—power, money, women. But the modern world of Boston’s organized crime ha
d passed him by, and now he was stuck skimming what he could off the weekly take.
“Don’t worry about it,” Vinnie said, feeling Tigh’s stare. For a moment, Tigh thought the old man had read his mind, until he realized Vinnie was still talking about Scott Finn.
“Are you sure?” Tigh asked. “I can always look him up.”
“Nah,” Vinnie said. “It’s not your problem anymore. Leave it to the people who know what the score with this guy really is.”
Tigh got up and walked to the door. He looked back at the old man sitting at the card table and saw a picture of his future. “You want anything, Vin?” he asked after a moment. “Lunch or a drink or anything?”
Vinnie looked up at him, pausing in his counting. “Yeah, some smokes and a six-pack’d be good,” he said. Then he went back to his work.
Tigh opened the door. “Okay, Vinnie, I’ll send someone over.”
Vinnie grunted but didn’t look up. Tigh looked at him for another minute—wondering what his own fate would be in another twenty years. Then he turned and walked through the door.
Chapter Thirty-eight
FINN WAS SO RELIEVED to have proved his point to Flaherty about the governor that he almost forgot where he was. The two of them walked out of Natalie’s office and were almost run over by Preston Holland and Nick Williams, who were hurrying down the hallway in front of Natalie’s door.
“Preston!” Finn exclaimed in surprise and embarrassment.
“Finn,” Holland replied in kind. Then he turned and regarded Flaherty admiringly. Finn also noticed Nick looking Flaherty up and down with a remarkable lack of subtlety.
“Preston, I think you’ve met Lieutenant Flaherty, haven’t you?” Finn asked, remembering it had been Holland who had directed Flaherty to him in the first place. “And this is Nick Williams,” he said to Flaherty, “another one of the firm’s partners.”
Holland’s approving assessment of Flaherty turned more respectful with the realization that she was the police officer he’d talked to before.
“Ah, yes, Ms. Flaherty, it’s good to see you again,” Holland said. “I believe congratulations are in order. I understand you caught Natalie’s killer. I can’t tell you how relieved we all are here. It will be a pleasure to see justice carried out in this case.”
“Great detective work,” Williams added ingratiatingly; he was still leering.
“Thank you,” she replied to both men. “There are, obviously, a few loose ends we’re trying to tie up, and Mr. Finn has been very helpful in that regard. We’re appreciative.”
“Yes, Mr. Finn is one of our best people,” Holland said. “If he’s helping you, I’m sure you’ll be provided with whatever you need.” The four of them stood in the narrow hallway looking at one another in awkward silence until it became unbearable. Then Holland said, “Well, we should let you get on your way, I know you’ve got a lot to do. It was a pleasure seeing you again, and good luck with whatever remains of your investigation.”
“Thank you,” Flaherty said. “Yes, I should be going.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Finn said, nodding.
“When you’re done with that, stop by my office, please,” Holland ordered Finn. “I need to talk to you about the Tannery matter.”
“No problem,” Finn replied. Then he and Flaherty headed down the corridor toward the elevator banks as Holland and Williams continued in the other direction.
“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble back there,” Flaherty said as they waited for the elevator to arrive.
“Compared to being accused of murder, any work issues I have are beginning to seem minor.”
“I never accused you of murder, Finn, but we do have to run down every lead on this case, and you’re still the person who seems to have had the most direct contact with the victim.”
“Fine, but you’re going to check out Governor Clarke now, too, right?”
“We’ll run down everyone on your list, but we have to do it carefully. These aren’t the kind of men who’ll allow themselves to be hauled down to the police station on minimal suspicion, you know?”
In contrast to me, he thought.
As the elevator doors closed on Linda, he stood quietly alone in the vestibule trying to understand his new situation. He remained a suspect. Flaherty didn’t seem happy about it, but that didn’t change the fact. More than that, if he couldn’t find someone to provide him with an alibi, he would undoubtedly remain the primary suspect. Finding someone to corroborate his version of where he was when Natalie was killed was going to be difficult, since after several hours of bar-hopping that night he’d gone home and put the covers over his head until well into the next morning. Perhaps he should do a little investigating on his own. He wasn’t sure he could trust the police to clear his name.
“What was that all about?” Preston Holland asked back in his office.
“She was just getting some background info on Natalie. No big deal.”
