Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  Preston Holland rubbed his temples. “Maybe there’s a way. I have several friends who are sitting Superior Court judges. I may be able to convince one to open a special session of court today just to hear this issue. If they did that, they could rule on our request for your release this afternoon.”

  “Do you think any judge would do that?”

  “I think so,” Holland said. “A couple owe me favors. I could call Harvey Whitehead. I was instrumental in getting him appointed to the bench in the first place.” He leaned back in his chair and said in a confidential tone, “I also sponsored him for his membership in the Country Club in Brookline. He owes me big-time for that.” He rubbed his chin. “It would involve calling in a huge favor, though.”

  Finn looked at his feet in shame. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  Holland patted Finn on the knee again. “Don’t worry about it. I have lots of chits out there on the table. I may as well have the fun of calling some of them in before I die.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  FINN WAS ON THE street by four o’clock. Holland had made the call to the Honorable Harvey Whitehead, who’d grumbled, but ultimately called his bailiff and his clerk at their homes and agreed to hold a hearing at two-thirty that afternoon. Then Preston and Finn had sat together for an hour or so to prepare their argument.

  “What exactly did you say when you told this detective she could enter your apartment?” Preston had asked Finn.

  “I just said she could let herself in and wait for me there.”

  “So you didn’t say anything like, ‘Make yourself at home,’ or ‘Look around,’ or anything like that?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Now, I also need to know what you told the police when they arrested you and interrogated you. Did you make any kind of confession?”

  “No. I told you, I’m innocent. I have nothing to confess to.”

  “Right, I know that,” Preston said, though it seemed to Finn he’d forgotten. “Did you speculate at all about who really killed Natalie? Did you tell them anything about McGuire, or about your search for the real killer or anything along those lines?”

  “No,” Finn lied. He didn’t want Preston to think that he’d recklessly damaged his own defense by telling Flaherty about his theories.

  “Good,” Holland said. He stood up and adjusted his bow tie then smoothed his thick white hair into place. The hearing was in a half hour, but the police would bring Finn over to the courthouse. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get in there and kick some butt, shall we?” It was the line he always used before court appearances, and it made Finn feel normal for a brief moment. Preston smiled at Finn again. “I’ll see you in court.”

  The hearing took less than thirty minutes, and Judge White-head ruled from the bench that Finn hadn’t given the Boston Police Department permission to search his apartment by inviting Detective Flaherty to wait inside. The evidence found in the apartment was not in plain view and could only be found through an active search, the judge concluded. Furthermore, because Flaherty had failed to obtain a search warrant, the search was illegal, and all of the evidence found during the search would have to be excluded in any proceeding against Finn. Without the ribbon and the knife, the district attorney did not have enough evidence to hold Finn, and he was released.

  The district attorney was livid. “Your Honor, I find it highly unusual that this hearing was called on a Saturday afternoon, and that this evidence is being excluded. It appears that the defendant is getting preferential treatment simply because he’s an associate of Mr. Holland’s law firm, and Mr. Holland is obviously an influential member of the bar.”

  Whitehead glowered from the bench. “And I find it highly unusual,” he said, sneering, “that you would question the impartiality of this court—particularly in a matter where any first-year law student would recognize the weakness of the Commonwealth’s position. Now, unless you’d like to be found in contempt and wish to take Mr. Finn’s place in the holding cell for the remainder of the weekend, I suggest you figure out a legal way to collect evidence to build your case. Until then, however, this matter is dismissed.”

  The gavel came down, and Finn was free to go. Now all he had to do was figure out where to go.

  First he had to say good-bye to Preston. Bostick’s murder had demonstrated that Finn was in serious danger, and so were the people around him. He couldn’t put Preston at risk, not after all he’d done for him.

  Holland protested vehemently, offering to drive him to the office and help in any way he could, but Finn declined. He would take care of this on his own, he assured the older lawyer. He asked only one more favor of Preston. “I’m not sure I’ll get around to the settlement agreement in the Tannery case this weekend,” he said sheepishly.

  Preston waved him off. “I’ll have someone else at the office take care of that,” he said. “You just focus on what you have to deal with here.” Then they said their good-byes and Holland drove off.

  Once Preston was gone, Finn needed to be sure he wasn’t being followed. It would be a little tricky, he knew, but he remembered how to shake a tail from his youth in Charlestown.

  He started out by walking a few blocks to a downtown bar he was familiar with. He walked in and sat at the bar, ordering a beer. As he sipped his drink, he watched the door, evaluating everyone who came in. Only two men entered within five minutes of his arrival. Finn looked them over carefully. One was a young man, in his mid-twenties, with an oversized Boston Red Sox jersey on over a T-shirt and loose jeans. The other was a slightly older man, in his forties, with a frumpy hat on his head and a gray windbreaker.

  Either one could be a tail, Finn knew, but there was no way to be sure yet. He decided to play it safe.

