Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  She tossed a few ice cubes into her glass, turned and smiled at him again. ‘It’s never too early for the hard stuff.’ She took the elaborate stopper out of the crystal decanter of Scotch. Her pour was ostentatious, filling the glass until the booze just topped the rim, enough to bulge slightly above the glass, but not so full that it spilled. Long’s mouth went dry. Raising the glass, she held it up to him in toast, took an extended swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Is my father in trouble?’

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘You’re a cop.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That suggests that someone is in trouble.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Long said. ‘Do you know a woman named Elizabeth Connor?’ It was a shot in the dark, but he figured it couldn’t hurt.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nobody. She was murdered recently.’

  Brooke Buchanan seemed intrigued. ‘Really. A murder? I would have expected my father to be caught up in something more white collar. Maybe I underestimate him. What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing that I’m aware of,’ he said, truthfully.

  ‘And yet, here you are.’

  ‘I’m just here to ask some questions.’

  He was watching her, mesmerized, when the spell was broken by a shout.

  ‘Brooke!’

  He turned. Standing at the door was a striking older woman. She was in her late fifties, dressed in an understated tailored silk suit. An endless string of pearls hung loosely from her neck, and the diamond ring on her left hand looked heavy enough to weigh down her arm. She was shorter than the young woman in the T-shirt, but she stood straighter, and she had a regal bearing.

  ‘Mother, I just …’ Brooke looked at the glass as though it might tell her what to say.

  ‘Put that drink down!’ the older woman said.

  Brooke looked embarrassed, and she hesitated.

  ‘Please,’ the older woman said. Her voice was softer, and Long could see the change in Brooke Buchanan’s posture.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she said.

  ‘It matters,’ the older woman said.

  Brooke put the glass on the table next to the decanter.

  ‘Go to the kitchen and we’ll talk in a moment,’ the older woman said.

  Brooke left the room without looking at Long.

  The older woman advanced. ‘I’m Catherine Buchanan,’ she said, her hand extended.

  ‘Detective Long.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Police detective?’

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am,’ Long replied.

  She turned and walked over toward the table with the bottles on it. ‘I apologize for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t normally drink before noon here. She’s acting out, I think. Campaign season has been a hard time for all of us. We kept a much lower profile during the first election. Neither one of us is used to it.’

  ‘I can see how it would be hard,’ Long said. ‘How many more weeks left until the election?’

  ‘Three and a half,’ Mrs Buchanan replied. ‘It can’t come fast enough.’

  ‘Last poll I saw looked pretty good for your husband.’

  ‘It did,’ she agreed. ‘Of course, that can change instantly,’ she said.

  Long nodded. ‘All it takes is a scandal, I suppose.’ He watched her closely.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘All it takes is a scandal,’ he repeated. ‘Isn’t that right? An undocumented nanny,’ he nodded toward the door, ‘a daughter who drinks before noon? Maybe a campaign finance issue. I would imagine anything like that could turn the outcome of an election.’

  She looked at him carefully. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, why is it that you said you are out here?’

  ‘I didn’t say, actually.’

  ‘Would you like to now?’

  ‘I was discussing it with your husband. We were interrupted.’

  ‘What were you discussing?’

  ‘Elizabeth Connor,’ Long said. ‘Have you heard that name?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘She was a contributor to your husband’s campaign. She was murdered recently.’

  ‘How ghastly.’ She turned away.

  ‘Are you sure your husband never mentioned her?’

  ‘If he did, I don’t remember.’

  ‘She’s contributed the maximum amount to his campaign. It’s hard for me to believe that your husband wouldn’t have known, and that he wouldn’t have mentioned it to you.’

  ‘My husband has literally tens of thousands of donors.’

  ‘Maybe he just didn’t want to worry you.’

  Mrs Buchanan put the top back on the decanter of Scotch. ‘Maybe that’s right. I know my husband doesn’t tell me everything. To be honest, I don’t really want to know everything.’

  ‘No?’ Long let his surprise show. ‘Where do you draw the line?’

  She shot him an angry look. ‘I let James draw the lines,’ she replied.

  ‘I suppose that’s your choice. I guess that means I’ll just have to continue the conversation with your husband.’

  She straightened the bottles so they were lined up perfectly. Picking up her daughter’s glass, she took a sniff, crinkling her nose at the smell, letting out a slight grunt of disgust. She put the glass back down. She said, ‘I’ll go see what’s keeping him.’

  As she started walking toward the door, Long said, ‘It must be hard.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘What must be?’ she asked.

  ‘Sharing your husband.’

  She was frozen, staring at him. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said.

  ‘With the job,’ Long replied. ‘It must be hard sharing him with such a demanding job. It must require a great deal of sacrifice.’ He took out a business card. ‘If there’s ever anything you’d like to discuss, maybe share some of that sacrifice, I’m more than happy to talk.’

  She took the card and looked down at it. ‘I don’t think that’s likely, Detective,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘I’m a good listener.’

