by David Hosp
“Did you have something in particular in mind?” she asked, resisting the temptation to waggle her eyebrows back at him in mockery.
Governor Clarke smiled broadly. “Now that you mention it, there’s a position opening up you might be interested in. You’re familiar, of course, with the federal Department of Homeland Security.” Flaherty nodded. “The president is about to announce the creation of parallel agencies at the state level to help in the fight against terrorism. The new Commonwealth Security Department in Massachusetts will begin with an annual budget of one hundred million dollars. The department will liaise with law enforcement personnel at all levels of both federal and state agencies to coordinate and direct investigations into terrorist activities, and will have its own five-hundred-officer police force.”
“Sounds like a major initiative,” said Flaherty, genuinely impressed.
“It is,” Clarke agreed. “And whoever heads it up will have a very major, important job. As we in Massachusetts are particularly aware, terrorism is the greatest threat we all face. So the only question left to be answered is: are you a big enough person to take on the responsibility of heading up this new department?”
“Me?” Flaherty was shocked. She’d expected him to offer her a position as a deputy in the department. The thought of heading it … “I could never—”
“Lead this department?” Clarke interrupted. “Nonsense, of course you could. You have the required law enforcement background. You understand what needs to happen both on the prevention side of the equation and on the investigative side. Plus, I’ve been watching you on television throughout this entire Little Jack ordeal. You possess the poise and the political skills necessary to deal with other agencies, as well as the press. I’ve been very impressed. I know you can do the job. The only question is whether you’re brave enough to take it.”
Flaherty’s head was swimming. It was the type of career opportunity that only came along once. More than that, it was the chance to do something really important—to take her training and her intuition and put them to work preventing crimes on a massive scale.
“I’d have to finish up the work I’m doing now, and that might take another month or so,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. The job requires you to start within two weeks,” Clarke explained.
“That soon?” she said, showing her disappointment. “It’s just that there are still some questions about whether Townsend actually killed Natalie Caldwell.” Saying the words was enough to break the spell, and a sickeningly obvious thought crossed her mind. It made her angry. “That reminds me,” she said, forcing herself to focus on the questions she’d come to ask in the first place, “I meant to ask you if you knew Ms. Caldwell.”
Clarke shook his head. “No. I never had the pleasure.”
“That’s curious,” Flaherty said in an offhand manner. “I was going through her personal effects the other day, and I came across a picture of the two of you standing together.”
Clarke forced a smile and a quizzical look. “That’s odd,” he said. “Although, I appear so many places and at so many functions, and so many people ask to have their picture taken with me—particularly during campaign season—that it’s quite possible she obtained that picture without our ever having been introduced.”
“That’s a possibility,” Flaherty said, again filling her tone with indifference. She paused, and then crinkled her nose as though considering an inconsequential but nettlesome riddle. “Although, now that I think about it, I believe the picture was signed by you.” Clarke’s smile disappeared. “Yes, that’s right, it said something about thanking her for her work on a committee, and it was signed ‘Bill.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
Clarke was doing an impressive job of keeping his composure, Flaherty noted, but his face had gone white, and his brow was slightly furrowed. “Really?” he said. “Well, there are literally hundreds of committees I have minimal involvement with, although I’ve probably met many of the committee members. I don’t remember most of them, naturally. I’ll have my assistant run through our records and see if Ms. Caldwell was on any of these committees. In any event, I have no recollection of ever having met the woman.”
It was a weak story, and they both knew it as they stood there in the governor’s office in front of the grand windows overlooking Boston Common. Neither of them, it seemed, had anything further to say.
“Well,” Flaherty said finally, “it would be helpful if you could have your assistant check that out. We just want to be sure Townsend actually killed all of these women. We wouldn’t want to find out later that we left a murderer walking around free.”
“Of course,” Clarke replied. “I’ll have that information messengered over to your office by the end of the day.” He swept his arm toward the door, inviting her to leave. “I’ll walk you out,” he offered. There was an uncomfortable silence as they made their way toward the door. As they neared the threshold, he turned to her. “Do you read much for pleasure, Detective?” he asked.
“Occasionally,” she replied.
“You should read Machiavelli’s The Prince if you ever get the chance. It’s still considered one of the leading manuals for political survival, and it might help you if you take this new job.”
“I’ll be sure to pick up a copy.”
He smiled again, but this time it contained no warmth. “You know, one piece of advice he gives is still as true today as it was five hundred years ago.”
“Really?” Flaherty asked. “What’s that?”
They were at the door now, and Clarke faced her fully, holding on to her arm at the elbow and looking straight into her face. “He advised that if you’re going to plot to assassinate a prince, you’d better make damned sure you succeed.”
This time it was Flaherty who smiled. “Good advice in any age, I suppose.”
Clarke nodded. “I’ll need an answer on the job offer within a week,” he said. “You should seriously consider it.”
Chapter Forty-nine
FINN TOOK FRIDAY OFF from work. He had to. The bruises on his face were too pronounced to hide, and he knew he’d never escape hard questions he couldn’t answer. By Monday the swelling would be down, he reasoned, and he might be able to pass off his injuries as a basketball mishap.
