by David Hosp
Coale pulled five one hundred dollar bills off the stack of cash, reclipped the rest, folded the bills twice. As he walked past the garage owner, he tucked the bills into the man’s breast pocket. ‘You do the best work in the city, Hassan,’ he said. ‘You should be paid properly.’
‘Thank you,’ Hassan said simply.
Coale slipped into the car and eased on the gas in neutral. The sound of German engineering well maintained was gratifying. Sliding the car into gear, he looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back next month, Hassan.’
Hassan nodded, and the Mercedes rolled out toward the street. Coale had much to do. Inattention to detail could be fatal. He’d made his reputation on attention to detail.
Before pulling into traffic, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Hassan was standing by the door to the garage, watching him go, leaning against the building and wiping the fear from his brow with a cloth.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Detective Long stood at the doorway to the townhouse near the top of Bunker Hill in Charlestown. It was a moonless evening, and a light autumn rain misted down on him. It smelled clean. Cleaner here, up on the hill, than down in the projects by the water. It was nice up here, he thought. Nice to be so high up that you couldn’t smell the shit that coated the shoes of the little people. Nice to have a view that didn’t force you to witness what others went through just to survive. Long could only guess at how nice that would be. It wasn’t how he’d spent the first half of his life; it clearly wasn’t how he was going to spend the second half.
He took a deep breath and checked his attitude as he rang the doorbell to the top apartment. Scott T. Finn, Esquire had done well for himself. Good for him, Long thought; he had no reason to hold it against him. From what he’d learned through a brief background check, it wasn’t like the guy was born on a pile of gold. Finn had made it to the top of the hill on his own. More power to him. Long wondered whether the booze was affecting his judgment, but dismissed the notion quickly. Besides, he could afford to wait to pass judgment on the man. He was going to get a good, clear look into the man’s soul. Stress was the best truth serum, and Long was about to dump a whole truckload of stress on Scott T. Finn, Esquire.
The doorbell speaker crackled. ‘Yeah?’ It was a man’s voice.
‘Is that Scott Finn?’ Long responded.
‘Yeah. Who is it?’ There was an instinctive distrust in the voice.
‘Detective Long, Boston Police. I need to talk to you.’
The pause lasted longer than necessary. ‘I’ll be down.’
‘I can come up,’ Long said. The box had gone dead, though. That was fine with Long; he could do this in stages. There wasn’t any question in his mind that he’d be invited up eventually.
The door opened a couple of minutes later. Finn was standing in the doorway wearing jeans and an untucked button-down shirt. He looked to be about ten years older than Long, and a few inches taller. ‘Detective,’ he said, nodding. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Can we talk upstairs?’ Long asked.
Finn shook his head. ‘I’d prefer not to. I try to keep my home life separate from my work life. Which one is this about?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I assume you’re here about one of my clients? It may be easier to do this tomorrow at the office.’
Long shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in any of your clients. I need to talk to you.’
The lawyer’s eyes darkened. ‘About what?’
‘This really would be easier to do upstairs, Mr Finn.’ Long knew he wasn’t going to convince the man … yet.
‘I don’t think so,’ Finn said. ‘Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?’
‘Okay,’ Long relented. ‘I have to ask you some questions about your mother.’
Finn smiled, as though the visit were a mistake. ‘You’ve got the wrong guy,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so.’
Finn was still smiling. ‘I don’t have a mother.’
‘Everyone’s got a mother,’ Long said, toying with him.
Finn shook his head. ‘I’m an orphan,’ he said. ‘I never had parents.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Long said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he’d found taped to the bottom of Elizabeth Connor’s desk drawer. He held it up so that Finn could see it. ‘You wrote to her once.’
Finn’s face went white, and he staggered back slightly, leaning against the door. ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘It was in your mother’s apartment,’ Long said. ‘About five feet from her body. She was murdered last weekend.’ The lawyer didn’t respond. ‘You look a little shaky, Mr Finn. You sure you don’t want to discuss this upstairs?’
