by David Hosp
In 2002, one FBI agent, John Connolly, was convicted of aiding and abetting Whitey Bulger in his escape. A year later, one of the supervisors in the FBI’s Boston office was indicted on charges of conspiracy to commit murder, although he died before he could be brought to trial. The entire Boston office of the Bureau had been given an enormous black eye, earning a reputation as the most corrupt federal office in the nation.
As Flaherty looked through the articles, she noted that Loring’s name appeared in passing only, despite that, as the head of the FBI’s office in Boston, he had oversight of the entire project. Whenever his name was mentioned, it was usually with the tagline, The FBI’s station chief in Boston has no comment on the matter at this time. Somehow, however, Loring had escaped close scrutiny, and even came out of the ordeal with a reputation of a “reformer” by pledging to clean up the Boston office’s practices. He’d weathered the storm admirably, and then, when the position of U.S. attorney for the District of Massachusetts became available, he’d convinced his political backers to get him appointed to the job.
Flaherty shook her head as she read the articles. Loring must have nine lives, she reflected. She wondered what a man like that would do to protect his reputation, and whether some illicit connection to Natalie Caldwell could have driven him to murder. The two had worked together at the Justice Department. It was possible she’d threatened to make public some of the details that were kept quiet during Connolly’s trial. That kind of a threat might very well have been enough to push Loring to action, Flaherty speculated. At the same time, she knew, that’s all it was—speculation. Without proof, it meant nothing.
She was reading some of the articles again, making sure that there wasn’t something she was missing, when the phone rang. “Flaherty,” she said into the receiver.
“Yes, Detective, this is Sergeant Gormand over in Charlestown.”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“We have a situation over here that might interest you.” He was being obtuse, and Flaherty hated that. There were enough riddles involved in her work without beat cops playing guessing games with her.
“I don’t know about that, Sergeant, I’ve got plenty keeping me busy right here in Boston.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah, well this involves a lawyer named Scott Finn. He was attacked tonight, and he’s asking for you.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Chapter Forty-seven
FINN HELD AN ICE PACK against the side of his face. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. Nevertheless, he considered himself lucky. There’d been a few moments while he was being kicked when he thought he might not survive. He’d taken enough beatings over the years—and doled out his fair share as well—to recognize the thin line between being injured and being killed.
They hadn’t intended to kill him; they made that clear. The wound on his throat was superficial, but skillfully placed. It was a warning, but a warning from whom?
Sergeant Gormand and one of the patrol officers were still in Finn’s apartment, looking like angels of death, waiting dispassionately to see if he’d live. They’d offered to call an ambulance, but Finn was having none of it. A butterfly bandage held the edges of the cut on his throat together, and was covered with a gauze pad he found under his sink. His ribs were badly bruised, but not broken, so he wasn’t about to spend the next twelve hours in an emergency room, waiting for some twenty-five-year-old intern to tell him what he already knew—he’d heal. With rest and time, he’d heal.
“You can’t give us anything else on the description?” Gormand was asking without interest.
“No, Sergeant. Like I already said, they came up behind me. After that, I was too busy trying to defend myself to jot down a sketch of their faces.”
“And you don’t know of anyone who has a grudge against you?”
Finn rubbed his forehead. “I spent two years as a public defender. Most of the thousand or so people I represented during that time spent some time in jail, so they might be a little grumpy.” He looked up at the two cops. “I got some people off, too, and that usually doesn’t sit well with your fellow officers. So, who knows?”
Gormand glared at him. “But you can’t think of anyone in particular who might be angry enough to do this at the moment?”
“No one comes to mind.” Finn hadn’t told Gormand about the warning. He was saving that tidbit of information for Flaherty.
“Well then, I’m not sure there’s much we can do here,” Gormand said. “I called Lieutenant Flaherty like you asked, and she said she’d be here soon. Officer Harris is still outside looking for anything useful, but he’s not likely to find anything. I’d ask you to come down to the station to look at some mug shots, but like you say, you were too busy to get a good look at these guys, so I’m not sure what purpose that would serve.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty useless,” Finn mumbled through the ice pack.
“I’m not saying that,” said Gormand defensively. “I’m just pointing out that we don’t have a lot to go on right now.”
“I understand, Sergeant. If I think of anything else that might be helpful, I’ll let you know.”
Gormand nodded. “And we’ll be in touch if anything develops in the investigation.”
Yeah, right, Finn thought. He could tell from the look on Gormand’s face that this case would be filed under “D.C.”—for “don’t care.” The “investigation” would never get beyond Finn’s door, and would be over once Gormand passed through it on his way out.
Just then, Flaherty walked through the open door. “What the hell happened?” she demanded, glancing back and forth between Finn and Gormand.
Gormand held up his hands in surrender. “Talk to him,” he said. “I gotta get back to the precinct and file one of the shortest reports in history.” With that, the policeman was gone, and Finn and Flaherty were alone in the apartment.
“Well?” Flaherty asked again.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Finn said, removing the ice pack from his swelling face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance or anything?”
