Innocence

by David Hosp

  She looked as though she hadn’t heard Finn. She was still staring at Kozlowski. His eyes met hers evenly. “You’re behind this, aren’t you. You motherfucker.”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit. It’s not enough that you— Now you walk back into my life fifteen years later and throw this shit in my face? You asshole. You absolute sadomasochistic asshole.”

  “It’s important,” Kozlowski replied. “I told you.”

  “His fingerprints were on the gun!”

  “Ms. Steele, I’m not asking about the fingerprints,” Finn said. “I’m asking about what you remember.”

  She turned to look back at Finn. “You want to know what I remember, you slimy son of a bitch? I remember your client attacking me. I remember him trying to rape me. I remember him shooting me. I remember lying in the gutter, waiting to die. But you know what I remember most? Do you? Mostly, I remember what it was like to walk. I remember what it was like having legs instead of this fucking chair. I remember what it was like being able to take a crap without hauling myself onto the toilet with my arms and shoulders. I remember all that very well. Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” Finn said. “But—”

  She cut him off. “No. No buts. No fucking buts. I’ve told you what I remember. Now I want you to remember something.” She practically spat in his face. “I want you to remember that if you ever come near me again, I swear to God I will put you in a chair just like this one for the rest of your fucking life. Then we’ll talk about what it is that both of us really remember. Now get the fuck out of my office.” She looked at Kozlowski. “Both of you.”

  z

  “That could have gone better,” Finn said as he pulled out of the police parking lot at Schroeder Plaza.

  “I warned you,” Kozlowski said. “What did you expect? We’re asking for her help in freeing the man who shot her and put her in that chair for the rest of her life.”

  “Except that he didn’t do it.”

  “Fine. Let’s assume that’s right. It still doesn’t change the fact that she believes he did. Did you really expect her to pour some nuts in a fucking bowl, make us some tea, and ask us to sit down for a goddamned heart-to-heart?”

  “No. But I also didn’t expect her to have so much animosity toward you even before we told her why we were there. I thought you were friends, but no, we start with two strikes against us.”

  “I told you. We were friends. We hadn’t talked in years.”

  “Fine. But there are lots of people I haven’t talked to in years who I was friends with, and I wouldn’t expect them to rip my throat out if I got in touch with them. I mean, hell, you were more of a liability in there than anything else. What the fuck happened between the two of you?”

  Kozlowski stared out the car window. “She went through a rough time after she was shot. I wasn’t there for her the way I should have been.”

  “I thought you were just friends.”

  “We were just friends. I wasn’t there for her as a friend.” Kozlowski sighed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were more than friends, but not in the way you mean. There was never any funny business between us, but I was her mentor. I was the one she came to with problems. I knew her father and her brothers; they were cops, too. She had it tough, trying to live up to them. I was the person she talked to most. The person she trusted most. Maybe that did make us more than friends.”

  Finn looked over at Kozlowski. “So, if you were that close, why weren’t you there for her when she got shot?”

  The large man shifted uncomfortably in the tiny car, and the cuff of his jacket sleeve caught on the door handle. “Fuck,” he said as he tried to free himself. “Motherfucker.” He swung his arm hard, and the handle popped off the door and landed in his lap. He looked at it, held it up to examine it, then handed it to Finn. “You may need this later.”

  “Jesus Christ, Koz,” Finn yelled. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”

  “It’s your car, asshole. Maybe if you drove something big enough for a normal-sized person to sit in, shit like this wouldn’t happen.” Kozlowski watched as Finn guided the little car around the remnants of the Big Dig and into the Callahan Tunnel, heading toward Logan Airport. “Where are we going?”

  “East Boston.”

  “No shit. Why?”

  “While you were AWOL this morning, I did some checking around. Salazar’s brother, Miguel, spends his afternoons twice a week at a free clinic over here. I want to talk to him.”

  “Free clinic?” Kozlowski scoffed. “I thought he was some big-shot doctor.”

  “He is,” Finn said. “He’s a surgeon at Mass General. Probably one of the top positions in the country.”

  “So what the fuck is he doing wasting his time in a free clinic?”

  “How should I know? What does it matter? You have other plans for the day?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Finn put the door handle on the dashboard. “You gonna tell me what the hell happened between you and Steele? Why you weren’t there for her ‘as a friend’ when she got shot?”

  Kozlowski continued staring out the window as they emerged from the tunnel and East Boston rolled past them. “No,” he said. “That’s between me and her.”

  His tone made it clear to Finn that the discussion was over from Kozlowski’s point of view. “Fine. Perfect. You’ll tell me if there’s anything else important that you intend to keep to yourself, right?”

  Kozlowski turned his head to look at Finn. There was anger in his expression, but Finn didn’t care. He had enough of his own to compete. “I’ll let you know,” Kozlowski said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The free clinic was located on the flat of East Boston, near the airport, in one of the poorest sections of town. It made sense, Finn supposed, but it was hard to figure why someone doing as well as Miguel Salazar would choose to spend any significant amount of time in the area. It appeared that he shared at least some of his brother’s genuine dedication to his profession.

