Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  Peter Mitchell stood at the front of the courtroom, moving through the docket with dispassionate efficiency. For each case, he rattled off the facts embodied in the police report. Sometimes they were straightforward, sometimes sad, often shocking. A young woman was accused of burning her three-year old with a cigarette when the child wouldn’t stop asking to watch television; a young man was accused of stabbing his girlfriend in the shoulder for looking at another guy; a sixteen-year-old boy was charged as an adult for beating a schoolmate nearly to death while stealing his bicycle. The parade of horrors went on from ten o’clock until just before noon, and it left Finn with the familiar acrid taste of despair and disgust at the back of his throat.

  Finally, visibly worn out by the mundane tragedy of it all, the judge called the break for lunch, crawled off the bench, and headed back to chambers for a brief respite.

  Mitchell packed up his files and headed toward the back of the courtroom. Finn caught his eye. ‘What do you want?’ Mitchell asked as he hurried past.

  Finn fell in line to keep up. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘We talked already,’ Mitchell said. ‘I didn’t like what you had to say.’

  ‘Maybe you will now.’

  Mitchell turned to Finn, exasperated. ‘You for real? Or are you wasting my time?’

  ‘Gimme five minutes, and you can decide for yourself.’

  They took a conference room down the corridor from the courtroom. Mitchell put his briefcase on the table. He didn’t bother sitting. ‘I’ve got an hour to make about ten calls and try to get something to eat,’ he said. ‘You’ve got two minutes. Are you giving up Eamonn McDougal?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Finn said. ‘He’s a client.’

  ‘Then I’m leaving. We’ve got nothing to talk about.’ Mitchell picked up his briefcase.

  ‘You told me I had two minutes.’

  ‘That’s when I thought you were gonna say something I wanted to hear. Doesn’t sound like that’s gonna happen.’

  ‘So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in busting Joey Slade?’ Finn asked.

  Mitchell already had the door open, but he stopped. He didn’t turn around, he just stood there, hand still gripping the handle, looking straight ahead. ‘Don’t mess with me.’

  ‘I’m not messing with you.’

  ‘You serious?’

  Finn opened his briefcase and took out a file. He put it on the table. ‘Judge for yourself.’

  Mitchell turned around to look at Finn. His hand remained on the door. ‘If you’re bluffing, this is the last time we talk.’ He let go of the door and walked slowly back to the table. He put his briefcase on the floor, his attention on the folder. He reached down and flipped it open.

  He didn’t touch the pages at first. He examined them while still standing. By the time he got to the bottom of the stack, he looked up at Finn, an expression of awe and wonder on his face. Finn just made a gesture for him to continue with his reading. He sat down, leaning over and flipping through each page in succession. ‘Are these what I think they are?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘What do you think they are?’

  ‘It looks like documents that show a huge amount of money being funneled to Joey Slade. And a bunch of papers that show payoffs going to politicians.’

  ‘Then they are what you think they are.’

  ‘Where did you get these?’ Mitchell demanded.

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Eamonn McDougal,’ he said. ‘He gave these to you, didn’t he?’ He flipped through the documents again. ‘Eamonn is pretty much the only high-level scumbag whose name isn’t on any of these documents. He’s looking to trade Joey Slade for his boy?’

  Finn shook his head. ‘Eamonn McDougal has no idea that I am here, or that I have these documents. Eamonn’s name isn’t in these documents because he’s a client, and it would be unethical for me to turn anything over to you about his business. He’s not involved in this at all.’

  Mitchell looked through the materials again. ‘Well, that’s too bad,’ he said. ‘Without any sort of corroboration or testimony about these documents, Slade will simply say they’re all lies. Forgeries. They’re useless without testimony.’

  Finn pulled out a handheld tape recorder. He held it up and pressed play. A voice, clear and calm, came from the small speaker. ‘It’s not enough,’ the voice said. ‘You want a guarantee that this goes through, a hundred and fifty grand isn’t gonna do it. You’re talking about putting a thirty-story complex on protected land. I gotta buy off the state legislature as well as the city council. Plus I got the unions, I got the police, and all the others who are gonna be holding their fuckin’ hands out. You want this to move, I need five hundred. Either that or …’ Finn stopped the tape.

  ‘You want to hear more?’

  Mitchell was nearly drooling. ‘You’re telling me that was Joey Slade?’ he said.

  Finn nodded.

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘Because I’m telling you that.’

  Mitchell frowned. ‘You know what I mean. How do I prove that?’

  ‘You get an expert,’ Finn said. ‘You do a voice comparison. It’s not that hard.’

  Mitchell considered this. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Still, he’s gonna say the thing is a cut job. Someone duped his voice, edited some other conversation.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Finn said. ‘He’ll say a lot of things, but the tape is genuine, so he’ll have a problem with that. I’ve got others, too,’ Finn said. ‘Talking about worse things – drug deals and distribution, things like that.’

  Mitchell shook his head. ‘But you don’t have testimony.’

  ‘Slade doesn’t know that. You play this for him, show him the documents, he’ll assume you’ve turned someone on the inside. He’ll give it up quick in exchange for a deal. Then the whole house of cards starts to fall.’