For a moment, Finn heard nothing. Not the patter of the raindrops tapping on the stoop; not the words the detective spoke after announcing the reason for his visit; not the pounding of his own heart. For a moment he was lost, overwhelmed by emotions he thought he’d put behind him many years before.
He managed to recover his composure only with significant effort. He had to, he knew. The lawyer in him understood that he had to let it go and refocus so that he could deal with the police detective at the door. ‘Maybe it would be better if we discussed this upstairs,’ he said at last.
Long nodded, and Finn thought he could detect the shadow of a smile cross his lips. ‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,’ he said.
Finn led the way up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He looked back twice to take some measure of the man. He looked to be younger than Finn, though there was wear around the edges of the eyes that testified to more experience than his age would suggest. He was a couple of inches shorter, maybe just shy of six feet, with a body that was neither thick nor thin. His light brown hair was rain swept, making him look, at first glance, disheveled and disorganized. The eyes were bloodshot but sharp, and they seemed to notice everything, taking it all in with the efficiency of a video camera, ready to play it all back later for analysis.
Finn opened the apartment door at the top of the stairs. The shock was wearing off, and underneath it Finn found a million questions. ‘Come in,’ he said, gesturing. Detective Long stepped in and Finn followed. He could see the man’s head swivel, the camera still recording.
‘You live here alone?’ Long asked.
‘No,’ Finn said. They walked through the entryway and into the living room. Sally was sitting on the couch reading. She looked up. ‘This is Sally,’ Finn said. ‘She lives here, too. Sally, this is Detective Long.’
Long walked over to her, and reached out his hand. His raincoat dripped dirty spots on the cream-colored carpeting. ‘Nice to meet you, Sally,’ he said.
She looked up at him, and then over toward Finn. ‘It’s all right,’ Finn said.
She looked back at Long’s hand, put her own out slowly. ‘Hello,’ she said. Long took hold of it and gave a firm shake, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘Detective Long and I need to talk about something in private,’ Finn said. ‘Can you give us a few minutes? Go on back and read in your room?’
Sally got up and walked out. ‘Nice meeting you,’ Long called out behind her, but she didn’t respond. ‘Cute kid,’ Long said to Finn after she’d left. ‘I did some digging before I came over. Didn’t know you had a daughter.’
‘I don’t,’ Finn responded.
Long raised an eyebrow. ‘Niece?’ he asked. There was something untoward in his tone – the hint of a euphemism.
‘Client’s daughter,’ Finn said. ‘He died. I’m looking after her.’
‘Tough break.’
Again, there was something in the detective’s tone that Finn didn’t like. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean having your parents die. Must be tough for her. Tough living without parents.’
‘Her father’s dead. Her mother’s alive; she’s just got problems,’ Finn said. ‘Did you come here to talk about Sally?’ Finn asked. ‘I mean, is she connected to my m
other?’
‘No.’ Long shrugged. ‘Just making conversation. I didn’t know about her. It made me curious, is all.’
Finn cocked his head and said, ‘Is that really what you’re curious about?’
‘No,’ Long said. It was clear that he was still studying Finn, trying to read him. ‘Did you know your mother was dead?’ Long asked.
‘I didn’t even know she was alive,’ Finn answered. ‘Who was she?’
Long held up the letter. ‘She never wrote back to you?’ he asked. ‘You never found out who she was?’ The detective walked over to the window and looked out at the view reaching down the hill to the shore.
‘No,’ Finn said. ‘She never wrote me back, and I never found out who she was.’ He felt his voice starting to rise, and took a deep breath to calm himself down. ‘I’ve spent my entire life knowing nothing about my parents. You’re telling me now that my mother was murdered. Sorry if I seem a little impatient. Who was she?’
It took a moment for Long to respond. He turned from the window and said, ‘Sorry.’ The way it came out made Finn want to knee the man in the groin, but he kept his composure. ‘Her name was Elizabeth Connor,’ Long said at last. ‘Lived in Roxbury, just out past Metropolitan Hospital. You been out that way recently?’
