Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  In all fairness, she supposed it was normal, given his history. Growing up without parents, being shuttled from one foster family to another, with time in an orphanage in between, Finn must have learned that emotional investments in other people seldom yielded much return. It was sad, she realized. And still, he’d done a remarkable job of reclaiming his life. From just a glimpse at Finn’s police record at age sixteen, Flaherty would have wagered that he’d either be long dead in the streets of Charlestown or spending time up Route 2 at the Concord correctional facility.

  She moved over to the side of the room and opened the closet door. It was a small walk-in, and she flicked on the lights. There, lined up in perfect military order were Finn’s suits. He liked his clothing; she could tell that about him from the few times they’d been together. He was always impeccably dressed in the latest business fashions. But she had had no idea just how much he liked his clothing. The suits looked like something out of a movie—there had to be twenty-five in all, arranged by weight and color. Pinstripes and glen plaids and worsted wool, from designers such as Hickey Freeman, Ralph Lauren, and Armani, were all waiting their turn patiently.

  The shirts were almost as impressive. They hung on a different rack neatly, but with more vibrancy than the suits they faced. In addition to the traditional Brooks Brothers white and blue, there were shirts that beamed with colorful personality in lavender and orange and French blue.

  She looked around again and something caught her eye. It was sitting on the shelf, up above the shirts. She could just make out the corner of a silver picture frame, turned to the side. She reached up on her toes to pull it down. The frame was antique, with ornate relief around the edges—vines of some kind winding their way around the image in the center. The face in the center was one with which Flaherty had become exceedingly familiar. Natalie Caldwell’s eyes were hard to mistake, and they blazed out from within the matted frame. It was a beautiful picture. Even though she was looking at the camera, it seemed like a candid shot, her eyes showing surprise at having been caught unaware, and betraying an intimacy with the photographer not often found in pictures.

  Flaherty wondered who the photographer was. Finn she presumed, and the thought made her shockingly jealous. Something about the way in which Natalie was looking at the camera made Flaherty long for an intimacy that was missing in her own life.

  She could see what had attracted Finn to Natalie Caldwell. It wasn’t just the obvious beauty; it was something more. There was something so open, and inviting, and sexual about her look that it made Flaherty blush. She suddenly felt guilty for her jealousy, and guilty for snooping in Finn’s apartment. It would have been one thing if her motivation had pertained to the investigation, but it hadn’t. This was personal.

  The realization made her feel horrible, and she needed to get out of the closet—out of the apartment if she could. She realized she was too confused to view Finn objectively anymore. She reached up to put the picture back, and as she looked up at the shelf, her heart stopped.

  She was frozen. She closed her eyes and tried to wish away what she’d seen, but it was still there when she looked up again. It can’t be, she said over and over to herself, the fear and desperation growing. Even through her tears, though, she could see it dangling from the shelf, like a piece of thread that, once pulled, would unravel all her hopes about Finn. There, hanging from where it had become dislodged when she pulled the picture forward, was a piece of red ribbon—the kind that had been found around Natalie Caldwell’s neck as she looked up from beneath the surface of Boston Harbor.

  Flaherty reached up and pulled on the ribbon, and an entire roll tumbled over the edge. She held it up to look at it. No, please, no, she thought. Then she reached up again and ran her hand along the top of the shelf where she couldn’t see. She was up on her toes, reaching as far back as she could when she felt it. It was hard and cold, and her fingers recoiled when they first ran across the flat surface. She looked around quickly for something to pick it up with, and grabbed a handkerchief off one of the racks in the closet. Then she reached up again carefully and brought it down. It was a knife; a professional-grade steel knife about ten inches long. The blade looked old and rusted, but when Flaherty looked more closely, it became clear that it was not old, it was just covered with a dark, flaky crust.

  “God damn it,” she said out loud. Just then, she heard the front door of the apartment open.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  AS FINN DROVE HOME, he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The picture was becoming clearer, he thought. Huron Security was ripping off the state for millions of dollars a year. The company was charging Massachusetts for “guards” who didn’t exist, and then pocketing the money. It was a minor amount in comparison to the billions that were being spent, but it still required inside help. Finn figured Natalie must have discovered the scam and confronted McGuire. As a result, McGuire had been forced to kill her, or have her killed, before she could report the fraud to anyone. The thought filled Finn with rage. He’d sat next to Natalie’s killer, defended him at his deposition, discussed trial strategy and expert testimony, and he’d never known. McGuire acted as if nothing had happened—as if Natalie’s murder was the same as any other business decision. It made Finn feel sick.

  He needed to be careful in handling this, though. McGuire wouldn’t have been able to pull off the scam without help from someone high up in the state government, and whoever that was would be working hard to cover his tracks. Without careful planning, Finn’s knowledge could cause him more harm than good.

  He guided his car through Boston and into Charlestown, up Bunker Hill toward his apartment. As luck would have it, there was a parking spot open on his street near his building. He pulled in and put the top of the car up, all the while thinking through what he was going to tell Linda. She’d be skeptical at first, but he needed to find a way to convince her. Once she accepted the truth behind Natalie’s murder she’d know the best way to handle the situation. Finn trusted her. He felt that once he had a chance to talk things through with her, they’d be able to come up with a plan.