Besides, the wonders of modern communication had made working from home realistic. Often he found he was able to get more accomplished when he stayed out of the office, away from the constantly ringing telephone and ever-pressing minor emergencies. At home, he could access his messages when he needed, and log on to the law firm’s server directly. He called his assistant, Nancy, to let her know he wouldn’t be in, and to contact him at home if anything really urgent came up.
“This isn’t a Friday morning hangover, is it?” she asked playfully.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t have a single drink last night. I just can’t make it in today. If Preston calls, or if there are any real emergencies, just call me here. If you can’t reach me here, try my cell phone; I’ll have that with me.”
“Will do,” Nancy said, “and I hope you feel better.”
After he hung up he walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror again. It wasn’t pretty. His right eye was swollen and turning purple, the discoloration spreading like a tide from his cheekbone. His lip was split at the center, making it painful to smile, or frown, or eat, or speak. He touched his throat where the knife had slit the skin. The bandages were dark red from sopping up the blood, but there was no fresh bleeding, and the butterfly bandage was already pulling the corners of the gash together. He shivered as he thought about the knife edge slicing into his neck, close enough to the carotid artery to drive home the warning.
He sighed at his appearance, wincing as his rib cage contracted with the painful expulsion of breath, the bruises enough to make each movement an individual agony. It was better that he’d stayed home, he thought. The partners would have too many questions.<
br />
Looking into the mirror, for just a moment Finn saw a younger version of himself: a little thinner, and a little stronger, with the hunger of his childhood visible in his soul, and anger flowing through his veins. In many ways he’d left his stray-dog youth behind. Often he’d go days without thinking about his past. But it was always there, he knew; the skeleton of his prior life lurking beneath the well-fed layer that had covered it with the passage of time.
He opened the medicine cabinet and took out some ibuprofen, washing down three pills with tap water, then swallowing a fourth after a brief internal debate. He closed the cabinet, and as the mirror swung back into place, he was startled to see a reflection behind him, looming in silence.
“Tigh! For Christ’s sake, what the hell are you doing, trying to kill me?”
Tigh McCluen smiled in the mirror. “It would take more than a start to kill you, I hope.” He took a good long look at Finn’s reflection, noting the cuts and bruises with some admiration. “Besides,” he said, “it looks as if someone else has been giving it a bit more of an effort.” He regarded Finn. “What the hell happened?”
“Disgruntled client,” Finn quipped.
McCluen nodded. “I’ve always said you’d be better off in an honest profession.”
“I’ll give it some thought. How’d you get in here?” Finn asked.
“The door was open,” Tigh replied with a familiar roguish look. “I let myself in.”
“The door was locked,” Finn corrected.
“Only once, Scotty boy. I consider a single lock practically an open invitation. So did you at one time.” He winked at his friend.
“Why didn’t you just knock? I’d have let you in, for Christ sakes.”
“I thought you’d be at work. I was just planning on leaving you a note. I had no idea you’d be here—or that you’d be looking like haggis.”
“That bad, huh?” Finn asked, feeling a rush of pride in his gruesome appearance. He often worried that his old friends thought he’d gone too soft, and he liked Tigh’s seeing he could still take a beating and keep his sense of humor.
Tigh cocked his head to one side and held up his thumb, like an art critic appraising a new work, taking a closer look at the carnage. “Well, no matter,” he said, laughing. “You were never much of a looker anyway.”
Finn laughed. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “This is twice that I’ve seen you in as many weeks, and that after, what, three years? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me.”
The smile disappeared from Tigh’s face. “Not stalking you enough, as it turns out. I meant to stop by here yesterday, and the day before that, but I just couldn’t seem to find the time. More’s the point, I didn’t know exactly what to tell you.” He paused. “Lookin’ at you now, it seems clear I should have come sooner.”
Finn’s hand went instinctively to his throat, probing the raw spot around the edges of the cut gently, then trailing up to evaluate the bruises on his jaw and cheeks. “You know who did this, don’t you.”
Tigh shook his head. “Not exactly. And certainly not to tell anyone.”
Finn glared at his old friend. “What was that expression you told me the last time we spoke? ‘Don’t see what you see. Don’t hear what you hear. And if you’re asked, say you don’t know’?”
McCluen nodded. “That’s it exactly, Scotty.”
“It’s a shitty motto to live by, Tigh.”
“It’s a shitty world to live in, Finn.” He paused. “At least, it still is for me.”
Finn sighed in understanding, if not agreement. He remembered the world Tigh lived in—the world from which Finn had escaped. There were rules that were inviolable, and chief among them was: Silence is golden. Tigh didn’t make the rules, Finn knew, but he had to play by them.
“So why are you here if you have nothing to tell me?” Finn asked.
“To warn you,” Tigh replied.
“My second warning in as many days.”
Tigh nodded. “So it would seem. I can’t tell you who did it, or who ordered it done, because I genuinely don’t know. But I can tell you that I’ve heard your name bandied about in conversation in certain circles where it’s never good to be known. I’m not sure what it is you’ve done, but it’s pissed off the wrong people.”