‘I’m in Roxbury District Court just about every week,’ Finn said. ‘You probably already know that if you did some background on me. How was she murdered?’
‘Beaten,’ Long said. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. ‘With the poker from a fire set. Whoever did it kept hitting her even after she was dead. Looks like there was a lot of anger involved. The locks were picked, her place was tossed. We’re not sure what she had there before, so we don’t know what’s missing.’
‘And the letter … ?’
‘Found it taped underneath a desk drawer. Interesting reading.’
‘I was angry when I wrote it.’
‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘So I gathered. Understandable, I guess, given everything that you went through. You didn’t have the happiest childhood after she gave you up, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Finn said.
‘Must’ve been tough.’
‘Lots of kids have it tough,’ Finn said. He narrowed his gaze at Long. ‘How about you, Detective? How was your childhood?’
Long nodded with a bitter laugh. ‘Touché, Mr Finn. ’Course, neither of my parents were murdered, otherwise I’m sure some cop would’ve shown up at my door asking a bunch of annoying questions. Your mother, though …’ His voice trailed off. ‘How many foster homes did you go through? How many stays at state facilities before you hit the streets?’
‘Too many,’ Finn said. He fought to keep his mind from pointlessly traversing the past. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Yeah, it was,’ Long admitted. ‘Some wounds take a long time to heal.’
‘Do you have something you want to ask me, Detective?’
Long turned his palms up. ‘It’s my job – you understand.’ He looked at his notes again. ‘Elizabeth Connor,’ he continued, summarizing, ‘lived alone; no evidence of any long-term attachments; not married; no children we know of – other than you, of course; fairly mundane job about ten blocks from where she lived. From what we know so far, she lived an unexceptional life.’
‘Any leads on who might have murdered her?’ Finn asked.
‘Just an angry letter from a son she apparently never knew taped to the bottom of a drawer.’ He waved the letter again. Finn looked away. ‘Other than that, nothing. You understand why we have to follow up, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ Finn said. ‘It’s late, so I’ll make this easy on you, Detective. I wrote the letter a long time ago and sent it to the agency that placed me as a baby. They said they would forward it to my birth mother if she was willing to accept it. I never heard anything back. I never found out anything about my mother’s identity until five minutes ago, and I had nothing to do with her death.’
Long was jotting down notes as Finn spoke. ‘That it?’ he said, looking up. ‘Nothing else?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ Finn replied. ‘Just a lot of questions about who she was and why she was murdered.’
‘You never knew her, and she abandoned you,’ Long said. ‘Why should you care?’
‘I don’t know,’ Finn said. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. Is there anything else you can tell me?’
Long shrugged as he closed his notebook. ‘It’s not the best neighborhood. Chances are it was just a simple robbery gone wrong. Crack-head looking for something to sell for his next high.’
‘Sounds like a logical theory.’
‘Yeah. Maybe. I still have to follow every lead.’ The detective looked down at the dark stains on the carpet. ‘Shit, I dripped on your rug. Sorry about that.’
‘It’s water,’ Finn said. ‘It’ll dry.’ The silence dragged out for several beats, both men looking at each other from across the room. ‘You got a picture?’
Long frowned. ‘Nothing you’d want to see.’
‘What do you mean?’
Long looked uncomfortable for the first time in the evening. ‘It was taken at the morgue.’
‘I still want to see it.’
Long reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Polaroid, glanced at it briefly. ‘You sure?’
Finn reached out and took the photograph from him. She barely looked human. She was naked to the tops of her breasts, a sheet covering her below. The glare of the surgical light reflected off white skin that was pulled tight. Her hair was back, and Finn could see the splatters of blood coming forward from her scalp. It gave him little idea of what she might have looked like in life. At least her eyes were closed.
‘I’m keeping it, okay?’ Finn said.
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
Long nodded. ‘I got others.’
‘Anything else?’ Finn asked.
