Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  Finn shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. There’s nothing I can do outside the law. Even if I wanted to, there’s nothing I have to trade, no favors I have to call in.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ McDougal said.

  Finn stood up, leaning over the desk. ‘I don’t give a shit what you believe; I want to know who killed my mother!’ he screamed.

  McDougal pushed his chair back from the desk against the wall to create some space between Finn and himself. His right hand had been concealed beneath the desktop, but now Finn could see that it was gripping a large shiny semi-automatic pistol. McDougal pulled his hand up so the gun was resting on the top of the desk. ‘You just back away, Finny-boy, right this goddam second.’ He looked at Kozlowski. ‘And if I don’t see both of your hands in the next two seconds, your friend here’s dead, got it?’

  Kozlowski pulled his hand out of his coat pocket. ‘You pull a gun, you better be ready to use it,’ he said in a low tone.

  ‘No problem there, Mr Kozlowski. Try me, if you’d like.’ He stood and walked over to the filing cabinet, unlocked it and slid the file in. ‘I’ll make this easy on you. My son’s case gets dismissed in the next two weeks, and I’ll give you the file. I’ll even answer any questions you’ve got – though after you see the file, I’m sure you won’t have many. And as a bonus, I won’t kill you.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘My son’s case is still around in two weeks, though, and you can ask your mother who killed her yourself. You understand?’

  ‘This isn’t over,’ Finn said.

  ‘No,’ McDougal answered. ‘I guess it isn’t.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Senator James Buchanan’s was the largest townhouse in Louisburg Square – the real one on Beacon Hill, not the Quincy imitation where Long spent his lonely evenings. Buchanan didn’t really live there most of the time, though; he stayed there when he was in Boston, which was less than a third of the year. He split the rest of his time between a mansion on embassy row in DC, a chalet in Park City, and a beach compound in Newport, Rhode Island. Rumor had it that he also kept an apartment about which his wife had no idea.

  Long had called ahead to confirm that Buchanan was in residence. Congress was on a one-month break, theoretically to allow the members to take the pulse of their constituents, to argue issues, and to return with a better feel for how to represent those who had elected them. In reality, the recesses were used to raise funds to bankroll the next campaign. The cost of running for the Senate in the United States had gotten so high that even the wealthy relied heavily on fundraising, rather than paying for campaigns themselves. Buchanan had offices in the Kennedy Building downtown, but he ran his operation out of an office suite in his home.

  The door was opened by a young woman in a stylish business suit. She was nearly as tall as Long, and she had a stunning figure and a beautiful face. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  Long showed her his badge. ‘Detective Long, BPD,’ he said. ‘I called a little while ago about an investigation.’

  She nodded. ‘We’re expecting you,’ she replied. She stepped back from the door and extended her arm in an invitation to enter. ‘I’m Sonia Harding, one of the senator’s personal assistants.’

  ‘He has more than one?’

  ‘He’s a very busy man.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She shot him a cautionary glance. ‘He’s on a call, and he’ll be down shortly. He asked me to have you wait in the library.’

  She led him into a room that was out of an English country manor. Mahogany bookcases with ornately carved moldings lined the walls up to the ceiling, towering fifteen feet above them. Two ladders on wheels attached to a brass rail that ran along the top edge of the shelves allowed access to the books. The furniture was leather, including the tops of two reading tables.

  Two walls were covered with ancient lithographs showing some sort of excavation. They caught Long’s attention, and he walked over to get a better look.

  ‘Landfills,’ Sonia Harding said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Landfills.’ She motioned to the images on the walls. ‘They show the landfills in progress. More than seventy-five percent of what is today the city of Boston was once covered in water. Most of the city is built on landfills.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was that much.’

  She nodded and pointed to one particular sequence of prints. ‘This is the Back Bay landfill. The senator’s great grandfather was an engineer. He was in charge of the process by which nearly six hundred acres between Fenway and the Charles River was turned from a swamp into a fashionable neighborhood. For nearly forty years, a train car’s worth of earth and gravel was dumped into the Back Bay every ten minutes, twenty-four hours a day. It doubled the size of the city at the time, and made the senator’s family one of the richest in the country.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘I try to know as much as I can about the senator.’

  Sonia Harding motioned him into a tall wingback chair that looked like it had cost the lives of several calves to make. The personal secretary sat across from him in an identical chair, crossing her legs discreetly.

  ‘How long have you worked for the senator?’ Long asked her.

  ‘Three years,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s better than what I was doing before.’

  ‘Which was?’

  She smiled. ‘You didn’t say what this meeting was about when you called.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Can you tell me now? It may save some valuable time for both you and the senator.’

  ‘It’s something I need to talk to Senator Buchanan about directly.’

  ‘Are you sure? I may be able to help you while we wait.’

  ‘Never let it be said that I turned down an offer of assistance,’ Long said. ‘You may be able to give me some background. You work out of the office here?’

  She nodded. ‘This is where the senator prefers to work. We keep a couple of people at the downtown office, but most of the important work goes on here.’

