Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  ‘Bartender says you still bought her drinks,’ Finn said.

  ‘Bartenders should shut the fuck up,’ Howland said loudly. The bartender glared at Finn, but Finn ignored it. Howland let his head hang down another inch or two. ‘I still bought her drinks,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘Not that it would’ve done me any good at this point. Even at her age, even with our history, she wouldn’t let anyone near her without cash. She was like that her entire life, even when she was a teenager. If she thought you had juice – if she knew you had money and she might be able to get at it – she was willing to go anywhere, do just about anything. Without it, though …’ he held his hand up in a fist, then opened it to show it was empty. ‘Nothing. Not even for her favorite Scotch.’

  ‘At least she had standards,’ Finn muttered.

  ‘Oh, she had standards,’ Howland said. He looked over at Finn again, examining him from head to toe. ‘They might not reach up to yours, from the look of you, but she definitely had standards. She was always looking for a big score, always thinking that just a little more money would fix her. Truth is, money wasn’t what was broke about her.’

  ‘What was broke about her, then?’ Finn asked.

  ‘Beats the shit outta me,’ Howland said. He took another sip from his beer. ‘She told me about you, once.’

  Finn raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Not in the way you think. We were drunk once, way back. Out on the town, tearing it up the way we used to do. I remember we were laughing, laughing so hard we were crying, I can’t remember what about. And suddenly I realized she wasn’t laughing anymore, she was just crying. I figured it was the booze, and that was part of it, but there was more, I could tell. She told me she had a son. Said she’d had a boy who’d died after he was born. I guess she was only telling me part of the story.’

  ‘She gave me up for adoption,’ Finn said.

  Howland nodded. ‘Makes sense. I can’t imagine her with a kid.’

  ‘Do you know who could have been the father?’ Finn asked. ‘Was there anyone she was dating forty-five years ago?’

  ‘She didn’t date.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Howland shook his head. ‘That’s a long time ago, and she wasn’t the type to keep to one attachment at a time. Whoever he was, though, you can bet he had some money. That was her rule.’

  Finn thought about that for a few minutes. ‘You know anyone who would have wanted to kill her?’

  ‘Not specifically,’ Howland said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Howland looked at Finn. ‘Look, I’m trying to be diplomatic here, okay? She was your mother, even if you didn’t know her. I don’t wanna say anything that’s gonna piss you off.’

  ‘You can’t say anything about her that would piss me off,’ Finn said. ‘I just want to find out what I can.’

  Howland looked up at the ceiling. ‘Fine, you wanna know, I’ll tell you. Your mother was a first-class bitch. I mean, I liked her, ’cause she was such a pistol, but she treated people like shit. That’s just the plain truth. She could try the patience of the saints. So, yeah, I could see lots of people gettin’ pissed off enough to take a swing at her. But do I know of anyone in particular who was that mad at her? No.’

  ‘Nothing more specific than that?’

  ‘No. You wanna talk specifics, you got the wrong guy. I didn’t even really know her anymore. I’d see her sometimes in here. If I had money, I’d buy her a drink, just for old time’s sake.’ He frowned, as though reconsidering. ‘I do know she was into her company for a pretty penny.’ Finn flashed him an inquiring glance. ‘I never trusted that place. Other than that, there’s nothing I can tell you.’

  Finn stood up and threw a twenty on the bar. ‘I’ll buy the next round,’ he said.

  ‘Much obliged,’ Howland said again. Finn turned to leave, but Howland caught him by the arm. ‘You were probably better off,’ he said. ‘Putting you up for adoption; that was the right thing for her to do. She was a selfish person. She wasn’t the kind of person you would have wanted as a mother.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Finn said.

  ‘No, but I would.’ Howland pushed the twenty to the edge of the bar. ‘Frank!’ he called out to the bartender. ‘Gimme another shot and a beer!’ He nodded toward the twenty on the bar. ‘Thanks again,’ he said over his shoulder to Finn. ‘Good luck with whatever you’re lookin’ for.’

  ‘You too,’ Finn said.