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘Because,’ Finn said. ‘Joey Slade’s been on a winning streak since he was nine years old. He doesn’t know how to handle defeat.’

  Mitchell considered this. ‘So, what are we talking about?’ he asked. ‘I drop everything on the McDougal kid, and I get it all?’

  ‘That’s not it,’ Finn said.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I have some conditions. First, my name stays out of it.’

  ‘You don’t want your clients to know you’re working with the DA’s office?’

  ‘Something like that. Second, you wait a couple of days after the charges are dropped against Kevin McDougal before you go after Slade.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have some things I need to take care of before the shit hits the fan.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. All you need to know is that this is the way it has to be if you want a chance to make the bust of the decade. Do we have a deal?’

  Mitchell shook his head. ‘I can’t make a deal like this on my own. I need to get approval.’

  Finn nodded. ‘So get it. But get it in the next few hours, or the deal goes away.’

  ‘Give me your cell number,’ Mitchell said. ‘I’ll call you.’ Finn pulled out a business card and wrote his cell number on the back. ‘When this is all over,’ Mitchell said, ‘I want to know what this was all really about.’

  Finn shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Get back to me soon.’

  He looked at the number on the card. Finn could tell that, in his mind, Mitchell was already writing the speech he would give at the press conference when the first arrests were made. Either that, or he was already rehearsing his stump speech for when he ran for governor. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I definitely will.’

  Finn got back to his office before one o’clock. Lissa looked up from her desk when he walked in. ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Finn replied.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘For now.’

  Kozlowski walked in from his off
ice in the back. ‘What’s the word?’ he asked.

  Finn shrugged.

  ‘What, exactly, did he say?’ Lissa pressed.

  ‘He said he didn’t have authorization to make this kind of a deal. He said he has to go back to his superiors for sign-off.’

  ‘But he seemed interested?’ Kozlowski asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, he seemed interested. I thought his eyes were gonna come out of his head when he heard the tape. You could watch him playing out his entire political future as he thought about what this could lead to.’

  ‘He’ll make the deal,’ Lissa said. ‘I know he will.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Kozlowski said. ‘It’s gonna take a lot of convincing to get the top brass to give up Eamonn McDougal’s kid without something that’s a slam dunk. This isn’t a slam dunk; it’s a really good lead. They play it right, they may take down a whole bunch of people. They play it wrong, and they get nothing. That’d be hard to live with.’

  Lissa shook her head. ‘He’s gonna take the deal,’ she repeated.

  ‘Maybe,’ Kozlowski said. ‘There’s nothing to do but wait and see.’

  ‘There’s one other thing to do,’ Finn said. ‘I’ve got to get back up to New Hampshire tonight to meet with the woman from the adoption agency, take a look at my adoption file. Did she call?’

  Lissa shook her head. ‘It’s been quiet.’

  Finn sat behind his desk, picked up the phone. He pulled Shelly Tesco’s card out of his wallet and dialed the number. It rang three times before her secretary picked up.

  ‘Adoption Services.’

  ‘Can I please speak with Shelly Tesco?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Tesco is not in; can I take a message?’

  ‘What time do you expect her?’

  The woman on the other end of the line paused. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘She was supposed to be in this morning. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Scott Finn. She and I have an appointment for this evening, but she never told me where to meet her.’

  ‘I don’t see you on her calendar,’ the secretary said.

  ‘No, she might not have written it down. It probably doesn’t qualify as a work appointment. She and I were going to meet after she left the office. All I need to know is where and when to show up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what to tell you. I’ve tried her home and her cell, and I haven’t been able to reach her. What were you supposed to be meeting with her about?’

  Finn wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ he said. ‘I was adopted, and I had some questions for her.’

  ‘Why isn’t that a work appointment?’ the woman asked. She sounded suspicious. ‘That’s what she does.’

  ‘Can you ask her to call me back when you talk to her?’ he asked. There was no point in trying to answer her question; he had no decent answer. He gave her his phone numbers.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. She didn’t sound confident, though. ‘I’ll have her call as soon as she gets in.’

  The tiny New Hampshire town had only four police officers in the entire department. As a result, even Chief Steven Bosch had to take calls from time to time. He’d left the NYPD ten years before, determined to find a more reasonable lifestyle for his family. For the most part, it had worked out well enough. At the moment, though, sitting at his desk with the phone pressed against his ear, he wished he was back in the big city.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Shumley?’ he asked in his most polite tone. He wondered how long the call might last; Mildred Shumley was a notorious talker.

  ‘I’m worried about my neighbor, Shelly Tesco,’ Mrs Shumley said.

  ‘Oh?’ Bosch tried to sound interested, but unalarmed. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I don’t think she was home last night,’ Mrs Shumley said.

  ‘And that worries you?’ He kept the exasperation out of his voice.

  ‘Well, normally it wouldn’t, but I saw a man coming out of her house.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bosch said. ‘And you don’t think that’s normal?’

  ‘Clearly not. Not if she wasn’t there.’

  ‘And if she was there?’

  ‘Well, that would be a different issue entirely.’