  He walked up the stairs and slid his key into the lock on his front door.

  Flaherty heard the key in the front lock, then the sound of the door creaking open. She froze, her hand still holding the knife she suspected had been used to carve open Natalie Caldwell. She didn’t want to believe it, but it was hard to avoid the conclusion that Finn had killed her. She shouldn’t be surprised, she told herself. Murder victims were most often killed by those closest to them. It all made sense. So why did it feel so wrong?

  “Linda?” Finn called out from the front hall. “Linda, are you here?”

  Flaherty kept silent as her hand went to her gun and she rested the knife on the floor of the closet. Regardless of any doubts she might have, she couldn’t take any chances. She peered around the corner of the closet door and listened as Finn moved from room to room, wandering around the apartment. She heard the refrigerator door open and close, and then purposeful footsteps headed toward the bedroom. She ducked fully back into the closet.

  Finn walked into the bedroom and tossed his jacket on the bed, then started to pull off his shirt. He was holding a beer in his hand, raising it to drink, and as he turned toward the closet he saw Flaherty. He was so surprised he spit out a mouthful of beer.

  “Holy shit! Linda!” he sputtered. “You scared the hell out of me!” Flaherty remained still and silent, partially shrouded in the shadows of the closet. “Didn’t you hear me yelling for you? What’s wrong?” Finn asked. Then he saw the gun clutched to her side. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “I found the knife,” Flaherty said.

  Finn looked confused. “What knife?” he asked, his consternation evident.

  Flaherty was silent for a moment. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” she said finally.

  “Don’t make what any harder? Tell me what’s going on.” Finn moved toward Flaher
ty, as if to comfort a friend, and she raised her gun, pointing it straight at his chest. It hurt her to do it, but she had no choice under the circumstances.

  “Don’t come any closer, Finn.”

  Finn was clearly shocked. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  She raised the gun higher, her hand shaking ever so slightly. She wanted to talk to him, but she knew she couldn’t. She was desperate to explain what she’d found, and to listen to him as he told her the knife was planted. She might even have believed him. In fact, a part of her knew that finding the knife in Finn’s apartment was too easy, that it was quite possibly a setup. Nevertheless, she was painfully aware that, as a police officer, she had to treat him strictly as a suspect. She steeled her resolve and spoke in a clear, calm voice. “Take another step, and I promise I will shoot you.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Finn felt like his world was collapsing. “I want you to move backward two steps and lie down on the floor with your hands behind your head,” Flaherty said, ignoring him. “Now!”

  Finn hesitated, looking into her eyes, searching for the reason this was all happening. What he saw shocked him. All he could see were the eyes of a police officer, the eyes he’d seen so many times growing up. Those eyes assumed the worst, and were ready to strike without mercy, with an anger born from self-defense and too many disappointments in human nature.

  “Now!” she yelled again. This time there was no hesitation in her voice, and she flipped the safety off her 9mm semiautomatic. He took two steps back and started to kneel down.

  “Can I put the beer down?”

  “On the floor. Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  Finn put the beer down on the floor, and then lay facedown on the rug, placing his hands behind his head and locking his fingers together at the base of his skull. He did all of this in an eerily familiar sort of way, recalling the procedure from years before.

  Flaherty emerged from the closet and stepped over Finn so she was straddling his torso, keeping the gun pointed at the back of his head. She reached behind her back with one hand and pulled handcuffs out of the case on her belt. Leaning forward, she clapped one of the cuffs onto Finn’s right wrist.

  “Put your hand behind your back,” she ordered. “

  Can I at least put my shirt back on?”

  “I’ll bring it with us, but right now I want you to put your hand behind your back.”

  Finn brought his right hand down and let it rest in the small of his back.

  “Now the left one,” Flaherty commanded. Finn obediently took his left hand and brought it down, resting his left wrist on top of his right. He winced as Flaherty snapped the second cuff onto his left wrist, leaving him facedown and helpless on the floor. Only then did she put her gun back in its shoulder holster.

  She leaned down and hooked him under the shoulder, pulling him off the floor. “Get up,” she said. Then they were both standing, and he was looking at her with pleading eyes, desperate for answers. There was nothing warm in her eyes anymore, though.

  “I don’t understand this,” he said.

  She looked away for a split second, and just for that moment he thought he’d reached her. Then she turned back to him, and he knew he was wrong. “Understand this,” she said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you free of charge. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

  “You’re making a mistake.” “Yeah? Well, that seems to be a pattern I’ve fallen into.”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  FINN PACED BACK AND FORTH in the holding cell. It was a single five-by-seven hole, and he was alone, surrounded by solid walls broken only by a steel door at one end. He’d been given his shirt back, which was a blessing in the damp, cool, concrete space, but he’d been stripped of his belt and shoelaces— a mandatory but humiliating precaution against suicide. He laughed bitterly. Suicide might be a viable option in the future, he thought. In the past he’d vowed to die before ever going back to jail. He wouldn’t survive on the inside now. But suicide wasn’t an option to consider yet. There was too much to do.

