F
INN WALKED HOME THAT NIGHT
, as he often did during the summer when the weather was nice. The walk took him three-quarters of an hour at a meandering pace, and brought him through several distinct and separate worlds. From his office downtown, near the harbor at the edge of Chinatown, he headed north through the business district, watching as the late-working, suited inhabitants scurried from their buildings like the last rats off sinking ships, bedraggled and serious. From there he passed through the Faneuil Hall area where the Thursday night crowd was already gathering steam at the open-fronted bars in Quincy Market, spilling out over the velvet ropes that loosely defined the establishments’ borders; and then across the remains of the Big Dig, where the remnants of the raised expressway—a testament to the waste of modern government expenditures—separated downtown Boston from the Italian North End.
He walked with his head down, deep in thought; the footsteps on the bricks and cobblestones around him in the historic districts blended into his own, clapping in heavy time to a rhythm that had changed surprisingly little in the city’s three and a half centuries. At the edge of the North End he turned onto Causeway Street, and from there onto the North Washington Street Bridge, which crosses the mouth of the Charles River into Charlestown. He walked in silent contemplation of his predicament. Many times in the past he’d stopped at the top of the bridge after postwork drinks and lit a cigarette, leaning against the railing as he looked out at the insular little neighborhood where he’d spent all of his years, marveling at the direction his life had taken. But not tonight. Tonight there was too much on his mind.
Townsend wasn’t Natalie’s killer. He knew that now with a certainty he couldn’t deny. He’d tried to convince himself otherwise as he looked into the madman’s eyes, but he’d been unsuccessful. Townsend would rot in hell, if he wasn’t there already, but not for the murder of Natalie Caldwell; that’s what Townsend’s eyes had told him, and Finn was just beginning to grasp the implications. Natalie’s killer was still out there, and Finn knew he couldn’t rest until he found him.
It wasn’t just that his own freedom was on the line—although he recognized that as a powerful motivator. The police, unable to pin Natalie’s murder on Townsend, would keep looking for another suspect, and at the moment it appeared he was the likeliest target. But that practical concern was only a part of what was driving Finn. The other was a loyalty to Natalie he couldn’t fully explain. For all her faults, she was still the person with whom he felt the closest connection. Even when their relationship was strained, she’d always been there for him, albeit not always in the way he wanted. There were so few people who’d ever stuck by him, and he was determined to stick by Natalie now.
Of course, his responsibilities on the Tannery case were becoming so overwhelming they allowed no time to follow through on these avowals. He simply couldn’t take the time to investigate Natalie’s murder without letting down Preston Holland and giving up everything he’d worked for at Howery, Black.
It was a quandary that resisted easy solution. All of these thoughts were swirling through his head as Finn walked through Charlestown on his way home. His apartment was in the fashionable Monument Square section. Only a few blocks from the housing projects off Bunker Hill Street where Finn had spent most of his youth, his two-bedroom duplex was nonetheless a world away from his roots. The line between the haves and the have-nots was clearly drawn in Charlestown, and he’d crossed over that line when he took the job at Howery, Black, leaving the desperation of the projects behind him. Tonight, as on many others, he took a long route home that led him up Bunker Hill Street, near the edge of his old neighborhood. The projects sat low and squat in rectangular huddles behind fences that seemed designed more to keep the inhabitants in than to keep others out. He walked past the walls, looking in on his past from the outside, like a voyeur, wondering about the other roads his life might have taken.
At Lexington Street he headed left, up Bunker Hill toward the monument. The change in atmosphere was instant, as the town-houses in brick and clapboard siding glowed with the warmth of comfort and security. His apartment was near the top of the hill, bordering on Monument Square Park, in what was known as one of the safest areas of Charlestown. He was almost to his door when he heard an unmistakable rustle coming up behind him.
It had been so long since he’d walked the streets in constant fear, always on guard, and his reflexes were slow, but he still managed to dodge the first blow. The rustle was the sound of two young men rushing toward him from behind—denim rubbing on denim, and black sneakers on pavement as they accelerated for the attack.
The first young man to reach him swung his arm just as Finn ducked, and Finn caught sight of a fist holding something dark and heavy. Instinctively, he shot his elbow out into his attacker’s gut, catching the man in the solar plexus and doubling him over. As he turned to face the second man, though, he felt a sharp pain slice through his right shoulder as he was hit in the neck with a heavy club. He fell to his knees, his arm dangling free, numbed from the blow.