“No, thanks. The sergeant already offered. I’m fine. Just a little banged up, but I’ve been worse.”
“Good,” Flaherty said. “Then tell me what this is all about.”
“I was jumped from behind by two men when I got home tonight.” Finn shook his head in disgust. “I guess I’m not as agile as I used to be. In the old days I would have been able to take them.”
“In the old days you would have been the one jumping someone from behind, isn’t that more likely?” Flaherty corrected.
“What are you talking about?” Finn flared.
“C’mon, Finn, I can read a rap sheet, for Christ’s sake.” “Still investigating me, huh, Lieutenant?” His voice was bitter as he looked away.
Flaherty crossed her arms. “I told you, until I know who killed Natalie Caldwell, everyone is a suspect. I didn’t lie to you. Besides”—her voice softened a little—“you must have known we’d eventually run a basic background check on you.”
Finn nodded. “Yeah.” He looked up at her. “Some mistakes follow you your entire life.”
“Two assault and batteries, three breaking and enterings, and a drunk and disorderly?” Flaherty raised her eyebrows. “Seems more like a lifestyle than a mistake.”
Finn nodded. “Fair enough, but the assault and batteries were fair fights—not sucker-punch attacks. And the B&Es were to get back my own stuff after it had been stolen from me.”
“Why not call the police to get your stuff back?”
Finn shook his head. “That’s not how things work in the projects. You settle your own scores if you want to survive.”
“What about the drunk and disorderly?” she asked sarcastically. “No excuses for that?”
Finn laughed. “Not a one. That was deserved.” He shrugged. “Just boys being boys. You know
how it is.”
“I know I’ve seen boys get killed when they’re ‘just being boys.’ ”
“It was nothing like that,” Finn tried to explain. “You wouldn’t understand—you didn’t grow up where I did.”
Flaherty gave an exasperated sigh. “And tonight? Was this just two kids from your old neighborhood ‘just being boys’?”
“No, this was something else,” Finn said quietly. A moment of silence passed between them as he decided how much to share with her. She was still thinking he could be the killer.
“Well?” she said finally.
“I’ll tell you,” Finn began, “but first I need to know what you’ve turned up on that list I gave you.”
Flaherty shook her head. “You know I can’t give you that kind of information. How can I make it any clearer: you haven’t been eliminated as a suspect.”
“Fine, then there’s no point in my telling you what happened here tonight.”
“You’re not helping yourself, Finn. Believe me, I want to clear you of this almost as much as you do, but I can’t do that if you’re keeping information from me. I’m going to follow this case wherever it leads, but I’m not going to give you a direct line into the investigation. It just can’t happen that way.” She looked at him with a somber expression. “And understand one thing,” she said. “If you are guilty, I’m going to nail you to the wall. I won’t protect you.”
Finn thought for a moment. She was right, he knew. She couldn’t possibly give him the information he wanted. At the same time, he needed to know what he was up against. “At least, tell me who on the list you’ve already talked to, okay?”
Flaherty glared back at him, considering whether to tell him. It wouldn’t be like she was sharing any really confidential information, would it? “Fine,” she said. “I’ve only talked to Loring. I don’t know if he’s told anyone else, though.”
Finn rested his face in the ice pack again. “Loring,” he repeated.
“Tell me what this is about, Finn. Right now, or that’s the last piece of information you’ll ever get from me.”
He removed the ice pack and pointed to his eye. “This wasn’t just boys being boys,” he said. “It wasn’t a mugging, or a gang initiation, either. This was a warning.”
“A warning about what?”
“Natalie’s murder,” Finn replied. “One of the guys told me to stop asking questions or I’d wind up dead.”
Flaherty was dumbstruck. She stared at Finn, not knowing whether to believe him. If it was true, it would go a long way toward clearing him, which was one reason to be skeptical. It would also have implications that she didn’t even want to contemplate. She took a deep breath. “Start at the beginning, and tell me everything,” she said.
Chapter Forty-eight
FLAHERTY WAS FIVE MINUTES early for her meeting with Governor Clarke, and was asked to wait in a small room off to one side of the suite of offices that housed the governor and his staff. The room looked like it was decorated for high tea in the late 1800s. Two broad armchairs of ornate French design with yellow fleur-de-lis fabric flanked a high-backed loveseat in front of a large oval coffee table set low to the ground. The hard-wood floors were covered with a thick oriental rug, and the heavy drapes let in only a hint of natural light from the tall windows along the wall. In a room like this, it was difficult to keep uncivil thoughts in your head, Flaherty thought. Perhaps that was the point.
It felt odd being there. She’d spent days trying to invent a pretext to meet with the governor, but nothing she could come up with seemed reasonable. Then, just when she was considering either giving up entirely or busting her way into the governor’s schedule with all the finesse of an agitated moose, she’d received a call from Clarke’s secretary, summoning her to the State House.
“Why does the governor want to see me?” she’d asked. It seemed a reasonable question.
“You’ll have to take that up with the governor,” was the curt reply from his personal secretary.
It seemed odd, but at least it would afford her the opportunity to ask Clarke some questions about Natalie Caldwell.