  Howland smiled sadly. ‘My lookin’ days are over. If I haven’t found it by now, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Long, was it?’

  ‘Detective Long, yes.’

  McDougal pushed the intercom button on his desk phone. ‘Janice, could you bring some coffee for Detective Long?’ He took his finger off the button. ‘How do you take it, Detective Long?’ The emphasis in the question offended Long. He was pretty sure it was intentional.

  ‘Nothing for me,’ Long replied.

  ‘You sure?’ McDougal asked. ‘Maybe you could use a little pick-me-up. You look a little frayed at the edges, y’know?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks,’ Long said. It occurred to him that one disadvantage to carrying a gun was how often he had to fight the inclination to use it.

  McDougal clicked the intercom again. ‘Never mind, Janice. The detective will tough it out.’ He took his finger off the phone and sat down. They were in a windowless room. The rug was the same industrial turf from the reception area, but the décor was a step and a half above. McDougal’s desk was large and ornately carved. The green leather desktop matched the upholstery on the chair. The pictures on the walls showed McDougal with a wide range of Bostonians of varying infamy. Politicians featured prominently; Long could name only a few of them, but their faces were familiar enough from the papers for him to know they were men of local significance. The centerpiece was a signed photograph of McDougal with Kurt Schilling from 2004. McDougal noticed Long examining it. ‘Game six of the Yankees series,’ he said. ‘That picture was taken right after. I had tickets with some of Menino’s boys. Great game.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘I remember.’

  ‘You there?’

  Long shook his head. ‘I’ve got to ask you some questions about Elizabeth Connor, Mr McDougal.’

  ‘What’s your first name?’

  ‘Detective.’

  ‘Is it some matter of national security?’

  ‘Zachary.’

  McDougal nodded. ‘I knew the name was familiar. You’re the cop who killed his partner. Shit, it’s good to meet you.’ He smiled and stuck his hand out.

  Long ignored the hand. ‘I’m going to need whatever information you have on Ms Connor,’ he said. ‘All her employment records, any correspondence the company has had with her. Everything.’

  ‘I’ll have Janice put that together for you just as soon as she gets a chance,’ McDougal said. ‘You looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘I’m particularly looking to find out who killed her and why.’

  ‘I guess that narrows it down,’ McDougal said.

  ‘What’s Joey Slade’s interest in the company?’ Long asked.

  ‘Careful, Detective,’ McDougal said. There was menace in his tone, though he was still smiling. ‘You don’t wanna be pissing off the wrong people.’

  ‘He’s listed with the Secretary of State’s office as one of the owners. Is there a reason my knowing his role here would piss him off? Seems like that would only be the case if someone was trying to hide something.’

  The smile on McDougal’s face vanished. ‘I know you, Detective,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. You’re a man who’d rather stand on principle and shoot his partner than look the other way. I admire that. I admire Don Quixote, too, but the windmills still beat him every time.’

  ‘I’ll ask the question again,’ Long said. ‘What’s Joey Slade’s involvement in this company?’

  McDougal looked down at the desk. After
a moment’s thought, he said, ‘Mr Slade is an investor in the company. He is, for all intents and purposes, a silent partner in the operations.’

  ‘He trusts the operations to you?’ Long asked.

  ‘He does. I’m very reliable.’

  ‘Does he keep an office here?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure he’s ever been to this building. Only Janice and me work here. The rest of it’s a warehouse. Like I said, he’s a silent partner.’

  ‘How about Elizabeth Connor?’ Long asked.

  ‘How about her? She’s dead.’

  ‘Had she ever been to the offices here?’

  ‘How should I know?’ McDougal responded. ‘I don’t know all the people who work for me. I never met the woman, so I wouldn’t know her if her ghost walked through that door right now.’

  ‘You ever talk to her? Even over the phone?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ Long said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone along with the copy of Elizabeth Connor’s phone records. He dialed the highlighted number.

  ‘What are you doing?’ McDougal asked.

  ‘Checking something.’