  ‘Does that include work on the reelection campaign?’

  ‘Some. We’re very careful, of course, because there are rules about who can work on the campaign. We don’t want to be accused of using taxpayer resources to run the reelection, but yes, many of the campaign staffers are located here.’

  ‘Who is in charge of the campaign’s finances?’ Long asked.

  She hesitated. ‘I should probably know, but I don’t. I don’t deal with the finance people at all. I handle the senator’s calendar. I do some typing, too. It’s a pretty traditional role, I guess.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a traditional role,’ Long said. ‘Is he a decent boss?’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Long said. ‘I thought it was a pretty straightforward question. Is he a decent boss? Is he nice? Does he treat you well?’ He noted her hesitation.

  ‘He treats me very well,’ she said, though her expression didn’t lighten at all.

  ‘He has a reputation,’ Long said. It was non-specific; he could have been referring to a good reputation or a bad one. He wanted to see how she would interpret it.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘And I think I resent the implication.’

  ‘I wasn’t implying anything,’ Long said. The two of them looked at each other in silence. ‘Are my questions making you uncomfortable?’

  ‘No,’ she said, though her arms remained crossed. ‘It’s just that –’ She cut herself off abruptly. Long’s back was to the door, but he recognized the change in Sonia Harding’s posture as an indication that someone had entered the room. She stood. ‘Senator,’ she said.

  Long stood up as well and turned toward the door. The man lingering in the doorway cut an imposing figure. He was tall, six-three at least, with the broad shoulders of an ex-athle
te who worked hard to keep at least the vestiges of his former physique. He had thick dark hair framing a prominent forehead, and carved, attractive features. He smiled and his cosmetically enhanced teeth gleamed. ‘Detective,’ he said, ignoring his personal secretary.

  ‘Senator,’ Long said.

  ‘Thank you, Sonia,’ Buchanan said without looking at the woman, ‘you can get back to your work.’ She nodded and walked out without a word. Buchanan didn’t look at her until she’d already passed, and then he turned to follow her retreat. Long noticed his eyes track her below the waist. He turned back to Long. ‘What can I do for you, Detective . . . ?’

  ‘Long.’

  ‘Detective Long.’ Buchanan advanced to shake Long’s hand. ‘You were cryptic over the phone. I might have put you off, but you piqued my curiosity.’

  ‘I just have a few questions,’ Long said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘An investigation I’m pursuing. It’s probably nothing.’ Long wanted to put the senator at ease; not that he appeared to be the type who was easily rattled.

  ‘Well, I’ll help in any way that I can.’

  ‘I appreciate that. Are you familiar with a man named Eamonn McDougal?’

  Buchanan frowned. ‘I’m not sure; the name sounds familiar, but maybe that’s just because it’s a familiar-sounding name.’

  ‘Eamonn is familiar-sounding?’

  ‘McDougal,’ Buchanan said.

  ‘Ah,’ Long said. He let the silence linger. ‘Or, maybe the name sounds familiar because he was one of your largest contributors. He gave the maximum amount allowed by law.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t aware.’ Buchanan’s tone was conversational but guarded.

  Long nodded. ‘It’s amazing how much information is accessible now, with the Internet.’

  Buchanan shrugged. ‘There were many people who gave the maximum to my campaign. I wish I could say that I knew every one of them. The truth is, I know very few of them.’

  ‘I understand,’ Long said. ‘It’s hard to keep track. On the other hand, every single one of the employees at the companies he runs gave the maximum as well. Right down to the janitors. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  The senator cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, but not unheard of.’

  ‘When else have you heard of it?’

  ‘It feels like you have a point to make, Detective,’ Buchanan said. ‘Maybe it would be helpful if you shared it with me.’

  ‘Well, it just occurs to me that if McDougal has been using his employees to conceal campaign payments to you above the legal limit, that would be a serious violation, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it would.’

  ‘And given the fact that you’re on the Banking and Finance Committee, which controls the regulations that impact several of the financial companies McDougal controls, that would look pretty bad for you, too, right?’

  Buchanan didn’t answer. Instead he smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Long, I must have missed the session of Congress where we assigned jurisdiction over campaign finance to the Boston Police Department. My understanding was that this was a matter for the federal authorities. Which, of course, would mean that you are investigating a matter without any proper authorization. I just mention this because I wouldn’t want you to get yourself into any trouble.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Senator. But you don’t need to worry, I’m not investigating campaign finance violations.’

  ‘Then what are you investigating?’

  ‘Murder.’

  Long kept his eyes trained on Buchanan, evaluating his reaction. The senator would have made an excellent poker player, but Long could see the immediate twitch of his eye and the involuntary movement of his jaw.

  Buchanan asked, ‘Who was murdered?’

  ‘A woman named Elizabeth Connor,’ Long said. ‘She lived in Roxbury.’