“I haven’t done anything!” Finn yelled. “I’m just trying to figure out who killed my best friend!”
“Maybe that’s a job for the authorities, Scotty. It certainly looks like it would be safer if you left it up to them.”
Finn shook his head. “The authorities think maybe I did it, that’s part of the problem. If I don’t find out who killed her, I might end up in prison.”
“There’s worse things,” said Tigh pointedly.
Finn glowered. “I’m not going back there, Tigh. Never.”
Tigh held up his hands. “Just trying to look out for you, that’s all.” A sad smile slowly returned to his face. “You got any smokes, Scotty? I’m fresh out.”
“Yeah, over there in my pocket,” Finn said, pointing to the suit jacket thrown over one of the living room chairs. “I think there are matches in there, too.”
“Don’t need them.” Tigh pulled a small silver object out of his pocket and held it up. “That’s the other reason I came.” He flipped the object quickly in his palm, producing a huge flame in what almost seemed like an act of magic. He lit the cigarette between his lips and flipped his wrist again, extinguishing the flame. “I found this in my drawer the other day, and I was going to leave it here for you.” He tossed the warm Zippo lighter across the room.
Finn caught it with one hand and held it up. It was battered and dented, like some piece of well-used military equipment brought home and forgotten after years of active service. The inscription had faded as the years wore down the casing, but it was still legible. “Chelsea Street Regulars,” Finn read out loud, and then looked up at McCluen.
“That there is a collector’s item,” Tigh said.
Finn nodded. “Only five ever made. I lost mine years ago.”
“I know. And who knows where Jimmy and Joe left theirs. It’s hard to get answers from corpses. As for Willie … well, once you’ve been in the joint for as long as he has, your brain turns to mush and you put away childhood dreams.”
Finn laughed bitterly. “We were going to take over all of Charlestown.”
“Indeed, we were going to wipe out the Winter Hill Gang and make a name for ourselves,” said Tigh. “Then we were going to take on those fuckin’ wops in the North End. You know why?”
“Because, Nobody fucks with the Chelsea Street Regulars!” They both chanted their adolescent slogan in unison.
“I can’t keep this,” Finn said after he’d stopped laughing. “It’s probably the last one.”
“You keep it,” Tigh said. “You and I are the only two left. I’m still here because I’m the biggest, meanest son of a bitch in this town. You’re still here because you were the smart one and you got out. Now, I can’t stop being mean. Can you stop being smart?”
“What does that mean?”
“Let this thing with the girl die like she did. Let the authorities take care of it. It’s the smart thing to do.”
“Who sent you, Tigh?”
“Nobody sent me, Scotty. I just came here to give an old friend some good advice. I’m hoping you’re smart enough to take it.”
“Fuck that, Tigh. And fuck you. You and I go too far back for this. Tell me who sent you.”
“I’m being straight with you, Scotty. Nobody sent me, I’m here on my own.”
“What have you become?”
“The same as you, Scotty—a survivor. That involves compromises no matter what your job title says, you know what I’m saying?” Finn didn’t answer. “Now don’t go getting all high and mighty on me. We’ve known each other too long to lie to each other like that.”
“What if I can’t let it drop?” Finn asked after a moment.
“Who
knows for sure?” Tigh answered, shrugging. “But there’s one thing I do know.” He smiled. “You’re not a Chelsea Street Regular anymore.”
Chapter Fifty
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Flaherty asked.
“I think this is getting messy,” Kozlowski said. “Governor Clarke really threatened you?”
“Not directly, but the message was clear. There’s no doubt he wants us to back off any investigation involving him. And if we continue, I’d say we’ll be in an all-out war.”
Kozlowski was sitting across from Flaherty in a booth at O’Malley’s across from the Fleet Center in the no-man’s-land between downtown, Beacon Hill, and the North End. It was a cop bar, except on nights when the Bruins or the Celtics were playing at home. Then it turned into a smear of drunken jerseys singing the lament of the Boston faithful. Cops stayed away on those nights—too much hassle to deal with. But this was the end of August, when the Fleet Center was quiet except for the occasional rock concert.
As he sipped his scotch Kozlowski ran his fingers over the thick, ugly scar that ran down the side of his face. His medical insurance would have covered the simple plastic surgery that could correct his appearance, but he’d never bothered to have the operation.
“What are you thinking?” Flaherty asked.
“I’m just considering the possibility that the governor is not involved in this, and maybe we’re making a mistake by pushing the issue.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Kozlowski I know,” Flaherty said. She looked concerned. “What’s this really about, partner?”
Kozlowski shook his head and took a long sip of his drink. He put his glass on the table and looked up at Flaherty. “I’m thinking about Tony Garibaldi,” he said.
“Your first partner? ‘The Legend’?”
“Yeah, my first partner. ‘The Legend.’ ” Kozlowski played his half-empty glass back and forth between his fat, stubby fingers. “Have I ever told you how I got my scar?”