  The phone on McDougal’s table rang. He looked at it, looked at Long. On the second ring, Janice picked up from out in the reception area.

  ‘355 Water Street,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Thanks, Janice,’ Long said. He closed his phone. ‘Funny thing, Mr McDougal. Elizabeth Connor called this number five times in the month before she was killed. In each case, the call lasted more than five minutes. In two cases it lasted more than ten. You tell me that there are only two people who work here – you and Janice – but both of you say you’ve never spoken to her. How is that?’

  ‘It’s time for you to leave,’ McDougal said.

  ‘We could do this down at the police station,’ Long said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ McDougal said. ‘You just call my lawyer any time you want me. I’ll come running.’ He reached into a drawer and pulled out a business card. ‘His number’s right there on the front. One of the best in the city. He’ll have me out of the police station in a matter of minutes.’

  Long looked at the card and frowned. It was heavy card stock with embossed lettering that read Law Offices of Scott T. Finn. Long felt like he might throw up.

  ‘Something wrong?’ McDougal asked.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr McDougal,’ Long said, standing. He walked to the door. When he got there, he turned. ‘One last question, Mr McDougal: What did you and Ms Connor talk about when she called?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ McDougal replied.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘There has to be more to this,’ Finn said. He and Kozlowski were back at the office in Charlestown. Finn was sitting behind his desk, staring into the computer screen, running searches for any public information regarding Elizabeth Connor. There were over a thousand women in the United States with the name, and most of the other nine hundred and ninety-nine seemed to have led more interesting lives than the one who was murdered in Roxbury.

  ‘Why?’ Kozlowski asked.

  ‘Because,’ Finn said. ‘People don’t just get murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, they do,’ Kozlowski replied. ‘After baseball, murder is America’s favorite pastime. People “just” get murdered all the time.’

  ‘Not my mother.’

  Kozlowski grunted. ‘Listen to yourself,’ he said. ‘You’re talking like you knew her. Like you have any idea who she was.’

  ‘She was my mother,’ Finn said. ‘I must know her at some level, right? Even if it’s buried. Isn’t that the way this is supposed to work?’

  ‘Only in Hollywood. This look like Hollywood?’

  Finn said, ‘There’s got to be something we’re missing.’

  Kozlowski shook his head. ‘There isn’t. At least, there’s nothing you’re gonna find on the Internet. I’ve got access to search engines that blow anything you’ve got working on Google or Yahoo. I ran her name through all of them, culled through the results, limited what I had to what was relevant to this particular Elizabeth Connor. Know what I came up with? Nothing. A big fat goose egg. You’re not gonna do any better tapping away on your computer, trust me.’

  Finn pushed his chair away from the desk in frustration. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ he demanded. ‘You expect me to just give up?’

  Kozlowski shook his head. ‘Not in your nature.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Start in the past,’ Kozlowski said. ‘And start with what made her different.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘From everything we’ve learned, only two interesting things happened in Elizabeth Connor’s life: she was murdered, and she gave up a child for adoption forty-four years ago. We haven’t had any luck finding out anything about her from her murder, so start at the other end and find out whatever you can about the adoption.’

  ‘From who?’ Finn demanded.

  ‘For starters, from the adoption agency and the place where you were born. It’s up in New Hampshire, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Finn said. ‘A couple of hours north.’

  ‘So, go there. Start asking questions,’ Kozlowski said.

  Finn considered the suggestion. ‘I’ve got to pick up Sally from school at two-thirty today. Then I’d have to figure out what to do with her while I go up there.’

  ‘Take her with you,’ Kozlowski suggested. ‘It’d be a nice little father-daughter bonding experience.’

  ‘She’s not my daughter,’ Finn said.

  ‘She’s more your daughter than Elizabeth Connor was your mother. Besides, you’ll seem a lot less intimidating if you’ve got a daughter with you when you get there. It’ll be a lot easier to get information that way.’

  Finn shook his head. ‘I don’t want to get her involved.’