  She looked up at him again, and her face was fully composed. She appeared ready to go on stage as the dutiful wife at a political fundraiser. ‘Because, Detective,’ she said, ‘I’m quite sure that you would never truly understand the sacrifices my life requires.’

  He looked at her, saying nothing. After a moment Sonia Harding walked into the room. ‘I’m sorry, Detective,’ she said. ‘The senator asked me to give you a message. An emergency has come up, and he has no more time today. If you call his office, he’ll be glad to set up another appointment.’

  ‘It must be something very important,’ Long said.

  Sonia Harding didn’t respond. She looked at the senator’s wife. ‘Mrs Buchanan, he also wants you to go to his office as soon as possible. You two have an event tonight and he has a few questions he needs to ask you.’

  The assistant stood there, waiting for Mrs Buchanan to leave the room. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective Long,’ Mrs Buchanan said. She shook his hand and left the room.

  ‘The senator asked me to show you out,’ Sonia Harding said. The pleasant smile she’d greeted him with at the front door earlier was gone. He suspected he would never see it again.

  He nodded. ‘I’m sure he did.’

  James Buchanan was in the study off his bedroom on the second floor. Officially it was still called a guest room, but that was just for appearances; James hadn’t shared a room with Catherine for years.

  Catherine lingered at the door for a moment before going in, her stomach turning with anxiety. He was sitting at his desk, flipping through papers. It was just an act, though. She’d lived with him for long enough to tell. He was moving too quickly through the papers to actually be reading; he just wanted to seem busy.

  She took a deep breath,
steeled herself, and walked into the room. ‘You wanted to see me,’ she said. Even to herself, her voice sounded more like a domestic servant than a wife or a partner.

  He looked up sharply, as though diverted from something of far greater importance. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sonia said –’

  ‘I didn’t want you talking to the police anymore. I don’t want anyone in the household talking to them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He stood and crossed to the credenza near the door, closer to her. ‘I just don’t.’

  She stood there, watching her husband, a man she didn’t know. Though they were only feet apart, they had never been more distant from one another. Her arms were crossed. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ He couldn’t even pull his head up to look at her.

  ‘It is my business,’ she insisted. ‘If it has anything to do with this family, it is my business.’

  The back of his hand came without warning, as it always did. A swift motion, a smooth arc, and it connected with the side of her face, knocking her back into the doorway. ‘I said, it’s none of your business!’ he yelled.

  She kept her feet. It wasn’t the same thing as keeping her dignity, but she’d learned to accept a life of limited victories. She felt the familiar warmth and sting on her cheek where he’d hit her and knew from experience that it was already beginning to swell. She would have to put some ice on it shortly.

  She said nothing, just kept staring at him. He was less than a foot away, and stared back with a look of such revulsion and hatred it made her blanch. She fully expected the hand to come again.

  It didn’t, though. They just stood there, staring at each other for several more beats. Then he turned and went back to his desk. He resumed flipping through papers, faster this time. After another moment he said, without looking up, ‘We have a dinner tonight. You should fix your make-up.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Who’s the DA on Kevin McDougal’s case?’ Kozlowski asked.

  He, Lissa and Finn were walking along a path through Boston Common. It was Sunday morning, and the season was teetering. The leaves were losing their grip and tumbling off the trees, the wind was blowing a little stronger and colder by the day. Still, autumn was putting up a good fight, and the sun cut through the crystalline air, warming their faces. It was sweater weather; the kind of fall day that defines New England better than any other. Sally was walking ahead of them, pushing Andrew in the stroller.

  ‘Mitchell,’ Lissa said.

  ‘Straight shooter,’ Kozlowski commented. ‘Not the best for working a deal.’

  ‘He’s political,’ Finn said. ‘ADA is a stepping stone for him. You don’t go to Harvard and then take a job making thirty thousand dollars a year in Roxbury District Court without having a plan. He’ll make a deal as long as there’s something in it for him, and as long as he can be sure his ass is covered if things go to hell.’

  ‘You think?’ Lissa said.

  Finn nodded. He looked up at the State House, looming over Boston Common with its gold dome blinding in the sunlight. ‘He wants to be up there someday,’ he said. ‘You don’t get to the governor’s office without making a few headlines. The question isn’t whether he’d make a deal; the question is: what do we have to offer?’

  ‘The question is whether you’re ready to risk your career by coloring outside the lines,’ Kozlowski said.

  ‘We’re not virgins, Koz,’ Finn said. ‘Let’s not pretend.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Kozlowski agreed. ‘But we’ve always been in the right. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. We’ve never bent the rules for someone who was guilty. And we’ve never done it for our own benefit. We do this, and we leave that behind.’

  ‘Depends on how we do it,’ Finn said.

  ‘You’ve got a way that leaves room to maneuver?’ Lissa asked.

  ‘No,’ Finn admitted. ‘I’m still working on it.’

  Sally turned back to look at them. ‘He’s smiling!’ she called. She gestured to Andrew, who was looking at Sally, a long line of drool hanging from his lower lip as he giggled up at her.