‘No, I guess not,’ Long replied. He slipped the notebook into his jacket. ‘Sorry to drop all this on you like this.’
‘Like you said, it’s your job.’
‘Yeah. I’ll find my way out.’ Finn watched as Long headed down the hallway.
‘Long?’ Finn called after him as he reached the door. The detective turned to look at him. ‘You’ve really got no other leads?’
Long shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘How long do you think you’ll work the case?’
Long frowned. ‘I assure you, Mr Finn, I’ll work this case as hard as I can until there’s nothing left to go on.’
‘How long?’ Finn demanded.
Long started to say something, but checked himself. He took a deep breath. ‘Realistically?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Finn said. ‘Realistically.’
Long shrugged. ‘Unless there’s some sort of break – something that gives me something to chew on – a week. Maybe more, maybe less. You understand how it works.’ Finn stared at him, and Long nodded and opened the door. Then he was gone.
‘Yeah,’ Finn said quietly. ‘I understand how it works.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eamonn McDougal had once loved bars. He’d spent most of his life cruising through pubs and taverns, flashing his smile at the women, and his fists at the men. It was where he’d made his reputation, where he’d built his life. He’d loved bars the way a sailor loves the sea or a pilot loves the sky.
His son had ruined all that for him.
Kevin McDougal began sneaking into bars at age fourteen. That fact alone wouldn’t have bothered his father; it probably would have made him proud if the boy could carry forward the family’s reputation. He couldn’t, though. Where Eamonn was tall and broad in the chest and shoulders, Kevin was short and slight. The son had worked hard over the years at the gym to hang muscle from his thin bone structure, but for some reason that had only annoyed Eamonn even more. It made his son seem insecure, weak. Weakness was the thing in life that Eamonn hated mos
t, and he saw it in abundance in his only offspring.
His son’s greatest weakness had developed slowly over the past few years. Slowly enough that Eamonn had been able to convince himself that it wasn’t really a problem at all. Eamonn had tried a little cocaine himself in his youth, after all, and it had never taken over his life. It was a mere dalliance that provided an added rush in his adrenaline-fueled life, and he was smart enough to know that anything more than dabbling would weaken his mind.
Clearly his son didn’t share his strength or intelligence when it came to drugs. According to the rumors, Kevin had started with cocaine, but moved quickly through crack and heroin. Now the boy was using pretty much anything he could get his hands on. Selling, too. Eamonn had no moral problem with the drug trade, it had supplied him with a steady income stream over the years, but the notion of selling on the street depressed him. That’s what the hustlers and the skanks and the immigrants were for. No one of stature sold on the street. If he was involved in a deal, it was at the wholesale level, and the cash on the table reached into seven figures at least. That his son had been picked up on the street selling ten-dollar bags of crack outside a schoolyard made him want to vomit.
So, notwithstanding his long-standing love of bars, it was with revulsion and near dread that Eamonn opened the door to the HotSpot in Southie, looking for his son.
The HotSpot was new to the neighborhood, and it didn’t blend well. The black lacquer bar, modern abstract black and white photographs on the wall, and zebra-striped velvet curtains hanging at the back made plain that the bar was catering primarily to the yuppie scum who had invaded the South End in the past decade. For a terrifying moment Eamonn wondered whether it might be a gay bar, but the presence of numerous long-legged young women in tight cocktail dresses and expensive dye jobs set his mind somewhat at ease.
He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the lighting. Most of the patrons wore either business suits or the black-jeans-and-sweater uniforms of the Eurotrendies. He couldn’t believe the locals hadn’t burned the place to the ground yet.
Kevin was in the back, in an area of large, circular booths upholstered in the same velvet zebra trash that hung from the curtain rods. He was half reclined with two women and two of his ‘crew’. The two women were attractive, at least, but even that couldn’t temper Eamonn’s annoyance. Kevin was wearing black leather pants and a loose-fitting white sweater that showed off his muscles. He sat up straight when he saw his father.