Finn could see the legs of the second attacker right in front of him, and he knew he had only a moment to act before another blow would land on his head or his back. He reached out with his one functioning arm and hooked the man around the knees, bending his legs backward and toppling him.
The man flailed about, trying to catch Finn with the club, swinging wildly. Finn continued to dodge the blows as he crawled up onto the man’s chest. Feeling was returning to his right arm, and he managed to pin the young man to the ground. He raised his arm, making a fist and preparing to strike, but before he could bring down his arm, the first attacker, who’d recovered from the blow to his stomach, tackled him, wrestling him to the ground.
The fight was lost at that point, Finn knew. Both men fell on top of him, delivering repeated punches to the head and chest. Finn had been in enough street fights to realize that, without help, there was no way he could regain control of the situation. The only thing left to do was to protect himself as best he could. He curled himself into the fetal position, wrapping his arms around his head and pulling his knees up to his chest. This would help protect some of his vital areas, but it wouldn’t stop the beating or prevent the pain. He’d have to live with that.
Through the fog of his agony, Finn could hear the two men hissing and wheezing as they wore themselves out delivering the pounding. One of them was standing now, kicking him in the ribs, having exhausted his arms. Finn wondered how long the beating would last.
Then, just as he began to worry they might actually beat him to death, the attack stopped. Finn could sense the men still there, though, leaning over him to determine if he was still alive. One crouched down low next to his head, but Finn kept his eyes closed. To his horror, he heard the sound of a switchblade opening, and a moment later he felt the knife on his throat.
“This was your warning,” the man said. His voice was quiet and carried a strong Boston accent—the kind he knew so well from growing up. It was the rough, clipped accent of the streets, rather than the drawn-out Brahmin drawl of Beacon Hill. “Don’t go sticking your neck out to protect that Little Jack scumbag. That shit’s going to get what he deserves. Let the girl go—or we’ll see to it that you die.” With that, the knife flicked out along his throat, and Finn felt a sharp stinging sensation, followed by the warmth of a trickle of blood sliding down his neck.
Then, as quickly as they’d come, they were gone.
F
LAHERTY WAS AT HER DESK
going through two sets of files. The first was a background report on Scott Finn, Esquire. It depressed her. The most recent materials contained his bar admissions and some departmental reviews of his exemplary performance from his days at the Public Defender’s office. But farther back in the files were numerous arrest reports and detention records. They were mainly for relatively minor offenses, but included two arrests for assault and battery. The files indicated that he’d cut deals in both cases, and spent several months in a high-security juvenile detention center for the second offense.
The second set of files was more interesting. They contained news reports of the Bulger case, and of the subsequent trials of FBI agents for their role in tipping off Whitey Bulger, an FBI informant, to state indictments. Flaherty had asked one of the assistants to pull together the materials so she could evaluate Loring’s role in the mess.
The Bulger case was an indelible black mark on the Boston law enforcement community’s record. Whitey Bulger had controlled much of the organized crime out of Southie in the 1970s, ’80s, and early ’90s. Although local law enforcement agencies committed significant time and manpower to building a case against him, he seemed to be clairvoyant, slipping out of any sting operation before the trap was sprung with a pre-science that was confounding. It wasn’t until the mid-1990s that the local police learned the truth: Bulger had been an FBI informant for more than twenty years, and his FBI handlers had tipped him off to investigations, allowing him to continue a crime spree that included murder, assault, and extortion. Even in the end, Bulger’s FBI “angels” had been able to keep him safe from the law, warning him before the final warrant for his arrest was executed. Bulger escaped, went into hiding, and was later named one of the FBI’s ten most wanted fugitives.
In 2002, one FBI agent, John Connolly, was convicted of aiding and abetting Whitey Bulger in his escape. A year later, one of the supervisors in the FBI’s Boston office was indicted on charges of conspiracy to commit murder, although he died before he could be brought to trial. The entire Boston office of the Bureau had been given an enormous black eye, earning a reputation as the most corrupt federal office in the nation.