  After a few minutes of sipping his beer, he got up and walked back toward the men’s room, out of sight from the main section of the bar. Once there, he passed the bathroom and walked out the back door. It led out to an alley around the corner from an upscale hotel. He walked quickly to the front of the hotel and hopped into one of the taxis lined up waiting for fares at the cabstand.

  “I’m going to Central Square in Cambridge,” he told the driver. As the cab pulled out into the street, Finn looked back down the side street that led to the bar. He could see the older man standing out front, looking up and down the street, scratching his head in frustration.

  The taxi took Storrow Drive to Massachusetts Avenue, then cut across the river into Cambridge. Central Square was one of the busiest, most urban areas of Cambridge, right across the Charles River from Boston, which was why Finn had chosen it.

  He paid the driver and got out in the heart of the square, then walked two blocks to another bar, checking over his shoulder the entire time for the man in the rumpled hat. Once in the bar, he repeated the procedure he’d used in Boston, sidling up to the bar to order a drink and watching to see if anyone followed him in. This time, no one did.

  After ten minutes of waiting, he paid for his drink and left the bar through the back entrance, then walked five blocks to the nearest subway station to take the T back into Boston.

  Finn knew where he was headed. He had to get the spreadsheets he’d stashed in his office. They’d prove to Linda that McGuire had been scamming the state for millions of dollars. With the actual evidence Linda would have to listen to him. The only question was whether he could survive long enough to show her the documents.

  Governor Clarke stood at the giant window of his enormous office and watched the sun slide down on the horizon to the west of Boston. “He’s on the street again?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Wendyl replied.

  “I’m worried about what he may have told Flaherty.”

  “I doubt she’ll credit his suspicions unless he has some hard evidence. Without something concrete to show her, he’s just another murderer proclaiming his innocence.”

  Clarke looked at Wendyl Shore. He sighed, realizing he had to make sure the issue was taken
care of. “What if he obtains hard evidence, and finds his way back to Flaherty?”

  Wendyl shook his head. “That won’t happen. As soon as he makes any kind of move, our friends will pick him up.”

  “I don’t like this,” the governor said. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Neither do I,” Wendyl replied. “But we have to find out what he knows and who he’s told. It’s the only way.”

  The governor turned back toward the windows. The sun was gone, and the only evidence of its presence was a faint red glow that hung just beyond the Prudential Building. The lights in the buildings that ringed the Common twinkled on as Bostonians transitioned into night. He’d miss the view, if it ever came to that, Clarke knew. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to be a private citizen again. He couldn’t let it come to that.

  “Okay, make it happen,” he said without turning around.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  FLAHERTY CALLED RICH LORING’S home and discovered that the U.S. attorney was working that Saturday, so she and Kozlowski headed over to his office in the Federal Courthouse. He seemed less than thrilled to see them.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, greeting Flaherty with a cold glare. “I’m sorry you made the trip over here. I’m very busy today, and I don’t have the time to be needlessly harassed on a weekend.”

  “I may have deserved that,” Flaherty admitted.

  “You did. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Loring gestured toward the door.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the last meeting. I shouldn’t have gotten personal, but we do have some questions we need to ask. This time I’ll stay away from your personal life.”

  “Your apology is noted, but I still don’t have time for this today. You’ll have to come back some other time during business hours.”

  Flaherty shook her head. “This can’t wait. There are people whose lives may be in danger.”

  “We all have our problems,” Loring said, shrugging. “There are people whose lives are in danger every day. I wish I could help them all, but the reality is that there’s only so much that one person can do.” He swept his arm toward the door, more vehemently this time, indicating that the officers should leave. Flaherty looked at Kozlowski for help.

  “Come on, Lieutenant,” Kozlowski said, looking at Loring. “I told you he wouldn’t be interested in our theories on McGuire. He’s accepted that the man will never be caught. We’ll just have to look for help with this someplace else.”

  “What did you say?” said Loring, taking the bait. “

  McGuire. Antonio McGuire,” Kozlowski said. “You know, that guy you’ve been trying to put away for years—unsuccessfully, of course. We have reason to believe he may be involved in Natalie Caldwell’s murder, but it’ll probably never pan out. I’ll tell you what, we’ll make an appointment for next week, and we can discuss how everything went.” Kozlowski motioned Flaherty to the door and the two of them started to walk out of the office.

  “Wait!” Loring yelled. He was out of his seat and around his desk quickly. “In what way do you think McGuire is involved?”

  “At this point, it’s just a theory,” Flaherty said, “but Natalie Caldwell was working on a case for Huron Security at the time of her murder. There is a possibility she may have been killed because of something she learned about the company.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We can’t give that information out at this point,” said Flaherty, shaking her head.

  Loring considered Flaherty for a moment, weighing his options. “What a pity,” he said. “For a moment I thought we were on the same side. I guess you’ll just have to find someone else who’s as familiar with McGuire as I am to help you out.”