  Without warning, the steel bar covering the peephole in the door slid back and an indifferent set of eyes appeared. “Finn? Scott T.?” the voice said.

  Finn stopped pacing. “Yes.”

  “Somebody wants to talk to you.” The eyes looked Finn up and down, evaluating the threat, and eventually concluding that the lawyer in the cell posed none. “Stand against the wall with your palms flat on the cement,” the voice ordered. Finn did as he was told.

  “Where are you taking me?” Finn asked as the door opened and a large skin-headed young cop appeared.

  “Interview room,” the man replied as he handcuffed Finn. For a split second, Finn thought about escaping. The young cop was big but careless, and he left himself exposed as Finn turned toward him. Finn was sure a well-placed elbow would drop the man instantly. But then what? He would never make it out of the station house, and even if he did, he’d be a hunted man with no way to prove his innocence. He decided to play along.

  “Who wants to see me?” he asked.

  The young cop was leading him by the arm out of the cell. He shrugged. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Finn was deposited in the same room where Flaherty and Kozlowski had interviewed him a week or so before. He walked around, observing everything. Then he moved over to the one-way mirror and shaded his hand against the glass to see if he could look through to the other side. He was still in this awkward pose when the door opened and Kozlowski walked in.

  “We’ve actually checked to make sure people can’t see through that way,” the detective said.

  Finn turned to look at him, then stared back into the mirror. “It seems to have worked,” he said. “But I figured it was worth a try.”

  “Sit down,” Kozlowski ordered.

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” Finn said, his hands and face still pressed against the mirror.

  “No, you’re definitely not fine.” Kozlowski shook his head. “Now, sit down.”

  Finn turned again to look at Kozlowski. He tried to fold his arms against his chest in defiance, but the handcuffs made the gesture impossible, rattling as he tried to bring up his hands.

  Kozlowski looked like he felt some satisfaction at Finn’s predicament. He leaned back and looked hard at him, as if he was deciding how to start the discussion. “We searched your apartment, and I think you can guess what we found,” he led.

  Finn tilted his head. Flaherty had said something about a knife before she shut off all information, but he thought it best to get Kozlowski to give him as much information as possible. “Let’s assume I can’t. Enlighten me.”

  “We found the ribbon.”

  Finn returned a blank stare and shrugged his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

  “The ribbon—the kind that was tied around Natalie Caldwell’s neck when she was found. I’m no betting man, but if I was, I’d wager the lab boys are going to tell us it’s an exact match.”

  Finn frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have any ribbon in my apartment. Even if I did, that hardly makes a case.”

  “You could be right,” Kozlowski said, nodding. “But then, that’s not all we found. We found the knife, too.”

  “You’ve lost me again. What knife? I have lots of knives in my kitchen. So does everyone.”

  “We didn’t find this one in your kitchen, we found it in your closet. And wouldn’t you know it, it looked like there was blood on it. Again, I don’t gamble, but it would probably be a safe bet that the blood on the knife matches Caldwell’s.”

  All of a sudden, Finn felt panic. It was a setup. It had to be. For a moment, he thought he was choking. His eyes bulged slightly, and he open
ed his mouth as if to speak. Kozlowski appeared gratified by his reaction.

  “That’s right, asshole. The case is made, with or without your help. The only question is, will we have to go through the formality of a trial?”

  Finn regained his composure and sat quietly, considering his options as he worked to keep the muscles of his face from twitching. Kozlowski was right, he was in serious trouble, but he’d been around the criminal justice system long enough to know he was far from convicted. He also knew that the truth was on his side, which was a comfort. Not much, but some. One thing was clear—he needed help, and there was only one person to whom he could turn.

  “I think I’ll call my lawyer now, Detective,” Finn said. It wasn’t a request but a demand. Finn knew his rights, and he knew Kozlowski couldn’t stop him from bringing in a lawyer at this point.

  Kozlowski nodded grimly. “If that’s the way you want to go,” he said. “But wouldn’t it be easier if you and I tried to talk this thing out and come to some understanding?”

  “Please, Detective, spare me the carefully worded attempt to get me to waive my rights under the Fifth Amendment. I’m not some sixteen-year-old you grabbed off the street who can be bullied.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Kozlowski, shrugging, though he was visibly disappointed. He stood up and walked out of the room, returning a moment later with an old beat-up rotary phone, which he put down on the table in front of Finn and plugged into a jack in the wall. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said. Then he left the room again, and Finn heard the door lock behind him.

  Finn thought carefully about what he was going to say. He knew he was risking everything he had left in the world—not just his career and a chance to make partner, but his relationship with Preston, who in the past had shown him genuine fatherly affection. Preston might very well hang up on him when he heard what was happening, and would have every right to. Finn silently prayed his mentor would believe in him enough to stick by him.