Flaherty languished in the waiting room for another fifteen minutes before a tall young man in a blue blazer came to fetch her. He greeted her in an overly friendly manner that failed to conceal his assumed superiority.
“Miss Flaherty,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The governor couldn’t be more pleased with the job you’ve done on the Little Jack investigation.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
He stood there, looking as if he expected her to say something more—as if a mere “thank you” was insufficient acknowledgment of the governor’s compliment. But she stared back at him in silence.
“Please, come with me,” he said after a painful pause. He led her through the catacomb of offices and anterooms in the governor’s suite to the inner sanctum of Clarke’s office. The young man, clearly displeased with her lack of solicitude, informed her that the governor would be with her shortly, and withdrew, leaving her alone in the huge office.
Flaherty was amazed. She’d never seen an office as large. In fact, she hadn’t seen many apartments as large. It was long and wide, with several distinct areas. On the left side of the room, two deep leather couches faced each other across an antique oriental coffee table, like two aging bulls readying themselves for a confrontation. To the right, four large, comfortable wing-backed chairs bracketed two smaller tables, suggesting more amiable encounters. Toward the back of the room was a secretary’s desk, complete with stenotype machine for transcribing conversations. And in the center of the room, against the far windows, was the governor’s desk. It made Loring’s power piece look like the desk of a schoolchild. It was huge, spreading out at least eight feet wide, with ornate etchings along the corners and elaborate inlays throughout the front panels.
She walked over for a better look, but forgot about the desk when she saw the view through the windows behind it. They looked out over Boston Common, toward the tall buildings downtown, and down in the direction of the harbor. Since Governor Samuel Adams and Paul Revere set the keystone to the building in 1795, the State House and its inhabitants had kept a watchful eye on the continuous growth of the city, checking its expansion through a patchwork of regulations and zoning ordinances, exacting a pound of flesh for each favor and privilege. Little had changed during that time, Flaherty knew. The skyline had risen, but so much of the city’s foundation remained bogged down in the quagmire of local and state politics.
“It’s a spectacular view, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind Flaherty, startling her.
“It is,” she agreed as she turned around to face Clarke. She hadn’t heard him enter the room.
“Sometimes when I look out there, I’m overwhelmed by the responsibility of this great office. I never knew how humbling it could be, trying to guard the well-being of so many. In some ways, the governorship of Massachusetts is unique. The fortunes of the commonwealth are inseparable from the fortunes of Boston, and as I look out here at the city, I realize I have to balance both state and city politics to do my job properly.” The governor was standing next to Flaherty now, gazing out the window in the same direction she had been.
“How does Mayor Tribinio feel about that?” Flaherty asked, which drew a laugh from Clarke.
“He’s fine with it, of course,” he said. “It’s a delicate dance, to be sure, but one that governors and mayors have been doing with varying degrees of grace and success for three hundred years.” He smiled. “No one has tripped over anyone else’s toes—yet.”
“That’s some skillful dancing.”
The governor laughed again. “It’s all a matter of knowing where the spheres of influence lie. The mayor holds his power in the wards of Boston—in the day-to-day running of the city. He runs the machine, if you will. My mandate, on the other hand, is somewhat larger. I represent what the people want the city and state to be—the future they’re searching for on
a grander scale. I’m expected to be the visionary leader. As a result, the larger projects—the Big Dig, the airport and harbor reconstructions, major city infrastructure changes—those become my bailiwick even more than the mayor’s.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.”
“It is. And it’s why I asked you to meet with me today.” “Asked? That’s funny. I thought I was ordered.” The smirk on the governor’s face told Flaherty he liked the perception and recognized the truth in it.
“I’m sorry you were given that impression. Sometimes my staff expresses my desires as edicts. I really just wanted to thank you for the job you’ve done on the Little Jack case. I challenged you—directly, intentionally—and you came through with flying colors. The city and the commonwealth owe you an enormous debt. As do I. You should feel proud of yourself.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but you should know that most of the credit belongs to the people who were working with me. They’re the ones who broke the case open.”
“It’s the mark of a good leader that she shares credit with her subordinates. It engenders loyalty, and loyalty is the key to leadership,” the governor commented. “But you shouldn’t be too modest.”
“It’s not modesty, it’s the truth.”
“In any event, it was your operation, and you deserve most of the credit—as well as the lion’s share of the spoils. Have you thought about what you’ll do with your newfound celebrity?” Clarke raised his eyebrows in a provocative manner. Clearly, there was something on his mind.
“Well,” Flaherty said, “first I have to finish the investigation.” “Finish?” Clarke frowned. “I would think that there’d be very little left to investigate.”
“There are some open issues regarding the Caldwell woman that we still need to resolve.” She watched him closely as she said the words, trying to register any reaction. As far as she could tell, there was none.
“I’m sure you could hand this small part of the investigation off to someone else if necessary, though, am I correct?” Again, Flaherty had the sense that Clarke was trying to entice her somehow, suggesting some as yet undisclosed agenda. She found it annoying, but it did pique her curiosity.