  ‘He likes you,’ Lissa called back. ‘You’re like his big sister.’ She lowered her voice again, so that Sally couldn’t hear. ‘Is it worth it?’ she asked. ‘Things are pretty good right now; you really want to risk it all?’

  ‘She was my mother,’ Finn said. ‘What am I supposed to do? Just let it go?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lissa said.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll find a way,’ he said. ‘I can’t let this drop.’ They walked on in silence, listening to the laughter of the city kids as they exhausted the last of the outdoor weather before the long, hard winter.

  ‘Okay,’ Kozlowski said at last. ‘How do you want to handle Mitchell?’

  Finn looked at Lissa. ‘Set up a meeting for me with him on Monday. Lunch. Someplace nice, but not too obvious.’

  ‘What are you gonna say to him?’

  Finn shrugged. ‘I’ll figure something out.’

  They were crossing Charles Street, heading into the Public Gardens. The swan boats were still in the water, and smiling people paddled them through the pond.

  ‘Look, Andrew, swans!’ Sally called.

  The baby babbled.

  Lissa looked at Finn. ‘Just make damned sure it’s worth it,’ she said.

  Julie Racine lived in Boston’s South End. Once it had been an area that shaded toward sketchy, inhabited by a mixture of gays and Hispanics and those on the outer fringes of societal acceptance. But that was decades ago, before being gay and Hispanic was fashionable. Now the established residents mingled easily with the yuppies and the homesteaders who had gutted run-down buildings to make multi-million dollar duplexes. The neighborhood had managed, somehow, to retain some of its historic flavor and edge, and was one of the few areas in the puritanical city that might be considered hip as opposed to quaint.

  Racine lived in an apartment in one of the dwindling number of buildings that had, as yet, escaped renovation. It was off Berkeley, past Washington Street, out where the homeless shelters still burdened property values. Her apartment was on the top floor of a fifth-floor walk-up, but she was fit and the rent was reasonable.

  She was alone on Sunday when there was a knock on the door. She glanced through the peephole and sucked in a breath. She was tempted to pretend she wasn’t home. She knew it wouldn’t work, though. She unlocked the door and opened it halfway.

  Long was standing there in jeans and a sweat shirt. The file she’d left at his apartment was tucked under his arm. It looked thicker than when she’d left it with him.

  She blew a strand of hair out of her face. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Thanks for opening the door, at least,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a cop. You would’ve picked the lock or kicked it in,’ she said. ‘I didn’t feel like paying the landlord to have that fixed.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I just wanted to apologize. And to thank you. Is that all right?’

  She put a hand on her hip. ‘Depends. You sober?’ His shoulders sagged, and she winced at the thought that she’d hurt him. She tried to harden her resolve.

  ‘I deserved that,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll go.’

  As he turned to walk back down the stairs, she softened her stance. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked. ‘People used to joke that you were bulletproof.’

  ‘You know what happened to me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t. I only know what they say happened.’

  ‘What do they say happened?’

  ‘Depends on who you talk to,’ she said. ‘Half say you were just as dirty as Jimmy. That you were into the drugs, too, and you killed him to save yourself from being found out. They say you set the whole thing up.’

  ‘And the other half?’

  She shrugged. ‘The others say you betrayed hi
m. That you found out about the drugs and you were looking to make a name for yourself. They say you could’ve helped him, and instead you shot him.’

  ‘And you? What do you believe?’

  He was leaning against the wall, looking lost. She wanted to go to him, but she held back. The images of him from two nights before flashed through her mind. ‘I don’t believe anything. I have to hear it from you, then I’ll decide what I think the truth is.’

  He looked at the floor. ‘The truth …’ He said the words as though they had no meaning; as though he were talking about a phantom. ‘The truth is that they’re right. All of them. Deep down, in the ways that really matter, I’m just as dirty as Jimmy was. Maybe we all are. The truth is that I should have helped him, and I couldn’t, or I didn’t.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

  ‘It’s as much of an answer as I think I’ll ever have.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ she asked. ‘You’re beyond redemption?’

  He gave a sad smile. ‘That’s the last thing my father said to me. He told me there was no salvation for what I’d done. When you’re a cop, your partner is your brother. My father told me I killed my brother, and there’s no coming back from that. He couldn’t forgive me. He called it the world’s greatest sin. That was two days before he died.’

  Her heart was breaking for him. She stepped forward and took hold of his sweat shirt. He let himself be pulled, and she wrapped her arms around his back. She felt him lower his head onto her shoulder.

  They stood there quietly for several minutes. Finally she stepped back and looked at him. He seemed so tired. ‘Come on,’ she said, motioning toward her apartment door. ‘You can come in.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure.’

  He nodded.

  She turned and walked back into her apartment. It took a moment, but eventually he followed her.

  The phone rang at Finn’s apartment that night. When he answered it, he was surprised to hear the voice of Shelly Tesco, the director of adoption services at the Health Services Center in New Hampshire. ‘Mr Finn, I have your records,’ she said.

  ‘Will you give them to me?’

  ‘That would be illegal,’ she replied.