T
HE STATION HOUSE
was only a few blocks from Finn’s office, so they walked. The silence between them was deadly, and neither could find a way to break it for a long while. It was Finn who finally spoke.
“You actually think of me as a suspect in this mess, don’t you. After everything I told you that night, after everything that happened, you still think of me as a murderer.”
“I don’t think of you as anything, Finn. I hardly know you,” Flaherty said. “We’ve got a murderer and a victim who don’t seem to match up. I’d love to pin Natalie’s death on Townsend, but we just don’t have any evidence on him, so for the moment we have to keep an open mind about possible suspects. No one is saying they think you did it, it’s just that you were the person closest to her. The first rule of a murder investigation is to take a good long look at the people who were closest to the victim. More than two-thirds of all victims are killed by their family or close friends, so we’ve got to investigate you.”
“That’s bullshit. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to on this investigation. I find it bizarre that you think I might have done this.” Finn shook his head.
“Yeah, and I find it bizarre that you were at the Kiss Club beating up hookers. I guess we’re even,” Flaherty said indignantly.
“I told you, that was self-defense. She attacked me first, and she attacked me precisely because I didn’t want to be with her. I was depressed and lonely, and that bar was one of the places I’d gone to with Natalie when we were together, so I went back there. It was a mistake, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.” Finn felt like his head would explode soon.
“Yeah, it was a big mistake,” Flaherty agreed. “And now we’ve just got to make sure you’re not our guy. Once we’re sure, we’ll move on.”
“Great, so you’re expecting me to prove a negative?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m sure you can find people who can vouch for your whereabouts at the time of Natalie’s death.”
Finn shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, hopefully. But what if I can’t?”
Flaherty thought for a moment, her brow furrowing. “It also wouldn’t hurt if you provided us with a blood sample.”
“What the hell for!” Finn almost shouted.
“We found semen inside of Natalie’s body. We think she was raped before she was killed. If you give us a blood sample, we’ll be able to tell if you were with her that night. It won’t definitively rule you out as the killer, but it would take some of the pressure off you in the investigation.”
Finn looked skeptical. The lawyer in him told him simply to clam up and provide the police with no information. That would be what he’d advise any client at this point. The more information you provide to the police, the more likely it is they’ll have something to use against you. He could hear himself giving that same counsel time and again to clients when he was a public defender. He knew he should start listening to his own advice. At the same time, though, he wanted Linda to believe him. He needed her to believe him.
“I’ll think about it,” he said after a moment.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’m just trying to help.”
In spite of his innate skepticism, he believed her.
W
HEN THEY ARRIVED AT
the office building that was home to Howery, Black, they stopped at the front desk to sign Flaherty in. The Anniversary Bombing had placed a renewed emphasis on security, and Finn now needed a separate building pass to get into the office. Bringing visitors involved filling out a pile of forms to verify identification, although Flaherty’s badge helped bypass some of the hassle.
They rode the elevator in silence. Finn was glad there was no one else from the firm on it with them. Now that he was a suspect, he felt self-conscious about bringing the police into the office. He’d do it to clear his name, but he wasn’t comfortable with it.
The door to Natalie’s office was closed, and the room was stacked with boxes of documents from various cases. That it was still being used as a storage room Finn found repugnant. Of the original furniture, only the desk remained—the same basic L-shaped wooden one that all of the associates had. The room had been cleaned out by the police, who’d gone through all of Natalie’s belongings looking for clues. They’d found nothing, and now all of Natalie’s personal possessions were boxed up and stacked in a corner, waiting for someone to come get them, although she had no family members who might care enough to take her mementos home.
Finn picked his way through the clutter to Natalie’s personal effects.
“What are you looking for?” Flaherty asked.
“Pictures,” he said. He spoke over his shoulder as he dug through the boxes, pulling out little pieces of Natalie Caldwell’s life as he went. There was a large framed seal from the Justice Department signed by all her coworkers—a traditional gift given to all departing federal prosecutors. There were diplomas from Harvard Law School and Yale University. There were letters, and workout clothes, and breath mints, and cold medicines—everything reminding Finn of the basic humanity of the woman with whom he’d once been infatuated.