  Finn pulled his car up alongside a nondescript, dingy clapboard building that matched the address he’d been given. The street was deserted, and there was nothing to identify the structure as a medical facility.

  “You sure this is the right place?” Kozlowski asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” Finn replied, opening his door and climbing out. He was at the door to the building before he realized that Kozlowski wasn’t with him. He looked back at the car and saw Koz sitting there, staring back at Finn. Finn walked back to the car. “You joining me?” he asked through the window.

  Kozlowski glared at him. “I can’t get out.”

  It took a moment for Finn to clue in: There was no handle on the door anymore. He opened the door from the outside. “Serves you right,” he said. “Maybe I should just leave you here. You haven’t pissed

  off anyone in here that I don’t know about, have you?”

  “Not yet,” Kozlowski grumbled.

  They walked over to the door; it was little more than a sheet of plywood on hinges, covered with chipped white paint. There was no sign of life. Finn looked at Kozlowski and shrugged, then pulled the door open.

  It was like stepping from the surface of the moon to the streets of Calcutta. As soon as the door opened, a profusion of parents talking, children screaming, and people coughing and moaning assaulted them. All eyes turned to the door, and a protest went up at the blast of cold air that flooded the room.

  They walked in, careful not to step on the fingers or toes of the small children who littered the grubby floor, playing or lying down in exhaustion. There had to be more than fifty people crammed into the tiny room. From the Spanish that was being spoken and the light brown complexions of those gathered, Finn guessed that most there were from South or Central America. He saw a few Asian faces as well, and thought he heard a smattering of Italian and Russian being whispered in the corners. Most of the adults in the room glanced nervously at Finn and Kozlowski.
/>
  A door at the far end of the room opened, and a young woman in a white doctor’s coat poked her head out. “Martinez!” she called. Then, after a pause, again: “Martinez!”

  Finn saw a woman sitting against the wall get to her feet, then stoop to gather up two small children. She headed toward the far door and gave a shy “Hola” to the woman standing there.

  “Hola,” the woman replied with a smile that betrayed exactly how tired she was. She let the woman pass through the door before she looked around the room. Finn could almost see her mind calculating the length of the rest of her day based on how full the room was.

  Then her eyes came to rest on Finn and Kozlowski, and her expression changed instantly from fatigue to anger.

  “No!” she yelled, stepping over patients as she came toward them. “No!” she yelled again. “We paid! We put that check in the mail last week! We’ll get a restraining order if it’s really necessary; this kind of intimidation is despicable! Out! Out right now!”

  “Sorry?” Finn said defensively.

  “You will be if you don’t leave,” the woman confirmed. She was short and stocky, and judging from the way she was moving, Finn suspected that she knew how to handle herself in the event of a physical confrontation. “Out! Now!”

  “We’re looking for Miguel Salazar,” Finn said. “Is he here?”

  The woman stopped in her advance, clearly caught off guard. “Are you from the landlord?” she asked.

  “No,” Finn replied. He looked at Kozlowski. “You from the landlord?”

  “Not last time I checked.”

  “We’re not from the landlord,” Finn concluded, addressing the woman again.

  “We’ve been having trouble with the landlord,” the woman said. “He’s an asshole, and he’s looking to evict us. He thinks he can make more than we’re paying.”

  “Right,” Finn said. “Sounds like a bastard. We’re not with him.”

  She looked relieved, but some suspicion still hung in her expression. “What do you want to see Miguel about?”

  “I’m his brother’s lawyer,” Finn said. “This is one of my colleagues, Tom Kozlowski. We’re here to talk to him about his brother’s case.”

  A smile dawned on her face. “Vincente? You’re Vincente’s lawyer?”

  Finn was confused. “You know Vincente?”

  She shook her head. “No. Although I sometimes feel like I do. Miguel talks so much about him, I feel like there isn’t much I don’t know about the man. He’s an inspiration, and he’s largely responsible for all this.” She waved her hand around the grimy waiting room. Finn looked at the dense glass and chicken-wire windows set too high and plaster hanging off the walls and wondered whether she was trying to be ironic. He thought not.

  “Is Miguel here?” Finn asked again.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. I’m sorry to be rude. I’m Dr. Jandreau, but you can call me Jill. He’s in with a patient, but he’ll be done in a few minutes, and I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you. We’re all keeping our fingers crossed for his brother. It must be awful to be trapped in prison for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  “But you don’t know Vincente, I thought,” Finn said.

  “No, that’s right. But I know Miguel. That’s enough.” She nodded, as though that explained it all. “One of our doctors called in sick this morning, so there’s an empty examination room in the back. You can wait for him there, and he’ll be with you once he’s done with his patient.”

  z

  Mac sat at his desk at headquarters at One Schroeder Plaza, sweating in spite of the fact that the building was ten degrees below comfortable. He felt like everything was coming apart, and that made him physically ill. Early that morning he’d been unable to choke down any breakfast, and when he’d tried to drink some coffee, the resulting wave of nausea had him doubled over.