  Buchanan shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I knew her. I don’t spend much time in Roxbury.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Long replied. ‘Which was why I found it so interesting that she called you five times in the weeks before she was killed.’ With that, Buchanan went white. ‘What seems even stranger to me,’ Long continued, ‘is the fact that each time she got off the phone with you, she immediately called Eamonn McDougal. She worked for him at one of his businesses. Oh, and I should also mention that Eamonn McDougal is one of the principal figures in organized crime in New England. So, when you put together the phone calls, the campaign contributions, and the murder of Ms Connor, I’m sure you can see why I have to ask a few questions.’

  For a moment, Long thought Buchanan had swallowed his tongue. He stood there, gaping, his jaw slack, his eyes bulging slightly. ‘I’m sorry, Detective,’ he said. ‘I have a call scheduled that I must take. It shouldn’t take too much time – if you’d care to wait?’

  Long nodded. ‘Of course, Senator,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Finn’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

  Sally was sitting in Lissa’s kitchen watching her struggle to get some of the mashed banana from the jar of baby food into her son’s mouth. It was Reggie’s day off, and from the look of things Sally suspected that if he ever took an entire week’s vacation the baby might starve.

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  It was an annoying lawyer’s non-answer. Lawyers answered questions with questions; they probed, they never committed. The baby bobbed and weaved and Lissa tried to keep up with the spoon. A large dollop of banana fell to the floor.

  ‘He wouldn’t give me a straight answer this morning. Then he ditches me off on you.’

  ‘He had some work to do.’ Andrew spat a mouthful of banana.

  ‘Don’t give me that. If he just had work to do, he would have told me,’ Sally said. ‘If he just had work to do, he wouldn’t have taken Koz with him.’

  ‘Who said Koz is with him?’

  ‘He’s not here, is he? I’m not a moron.’

  Lissa scraped some of the mush off her son’s face with the spoon and aimed again for his mouth. ‘No,’ she said with a sigh. ‘You’re clearly not a moron.’

  ‘So? He’s in trouble?’ Sally clenched her fists underneath the counter.

  ‘Not really,’ Lissa said. ‘Not in a way he and Koz can’t handle.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Lissa gave up on the feeding and started to clear the mess away. ‘I can’t. But you’ve got to believe, and you’ve got to let them work it out. They’re men – they see a problem, they need to fix it.’

  ‘What if we can help?’ Sally asked.

  ‘If you could, you would. Right now, though, they have to handle this on their own. Besides, Finn is responsible for you now. He doesn’t want to put you in any sort of a position where you can be hurt. You’ve got to let that be his call.’

  ‘That’s not how it’s supposed to work,’ Sally said. ‘Where I come from, if someone you care about is in trouble, you’re supposed to stand up for them.’

  ‘Is that the way it’s worked for you?’

  Sally shook her head again. ‘No. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, though. That’s what my parents never understood.’

  Long waited in the library for what seemed like an eternity. Pacing back and forth on the heavy oriental rug, he began to wonder whether he’d played it right. He could have called the senator down to the station house for an official discussion, but that would have gotten the brass involved. Once that happened, he’d likely be taken off the case. The last thing the higher-ups wanted was the departmental burnout poking around in the affairs of a man as powerful as James Buchanan. In all likelihood, the connection between Buchanan, McDougal and Elizabeth Connor would be covered up in the regular course of political horse-trading that went on at the highest levels of the law enforcement bureaucracy.

  He walked over to the window and looked out on Louisburg Square. It was a patch of grass less than half
the size of a football field surrounded by four-hundred-year-old cobblestone streets so uneven that any vehicle other than the highest-end luxury SUVs wouldn’t survive regular use in the area. The streets could easily have been made more accommodating, but that would detract from the atmosphere of nineteenth-century privilege and gentility the residents preferred. The tiny plot of green, reserved for those with townhouses on the square and fenced off against the rabble, represented the last stand of a world all but disappeared.

  ‘I need to borrow a car,’ a voice came from behind him.

  He turned. The light was streaming in from the street through the ten-foot-high window, casting him in silhouette. The woman in the doorway squinted to see him. ‘You’re not my father,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Long agreed.

  She was tall, with James Buchanan’s dark hair and chiseled features. There was no mistaking her for anyone else’s child. And yet there was something different about her. She was dressed in a short skirt and a sheer, loose-fitting T-shirt.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Police,’ he said. ‘I’m here to talk to the senator. He’s your father?’

  She made a face and nodded in a reluctant sort of way. He was guessing she was in her late twenties, though she presented younger. ‘What are you here to talk to my father about?’

  ‘It’s confidential,’ he said.

  ‘Everything my father does is confidential,’ she said. ‘Makes it hard to have a conversation around here sometimes. I’m Brooke.’

  He nodded to her. ‘Detective Long.’

  ‘That’s a very formal name.’

  ‘Comes with the badge.’

  ‘Too bad.’ She walked over to the side table where two decanters of liquor stood. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ She reached down and opened a bookcase; Long was surprised to see a small refrigerator hidden behind a set of false book spines.

  He looked at his watch; it was eleven-fifteen. ‘It’s a little early for the hard stuff, isn’t it?’ he asked. He felt like a hypocrite as he spoke. There was a part of him that was screaming to join her.