“I’m not as evil as you may think,” said Flaherty, interrupting his thoughts. “I do have a job to do, though.”
Finn kept silent as he considered the feelings he sometimes had about his own profession. The irony was not lost on him.
“You brought this on yourself,” Flaherty continued, faced with his silence. She was standing at the window looking out at the vast expanse of the southern Massachusetts shoreline that receded from Boston Harbor.
“That’s bullshit,” Finn shot back. “And what’s worse is, you know it’s bullshit. You want some sympathy? Fine. But you’ve looked into my eyes, and you should know in your heart that I didn’t do this.” He looked at Flaherty, and he could see she believed he was innocent. She knew he’d seen it, and she turned away. The only question was: did she believe it because it made sense, or did she believe it merely because she wanted to?
“So you can tell me you’re just doing your job, and I’ll accept that. But don’t tell me I brought this on myself. A few weeks ago, I was just cranking through my life minding my own business. I might not be perfect, but I most certainly didn’t bring this load of crap down on my own head.”
Flaherty had no response. She wanted to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come.
Finn pulled his hand out of one of the large cardboard boxes. “I found it,” he said.
Flaherty looked down and saw that Finn was holding a picture frame. “She had a little wall of fame where she hung pictures of herself with all of the celebrities she knew,” he explained.
He turned the frame around so Flaherty could see it. It startled her. She’d never seen a picture of Natalie Caldwell when she was alive, and while she knew Natalie had been a beautiful woman, she didn’t realize how beautiful. She was standing there flashing a perfect ivory-white smile, her blonde hair falling to her shoulders, and those eyes—the eyes that Flaherty had first seen staring up at her from below the surface of Boston Harbor—leapt off the glossy picture and dragged Flaherty in.
She was so mesmerized by the image of the living Natalie Caldwell that it took a moment for her to notice the person standing next to her in the picture. There, with his arm around her shoulder, a wide, goofy grin on his face, and his chest puffed out like a robin in springtime, was William H. Clarke, governor of Massachusetts. There was also an inscription in black felt-tip pen across the picture’s bottom. It read:
Natalie, Thanks for all of your help on the Committee. We couldn’t have done it without you! Bill.
“He lied,” Flaherty said simply.
“I know,” said Finn. “And I told the truth.”
T
IGH MCCLUEN SAT IN
his usual spot on the stack of crates in the warehouse in Southie. The graying wood creaked under the weight of his enormous frame, groaning with every slight shift in his posture. He was tempted to stand, but knew the movement would only draw the ire of the old man as he counted the cash in the envelopes. Tigh wasn’t particularly worried about the old man’s wrath; he’d been earning too well for too long on the organization’s behalf to worry about the minor letdown with respect to Little Jack. Nonetheless, he had no interest in dealing with any more hassles than necessary.
“You’re short,” the old man said once he finished his counting. “Again.”
Tigh nodded. “No more than to be expected with the volume I’m doing at the moment,” he said matter-of-factly. He knew the money wasn’t the cause of the old man’s annoyance.
“I told you to cut the deadbeats loose.”
Tigh’s back stiffened. There was a delicate line between self-assertion and disrespect that he’d learned to walk a long time ago. “I run my end of the business properly,” he said in measured tones.
“Not so well you can’t fuck up,” the old man replied sharply.
Here it comes
, Tigh thought. “I also told you we needed to find Little Jack before the cops got to him.”
“You did,” Tigh said calmly.
“So what happened? You’re always telling me nothing goes on out there on the street without your knowing about it.”
Now Tigh rose, straightening his back to accent his full height, though careful to keep his arms loose, hanging from his shoulders in a nonthreatening manner. “From where I sit, there wasn’t much chance to catch the man.”
“The cops caught him,” the old man pointed out. “You saying the cops are smarter than you are?”
Tigh shrugged. “Dumb luck,” he said. “If you’ve got nothing but luck to rely on, you’ve got nothing but luck to blame.”