“I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much left to investigate. Didn’t they catch the man as he was killing another girl?”
Finn acted nonchalant. “Yeah, well, there’s still the sentencing. They’re probably preparing a history on each victim.” He was tempted to ask Holland for his advice, but he worried about preserving Preston’s image of him. “What did you want to see me about?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We’re deposing Amy Tannery in a few days,” Preston replied.
“Yes, I know. I’ve been working up an outline for you to follow in the deposition.”
“Good, but I won’t have to follow it. I want you to take her deposition instead of me.”
Finn was shocked. He’d taken hundreds of depositions before, but never one of the primary witnesses in a case this big. “Really?” he asked. “I’d love to do it,” he added quickly, “but why?”
“I don’t want her to be familiar with me or my style when I cross-examine her at trial. I’ll sit in on the beginning of the deposition to get a feel for her, but this way she won’t be comfortable when we square off.”
“Why not have Nick Williams take it?”
“Nick is a remarkably intelligent analyst, and a fine lawyer,” Preston explained. “But for this task we need someone with trial instincts, and I think yours may be better than his. Besides, he’s working through the documents. His time is better spent there.”
Finn was flattered, and nodded quickly. “Okay, I’ll do it.” For a moment, he forgot his troubles. This was the kind of opportunity he lived for, and he intended to make the most of it.
Holland must have noticed Finn’s thoughts drifting because his voice suddenly took on a hint of paternal concern. “I know the last few weeks have been very hard on you, Finn. I know you and Natalie were close.” He paused and held his subordinate’s eyes. “If this case is too much for you to handle right now, just let me know. But if you’re going to stay on it, I need your mind here, now. We’re in the home stretch, and I can’t do this alone. I need to know you’re one hundred percent committed. Otherwise …”
“I’m committed, Preston,” Finn said. “You’ve got me one hundred and fifty percent on this, and I won’t let you down.”
“Good.” Preston seemed satisfied. “Now clear out of here and let me get back to work.”
Finn closed Holland’s door behind him as he walked out. He was glad to give the case all of his time and effort. This was the kind of legal defense that made legends, and if he handled it right, he’d be a partner by the time it was over. Then he might be able to relax a little. He’d worked so hard for so long that he was determined not to screw this up. But to dive into the case fully, he needed to clear his mind of distractions. And to do that, he still needed to take care of some unfinished business.
Chapter Thirty-nine
WEIDEL’S BLOOD PRESSURE WAS hitting a new high, Flaherty thought as she sat in his office. The captain had called in her and Kozlowski for an update on the Little Jack case assuming he’d be told that the
police portion of the investigation was winding down and the District Attorney’s office was taking over. For nearly two weeks, he’d been in what passed for a “good mood.” From the look on his face, that mood had reached its end.
He sat at his desk with his fists pressed into his forehead, his elbows resting on a stack of overdue paperwork, looking at the two detectives. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Tell me I’m not hearing this,” he seethed.
“I know,” Flaherty said. “We’re disappointed, too.” She hoped to make him an ally through commiseration, making it clear that much of the load was going to be borne by the two detectives.
“Don’t you give me that shit, Lieutenant. You take the biggest arrest we’ve had in this department in two decades and throw it away, and then tell me you’re ‘disappointed’?”
“Now, Captain, we haven’t thrown away the arrest. We’ve still got seven good murder charges on Townsend. He’s not going to walk on those,” Kozlowski pointed out. “It’s just that it doesn’t look like he’s our guy in the Caldwell murder.”
“Anything less than a conviction on every single one of these murders—all eight—is going to turn this thing into a public relations disaster,” Weidel blustered. Flaherty could now see the prominent blue veins in his neck and on his forehead pulsing erratically. “I hope I don’t have to remind you about the past perception problems this department has had with the public. This could have helped wipe some of that away.”
“I know, Captain, but what are we supposed to do? We’ve got to follow the evidence, right?” Flaherty pointed out.
“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do about it, you’re supposed to get out of here and do your jobs. Find something—anything—that will make the Caldwell murder stick to this Townsend asshole. It shouldn’t take much, given the similarities in MO.” Weidel looked straight at Kozlowski. “Search his house again. I’m sure you can find something—a shoe, a watch, some underwear—something that once belonged to Caldwell. You just have to look hard enough.”
“You’re not suggesting what I think you are, are you, Captain?” Kozlowski asked.