  ‘She’s involved already,’ Kozlowski said. ‘She’s a part of your life; this is your life.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of crap,’ Finn said. ‘She’s dealt with worse,’ Kozlowski said. ‘A lot worse.’

  Kevin McDougal’s duplex apartment was on L Street in South Boston, looking out on Pleasure Bay, toward Castle Island. Across Boston Harbor, airplanes approached Logan Airport parallel to the horizon on the narrow peninsula jutting out from East Boston. Eamonn McDougal had his driver pull the car up to the building. He took out his key and slid it into the front door, letting himself in.

  His son’s apartment took up the second and third floors. Eamonn had paid for it a year before. Now, he wondered whether he’d done the right thing. He’d never demanded enough from his son; he’d allowed the boy’s mother to coddle him in a manner that would have been unthinkable when Eamonn was young.

  He slid a second key into the apartment lock, turned the knob and opened the door.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was the sweet, sharp, synthetic odor of burnt chemicals. He recognized the stench, and understood what it meant. The fury grew in his chest as he stepped into the apartment.

  There were five of them sprawled out on the endless Corinthian leather sectional for which he’d paid top dollar. His wife had said she didn’t want their son living without the best that money could buy. Sal D’Ario, nicknamed ‘Dorito’, and Peter Alred, the two idiots Kevin McDougal considered his ‘crew’, were fully reclined at either end of the couch. Dorito’s eyes were partially closed, rolled up into his head. Alred was staring at the television, which was playing a cartoon about a bright yellow talking sponge. There were two women – girls, really – sitting between them on the couch. Whores, no doubt, from the way they were dressed, though Eamonn knew that fashion had gone in such a radical direction that it was now often hard for him to tell. They both seemed to be sleeping.

  His son was in the middle of the couch, his shirt unbuttoned, bare chest showing, staring idly up at the ceiling. On the coffee table in front of him a bent spoon balanced precariously on the
edge of a glass. A butane lighter lay on its side next to the glass, and a dozen small vials of brown powder were lined up in the center next to a length of rubber tubing and two hypodermic needles. Three empty vials were overturned on the floor next to the table.

  Alred was the first to notice Eamonn standing before them. ‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, struggling to sit up. ‘Fuck, Kev.’ He stood unsteadily, knocking into the coffee table, spilling the remaining vials onto the floor. ‘Mr McDougal,’ he stammered as he bent down to pick up the vials, chasing them around the hardwood floor with his fingers as they skidded and eluded his grasp. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said over and over. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Eamonn ignored him, keeping his focus on his son. ‘Kevin,’ he said, ‘tell these people to leave.’

  His son looked at him, and it took a moment for the gravity of the situation to register. He stood up and pulled his shirt closed in front of his chest. ‘Dad,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming. I’m staying in the apartment; I’m doing what you told me to.’ At least he wasn’t shaking, Eamonn thought. He wondered whether the drugs were lending him courage.

  ‘Tell them to leave. Now.’

  Dorito and the two girls were awake now, and they were looking nervously back and forth between Eamonn and Kevin, unsure what to do. Alred was still on his knees, scooping up the drug paraphernalia.

  Kevin walked around the coffee table, toward his father. ‘It’s … it’s okay,’ he babbled, his confidence waning. He didn’t even come up to Eamonn’s chin, and though he was well muscled, it was all fake. It wasn’t the hard, lean build that came from real work; it was the round, puffy muscle that came from leisure time at the gym. Everything about the boy was for show: the car, the clothes, the tattoos, all of it. All carefully cultivated in the hope that people would overlook the fact that he was a squirt of a child, quite literally half the man his father was. For just a moment, Eamonn thought he was going to be sick at the sight of him. ‘I swear,’ Kevin was repeating, ‘I’m doing what you told me to.’

  Eamonn waited as his son approached him until he was just within range. Then without warning, and with the speed and force of a man half his age, he swung his fist in a solid arc into his son’s face. He was surprised at the satisfaction he took from the boy’s shocked expression. He didn’t go down, but he staggered to his right, off balance, his hand going to his bleeding lips, his eyes spinning.