  ‘But still inappropriate?’ What was the point of having to put up with calls like this if Bosch couldn’t have a little fun?

  ‘That’s not my point,’ Mrs Shumley said. ‘As I said, I’m worried about her. What if she was the victim of foul play?’ The breathlessness of her voice on the final two words caused him to roll his eyes.

  ‘She’d be the first since I got here to town,’ Bosch said.

  ‘I still think you should check up on her.’

  Bosch sighed heavily. ‘She’s a grown woman, Mrs Shumley,’ he said. ‘I can’t go disturbing her every time she has a gentleman caller.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘If she’s still not around in a couple of days, call back and we’ll look into it,’ Bosch said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Shumley. Take care.’ He hung up the phone before she could say anything else. Sometimes he longed for the days when he was dealing with actual crimes, rather than the overactive imaginings of a bored and nosey little town.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Brighton lay at the outskirts of Boston, five miles to the west of Copley, midway between the campuses of Boston University and Boston College. The neighborhood coveted the bohemian aura of Greenwich Village and Haight Ashbury, and tried in vain to capture the same edge. The streets were lined with tattoo parlors and cut-rate furniture stores with names like Futon Palace and Just the Basics. The sidewalks teemed with students and people in their early twenties, guitars slung over their shoulders, heads shaved proclaiming their disdain for all things bourgeois.

  Long stood on Brighton Avenue, looking up at an apartment that hung over a second-hand music shop. He checked his notebook again to make sure he was in the right place, headed over, and walked up the stairwell.

  He’d spent most of the day going through records, making notes on political donations, checking addresses, doing the crucial research necessary for his job. Eamonn McDougal and his partners presided over a vast, disparate empire of legitimate and quasi-legitimate businesses, seemingly with no unifying theme. In addition to Rescue Finance, 355 Water Street Corporation owned controlling interests in two garages, a pizza parlor, an Italian deli, several tenements that rented rooms and efficiencies on daily and weekly schedules, and a sporting goods store, among other enterprises. Long now had a list of over fifty employees, along with their addresses, their history of political contributions, and a general idea of their salaries and lifestyles. He’d visited five of them so far, looking for anyone who might confirm his suspicions about the campaign finance violations without any luck. Three weren’t home. The other two wouldn’t talk. He wasn’t giving up, though.

  Matthew Pillar was an office manager at one of the garages owned by McDougal and his partners. According to the information Long had collected, he was a recent graduate from the undergraduate business program at Boston University, where he was a mediocre student at best. He was also the bassist for a local bar band that called itself No Way To Live, a name Long was sure appealed to angst-ridden twenty-somethings.

  The door to the apartment was in desperate need of fresh paint, and the carpeting in the hallway stank of beer and pizza grease. Long knocked, waited. He could hear nothing. He’d called the garage to see whether Pillar was working, but had been told that it was his day off. He knocked again, and heard a groan and a crash as something was knocked to the floor inside the apartment. A voice called out, young but ragged. ‘Hold on!’

  ‘Mr Pillar?’ Long called. Then he reconsidered. ‘Matt?’

  ‘Hold on! I’m coming!’

  Long waited, relaxed, leaning against the wall. The door was pulled open and a young man was standing in front of him, his shaggy mane impressed with restless sleep, his eyes still adjusting to daylight. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘Are you Matt?’ Long asked. He
kept his voice friendly, as though he’d been sent by a mutual friend. He smiled. ‘Matt Pillar?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the young man said. He still seemed disoriented, but Long’s demeanor put him somewhat at ease.

  Long pulled out his badge, kept the smile on his face. ‘I’m Detective Long, Boston Police. You mind if I come in and talk to you?’

  Eamonn McDougal was leaning back in his chair; his fingers were linked, resting on his prodigious belly. ‘You did it, Finny’ he said, beaming. ‘You golden bastard, you really did it!’

  Finn didn’t smile back. ‘I did it,’ he said.

  Peter Mitchell had taken less than an hour to get back to him. Finn was sitting at his desk, pushing paper around, accomplishing nothing when the phone rang. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ Mitchell said. ‘We get the documents and the tapes, and we’ll drop the charges against Kevin McDougal.’

  ‘How soon?’ Finn asked.

  ‘As soon as you want. You get me the stuff, I’ll file a nollo today.’

  ‘My name stays out of it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mitchell said. ‘Your name stays out of it.’

  ‘And no one moves on Joey Slade for two days.’

  ‘You’ve got tomorrow,’ Mitchell said, hedging. ‘Plus tomorrow night. My people want to move in on Thursday. We want to announce the arrest before the evening news. That gives you a day and a half.’

  Finn understood the thinking. Friday was a news black hole. The District Attorney wanted to make a media splash before the weekend. He calculated the time in his head. If the case against Kevin McDougal was dismissed that afternoon, he would be fine, he figured. He was in the DA’s office twenty minutes later, and the papers ending the prosecution of Kevin McDougal were filed twenty minutes after that. Finn headed straight for McDougal’s office in Chelsea.

  ‘How’d you pull it off?’ McDougal asked. His smile threatened to swallow his face.