  He was sure that the people around him had noticed the change in his demeanor. What had once felt like confidence now echoed as defensiveness and anger. He no longer had the energy to dress himself properly, and looking down, he noticed a pasta stain on his shirt.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  “Yes,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.

  “It’s me.” Mac kept his voice low, lest anyone try to eavesdrop. He knew he should use a pay phone, but he was too weary to make such an effort.

  “I was beginning to think I was going to have to contact you. I’m relieved it hasn’t come to that.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. I think I’ve figured a way out of this.”

  “Good. You will take care of the lawyer, then?”

  “No,” Mac said. “That wouldn’t solve the problem; it would only buy some time. Salazar could always find a new lawyer. Besides, two lawyers killed on the same case within a week? It’d raise some eyebrows.”

  “I’m not concerned with eyebrows,” the voice said. “What is your solution?”

  “Salazar.”

  There was silence on the line. “Are you sure it can be done?”

  “Happens all the time. Easier on the inside than in the real world.”

  “Yes, but Salazar spends much of his time in the infirmary. He is difficult to get to.”

  Mac grunted. “It’s prison. You can get to anybody.”

  “It cannot be traced back to us. You cannot use any of my people.”

  “Understood,” Mac said. “It’s already been arranged.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Again there was no reply. Then: “What about the lawyer?”

  “What about him? We deal with Salazar, and the lawyer’s reason to follow the trail disappears.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Look,” Mac said, hating the pitiful tone of his voice. “You told me to take care of this. That’s what I’ve done. You don’t like the way I handle things, then don’t call me again.”

  Mac could hear the contemplative breathing through the phone. “Fine. We’ll try your way first. If it doesn’t work, though . . .”

  “It will work.” Mac hung up the phone. He could feel the perspiration damp and cold under his arms and at his shirt collar. He tried to stand, but the nausea took him off his feet, and he closed his eyes as he crumpled into his chair.

  “You okay, Mac?” Detective Koontz called from the far side of the room.

  “Fine,” he choked out. Like she cares? Answer the fucking phones, then go home and make your fucking husband some goddamned dinner. Don’t sit there in my fucking squad room and ask me if I’m okay like you belong and I’m the one who’s out of place.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was regarding him with an expression of concern. “You sure?” she asked.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t a half-bad piece of ass for a cop. No tits, but you couldn’t have everything, could you. He forced a smile. “I was out for some drinks last night. Might have overdone it, you know?”

  “Been there,” she said. “I’ve got a kiwi Powerade in the fridge. It’s great for a hangover. Replaces the electrolytes. You’re welcome to it.”

  His head spun. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  She got up and went out toward the kitchen to get him the drink.

  Kiwi Powerade. Electrolytes. What the fuck had the world come to? Whatever happened to black coffee and Alka-Seltzer? One thing was painfully clear: The world had changed around him as he’d been sitting still, and it might very well be too late for him to catch up.

  z

  Jimmy Alvarez stood quietly, watching as the Padre closed his cell phone.

  “Our friend says that it will be taken care of,” Carlos said. “On the inside.”

  Jimmy said nothing. He had survived with Carlos against all odds because he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He was Mexican—and only half Mexican at that. Ten years ago that would have precluded his participation in VDS. True, good soldiers of other nationalities had been recruited in the past decade, but it was still an organ
ization that beat with the heart of El Salvador.

  But Jimmy had been instrumental in establishing the cross-border penetration that allowed the organization to carry on many of its most profitable activities. He’d grown up in El Cenizo, just across the border from Rio Bravo, Texas, a town made famous by the 1959 movie starring John Wayne and Dean Martin. His father was American; his mother wasn’t. As a result, he knew everyone along both sides of the border. Without him and the information he provided, VDS would be at a loss. That was why Carlos kept him alive.

  At the same time, the Padre kept him close, and Jimmy knew that his loyalties were always being deliberately tested. Because he was a Mexican. Because he was an outsider. Jimmy thought he had made the big time when Carlos first recruited him, and he swaggered around his hometown for a month. Now he knew it had been an illusion, and he would give anything to be out. Carlos, he realized, was a stone-cold killer, and Jimmy was nothing more than a hustler at heart. He’d never committed any greater violence than slapping around a few hookers to make himself feel tough, and he had the feeling that Carlos was beginning to sense his weakness. That put him in a very precarious position.

  “What do you think, Jimmy?” Carlos asked him.

  The others in the room looked at him. The Padre seldom asked for advice. It made Jimmy wary, and he considered the question carefully before answering.

  “If he wants to fix the problem himself, there’s no point in not letting him.”

  “But . . .” Carlos said.

  Jimmy went on. “But we need to have a backup plan in place. Next weekend is too important. If Macintyre can clean up his own mess, then so be it. If not, we have to clean it up ourselves.”

  “What of our detective friend? What would you do with him?”

  “From what you have told me, he was useful in the past, but he has also created unnecessary risk. If he fails in his attempt to resolve this matter, he must be dealt with.”