“Another piece of wisdom from the fuckin’ motherland, Tigh?” The old man was angry, but he barely raised his voice.
“What’s this all about, Vin?” Tigh asked. “The sick bastard is off the street and the girls are safe again. What’s it matter if the cops got the guy instead of us?”
The old man shrugged. “The bosses wanted him dead. Apparently he has some information that could hurt some of our people.”
“What sort of information could a psycho like that have on any of our people?”
“How the fuck should I know? You think they tell me anything? All I know is that they were counting on you to take this guy out of the picture, and you fucked it up.” Vinnie’s face was red and his voice had grown louder.
Tigh looked serious as he crossed his arms. “If you’ve got a message to deliver, Vinnie, you’d better be out with it.” He knew how the game was played, and he was ready to call anyone’s bluff when it was necessary.
The old man held up his hands and shook his head. “Hey, no message here, Tigh. Our people may take a hit on this, but no one’s blaming you. At least, not to worry about. I think the bosses are just a little disappointed, that’s all.”
“Oh, they’re disappointed, are they?” Tigh’s voice was more menacing, and there was no mistaking the message that he’d been pushed as far as he was willing to be pushed.
The old man leaned back in his chair. By all rights, he was Tigh’s superior in the organization, but they both knew that meant precious little in the real world. In the real world, Tigh was young and strong and was worth far more to his bosses than the old man. “Don’t worry about it, Tigh. It’s not our problem anymore.” He sighed. “I don’t know what they expected in the first fuckin’ place anyways.”
Tigh was silent, but his glare was penetrating.
“Seriously, Tigh,” Vinnie said. “Forget I mentioned it. You just go back to doing what you do so well, and you’ll never hear another word about it.”
Tigh relented at last, unfolding his arms and sitting back down on the crates. “All right, then.”
The old man pulled on his earlobe and looked at him from across the room. “You may be able to help us on something else, though,” he said.
“If I can, I will,” Tigh said briskly.
“We need some information on a lawyer who lives in Charlestown, right on your turf.”
Tigh’s eyes narrowed. “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Finn,” Vinnie replied. “Scott Finn.” He looked at Tigh closely. “You know him?”
Tigh was silent for a moment as he contemplated his answer carefully. Then he shook his head. “Never heard of him,” he replied.
The old man stared at Tigh briefly, pulling on his earlobe again as he cocked his head to one side. Then he went back to stacking the bills on the card table. “It was worth a shot,” he said.
“Why is the organization interested in this guy?” Tigh asked, sounding nonchalant.
Vinnie shrugged. “Like I said, you think they tell me anything anymore?”
Tigh regarded the old man sitting in the warehouse as he considered how far he could push the questions. Vinnie sat hunched over on a flimsy folding chair at the card table. It was such a pathetic existence to which he’d been relegated, sitting in a cold, stinking shell of a structure, counting out the cash in each greasy envelope that the local captains brought to him every week. Vinnie had once been one of the princes of Boston’s underworld. He had everything then that “the life” was supposed to offer—power, money, women. But the modern world of Boston’s organized crime had passed him by, and now he was stuck skimming what he could off the weekly take.
“Don’t worry about it,” Vinnie said, feeling Tigh’s stare. For a moment, Tigh thought the old man had read his mind, until he realized Vinnie was still talking about Scott Finn.
“Are you sure?” Tigh asked. “I can always look him up.”
“Nah,” Vinnie said. “It’s not your problem anymore. Leave it to the people who know what the score with this guy really is.”
Tigh got up and walked to the door. He looked back at the old man sitting at the card table and saw a picture of his future. “You want anything, Vin?” he asked after a moment. “Lunch or a drink or anything?”
Vinnie looked up at him, pausing in his counting. “Yeah, some smokes and a six-pack’d be good,” he said. Then he went back to his work.
Tigh opened the door. “Okay, Vinnie, I’ll send someone over.”
Vinnie grunted but didn’t look up. Tigh looked at him for another minute—wondering what his own fate would be in another twenty years. Then he turned and walked through the door.