  The two detectives looked at each other. They were at a stalemate with Loring and they knew it. Neither detective wanted to give up too much information about the investigation, but they needed Loring’s help to figure out what role, if any, McGuire had played in Natalie Caldwell’s murder. After a few seconds of reading each other’s faces, they both nodded.

  “Scott Finn made the claim.”

  “Finn.” Loring considered this. “The lawyer who took over the Huron case after Natalie’s murder?” It seemed he already knew more than the detectives might have thought.

  Flaherty nodded. “At the moment, he’s also our primary suspect in the case. How do you know so much about him?”

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on him because of his connections to Huron and McGuire. We’ve been hearing his name mentioned by certain individuals with strong connections to organized crime.” He thought for a moment. “If he’s your main suspect, he may just be trying to deflect attention away from himself.”

  “That’s our worry,” Flaherty admitted. “What’s Finn’s connection to organized crime?”

  Loring shook his head. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out. We only know that certain dangerous people have been asking questions about him.” Loring was pacing back and forth now. “Did Mr. Finn indicate what Natalie had discovered that led to her death?”

  “He wasn’t exactly clear,” Flaherty admitted. “He simply said that Huron had been stealing from the state.”

  Loring raised his eyebrows. “Did he have any proof?”

  She nodded. “He said he had documents. I asked him for confirmation and he told me to talk to his private investigator. Unfortunately, that PI was murdered last night. When I told Finn, he seemed shocked at the news. The PI’s name was Bostick—a former Boston PD member.”

  Loring was becoming more agitated. “Do you know who killed Mr. Bostick?”

  Flaherty shook her head. “I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation, and he said that they had no good leads. For the moment they’re treating it as a random mugging.”

  “That would be a remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, one among many. But I don’t have enough information to move things in any other direction.” Flaherty looked at Kozlowski, who had remained silent during the exchange. She wondered if she’d divulged too much information. The room was quiet for a moment as Loring paced back and forth behind his desk, doing mental gymnastics without taking any note of the two officers. Finally it was too much for Flaherty to take.

  “Look, we’ve laid out our information, it’s time you started giving something back. What do you know about McGuire? Who is he? And is it really possible he could be mixed up in all of this?”

  Loring stopped his pacing and faced her. “Oh yes, it’s very possible. I might even say it’s probable.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “This is a very bad man we’re talking about.”

  “We’ve dealt with bad men before,” Kozlowski interjected, clearly annoyed at Loring’s patronizing tone.

  “With all due respect, Detective, you’ve never dealt with a man like McGuire before.”

  “What makes him so different?” Flaherty asked.

  “Several things. First of all, he’s brilliant. Most of the people in organized crime are nothing but street thugs with some violent supporters. Not McGuire. His schemes are often elaborate and well conceived. So well conceived we haven’t been able to catch him at anything yet. He layers corruption on top of corruption in a pyramid that’s almost impenetrable, so his finances are almost impossible to trace. He has a sophisticated mind that could have made him remarkably successful in almost any legitimate business. Unfortunately, he has some serious character flaws.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a love of violence and the absence of a conscience. He grew up in Somerville in the projects, and his father was fairly high up in the Winter Hill Gang. He was a sadistic son of a bitch and worked as an enforcer. Our reports indicate that he liked his work—and that he took it home with him.”

  “Child abuse?” Flaherty asked.

  “That’s a polite term for it. We have hospital records from back in the early sixties, when Antonio McGuire was a kid. He was in the
emergency room almost every week. Broken bones, lacerations, burns that often resembled cigar tips, whip marks from leather belts, you name it.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Yeah. Apparently his father wanted to toughen him up. He did a good job. When McGuire was sixteen he moved out of his father’s house. A week later the police found the senior McGuire hanging from a banister in the staircase.”

  “I take it from your tone it wasn’t a suicide?”

  “Not likely. More than twenty different bones had been broken in his body before he died. It looked like he was used as a piñata as he suffocated. The soles of his feet were burned off with a blowtorch, and his hands didn’t resemble anything human.”

  “Did they ever find out for sure who did it?”

  “There were rumors about it being a retaliation hit by La Cosa Nostra out of the North End, but it didn’t fit. There was too much anger involved, and the wounds were too personal. Eventually, word began to trickle out that Antonio had taken his revenge on his old man. After that, Tony rose quickly through the ranks of the Winter Hill Gang, and later was a captain under Whitey Bulger. Eventually, though, he moved on to more sophisticated scams involving government and business fraud.” Loring caught a look from both detectives. “That’s right, just like the scam you’re talking about. I’ve been trying to bust him for fifteen years, but he’s a slippery bastard, and he keeps wriggling away.”

  “So it’s possible Finn may be telling the truth?”

  “As I said, it’s definitely possible. If Mr. Finn actually has documents proving that McGuire has been embezzling from the state, it could provide the biggest break in a case we’ve been trying to make for more than six years. One thing’s for sure, though.” Loring looked at the two officers. “If McGuire even suspects Finn possesses incriminating evidence that he intends to share with us, the man won’t last a day on the streets.”