As Flaherty looked through the articles, she noted that Loring’s name appeared in passing only, despite that, as the head of the FBI’s office in Boston, he had oversight of the entire project. Whenever his name was mentioned, it was usually with the tagline,
The FBI’s station chief in Boston has no comment on the matter at this time.
Somehow, however, Loring had escaped close scrutiny, and even came out of the ordeal with a reputation of a “reformer” by pledging to clean up the Boston office’s practices. He’d weathered the storm admirably, and then, when the position of U.S. attorney for the District of Massachusetts became available, he’d convinced his political backers to get him appointed to the job.
Flaherty shook her head as she read the articles. Loring must have nine lives, she reflected. She wondered what a man like that would do to protect his reputation, and whether some illicit connection to Natalie Caldwell could have driven him to murder. The two had worked together at the Justice Department. It was possible she’d threatened to make public some of the details that were kept quiet during Connolly’s trial. That kind of a threat might very well have been enough to push Loring to action, Flaherty speculated. At the same time, she knew, that’s
all
it was—speculation. Without proof, it meant nothing.
She was reading some of the articles again, making sure that there wasn’t something she was missing, when the phone rang. “Flaherty,” she said into the receiver.
“Yes, Detective, this is Sergeant Gormand over in Charlestown.”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“We have a situation over here that might interest you.” He was being obtuse, and Flaherty hated that. There were enough riddles involved in her work without beat cops playing guessing games with her.
“I don’t know about that, Sergeant, I’ve got plenty keeping me busy right here in Boston.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah, well this involves a lawyer named Scott Finn. He was attacked tonight, and he’s asking for you.”
“Tell me where you are, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
F
INN HELD AN ICE PACK
against the side of his face. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. Nevertheless, he considered himself lucky. There’d been a few moments while he was being kicked when he thought he might not survive. He’d taken enough beatings over the years—and doled out his fair share as well—to recognize the thin line between being injured and being killed.
They hadn’t intended to kill him; they made that clear. The wound on his throat was superficial, but skillfully placed. It was a warning, but a warning from whom?
Sergeant Gormand and one of the patrol officers were still in Finn’s apartment, looking like angels of death, waiting dispassionately to see if he’d live. They’d offered to call an ambulance, but Finn was having none of it. A butterfly bandage held the edges of the cut on his throat together, and was covered with a gauze pad he found under his sink. His ribs were badly bruised, but not broken, so he wasn’t about to spend the next twelve hours in an emergency room, waiting for some twenty-five-year-old intern to tell him what he already knew—he’d heal. With rest and time, he’d heal.
“You can’t give us anything else on the description?” Gormand was asking without interest.
“No, Sergeant. Like I already said, they came up behind me. After that, I was too busy trying to defend myself to jot down a sketch of their faces.”
“And you don’t know of anyone who has a grudge against you?”
Finn rubbed his forehead. “I spent two years as a public defender. Most of the thousand or so people I represented during that time spent some time in jail, so they might be a little grumpy.” He looked up at the two cops. “I got some people off, too, and that usually doesn’t sit well with your fellow officers. So, who knows?”
Gormand glared at him. “But you can’t think of anyone in particular who might be angry enough to do this at the moment?”
“No one comes to mind.” Finn hadn’t told Gormand about the warning. He was saving that tidbit of information for Flaherty.
“Well then, I’m not sure there’s much we can do here,” Gormand said. “I called Lieutenant Flaherty like you asked, and she said she’d be here soon. Officer Harris is still outside looking for anything useful, but he’s not likely to find anything. I’d ask you to come down to the station to look at some mug shots, but like you say, you were too busy to get a good look at these guys, so I’m not sure what purpose that would serve.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty useless,” Finn mumbled through the ice pack.
“I’m not saying that,” said Gormand defensively. “I’m just pointing out that we don’t have a lot to go on right now.”
“I understand, Sergeant. If I think of anything else that might be helpful, I’ll let you know.”
Gormand nodded. “And we’ll be in touch if anything develops in the investigation.”
Yeah, right
, Finn thought. He could tell from the look on Gormand’s face that this case would be filed under “D.C.”—for “don’t care.” The “investigation” would never get beyond Finn’s door, and would be over once Gormand passed through it on his way out.
Just then, Flaherty walked through the open door. “What the hell happened?” she demanded, glancing back and forth between Finn and Gormand.
Gormand held up his hands in surrender. “Talk to him,” he said. “I gotta get back to the precinct and file one of the shortest reports in history.” With that, the policeman was gone, and Finn and Flaherty were alone in the apartment.
“Well?” Flaherty asked again.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Finn said, removing the ice pack from his swelling face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance or anything?”
“No, thanks. The sergeant already offered. I’m fine. Just a little banged up, but I’ve been worse.”
“Good,” Flaherty said. “Then tell me what this is all about.”
“I was jumped from behind by two men when I got home tonight.” Finn shook his head in disgust. “I guess I’m not as agile as I used to be. In the old days I would have been able to take them.”
“In the old days you would have been the one jumping someone from behind, isn’t that more likely?” Flaherty corrected.
“What are you talking about?” Finn flared.
“C’mon, Finn, I can read a rap sheet, for Christ’s sake.” “Still investigating me, huh, Lieutenant?” His voice was bitter as he looked away.
Flaherty crossed her arms. “I told you, until I know who killed Natalie Caldwell, everyone is a suspect. I didn’t lie to you. Besides”—her voice softened a little—“you must have known we’d eventually run a basic background check on you.”
Finn nodded. “Yeah.” He looked up at her. “Some mistakes follow you your entire life.”
“Two assault and batteries, three breaking and enterings, and a drunk and disorderly?” Flaherty raised her eyebrows. “Seems more like a lifestyle than a mistake.”
Finn nodded. “Fair enough, but the assault and batteries were fair fights—not sucker-punch attacks. And the B&Es were to get back my own stuff after it had been stolen from me.”
“Why not call the police to get your stuff back?”
Finn shook his head. “That’s not how things work in the projects. You settle your own scores if you want to survive.”
“What about the drunk and disorderly?” she asked sarcastically. “No excuses for that?”
Finn laughed. “Not a one. That was deserved.” He shrugged. “Just boys being boys. You know how it is.”
“I know I’ve seen boys get killed when they’re ‘just being boys.’ ”
“It was nothing like that,” Finn tried to explain. “You wouldn’t understand—you didn’t grow up where I did.”
Flaherty gave an exasperated sigh. “And tonight? Was this just two kids from your old neighborhood ‘just being boys’?”
“No, this was something else,” Finn said quietly. A moment of silence passed between them as he decided how much to share with her. She was still thinking he could be the killer.
“Well?” she said finally.
“I’ll tell you,” Finn began, “but first I need to know what you’ve turned up on that list I gave you.”
Flaherty shook her head. “You know I can’t give you that kind of information. How can I make it any clearer: you haven’t been eliminated as a suspect.”
“Fine, then there’s no point in my telling you what happened here tonight.”
“You’re not helping yourself, Finn. Believe me, I want to clear you of this almost as much as you do, but I can’t do that if you’re keeping information from me. I’m going to follow this case wherever it leads, but I’m not going to give you a direct line into the investigation. It just can’t happen that way.” She looked at him with a somber expression. “And understand one thing,” she said. “If you
are
guilty, I’m going to nail you to the wall. I won’t protect you.”
Finn thought for a moment. She was right, he knew. She couldn’t possibly give him the information he wanted. At the same time, he needed to know what he was up against. “At least, tell me who on the list you’ve already talked to, okay?”
Flaherty glared back at him, considering whether to tell him. It wouldn’t be like she was sharing any really confidential information, would it? “Fine,” she said. “I’ve only talked to Loring. I don’t know if he’s told anyone else, though.”
Finn rested his face in the ice pack again. “Loring,” he repeated.
“Tell me what this is about, Finn. Right now, or that’s the last piece of information you’ll ever get from me.”
He removed the ice pack and pointed to his eye. “This wasn’t just boys being boys,” he said. “It wasn’t a mugging, or a gang initiation, either. This was a warning.”
“A warning about what?”
“Natalie’s murder,” Finn replied. “One of the guys told me to stop asking questions or I’d wind up dead.”
Flaherty was dumbstruck. She stared at Finn, not knowing whether to believe him. If it was true, it would go a long way toward clearing him, which was one reason to be skeptical. It would also have implications that she didn’t even want to contemplate. She took a deep breath. “Start at the beginning, and tell me everything,” she said.