Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  Flaherty shrugged. “I’m just following through with the investigation. I assure you, I don’t pry into other people’s personal affairs without reason. But we do need answers to these few questions.”

  “As I’ve said, there are no affairs for you to pry into here. And with respect to your questions, you have all the answers you’ll get. You may leave now.” Loring’s tone was dismissive, setting Flaherty off.

  “So you didn’t see Natalie Caldwell socially, even after she left the Justice Department?” she repeated.

  Loring looked angry now, but was too polished a lawyer and politician to lose his composure. “No, Lieutenant, I did not see Natalie Caldwell socially, even after she left the Justice Department. And, again, I’ll remind you that I’m a married man, and I’d like to register my extreme displeasure with the manner in which you’ve approached me about this. I’ve worked very hard to get where I am, and I believe I’m entitled to a little more respect than you’re currently showing me. I’ll be talking to your superiors about this, is that understood?”

  “Absolutely,” Flaherty responded. “If you wish to make it public that your name has come up in the course of this investigation, you’re more than welcome to. I’m simply following police procedure.”

  Just then the door swung open and an attractive young woman bustled into the office in midsentence. “What a fucking week!” she was saying. “I can’t wait to get the hell away from here and relax in a—” She stopped short when she noticed Flaherty sitting in the chair in front of Loring’s desk. Flaherty could see him turning bright red.

  “I’m sorry, Rich,” the woman stammered. “I didn’t know you were in a meeting. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Flaherty said. “I was just leaving.” She stood up and turned toward the woman in the doorway. She looked like she was in her late twenties, tall, with striking red hair and a pretty face. She had a large weekend bag slung over her shoulder and was gripping a tennis racquet.

  Flaherty looked from the woman’s bag to the duffel resting by the side of Loring’s desk, then back to the woman herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t think we’ve met.” She extended her hand in a gesture that forced the woman to struggle with her racquet as she tried to free her own hand.

  “I’m Janet Reed,” she said, still shaken from the awkwardness of her entry.

  “Ms. Reed is an attorney here in the Criminal Division,” Loring offered weakly. “She and I are attending the same conference this weekend. It’s a work function.”

  Flaherty looked again at the tennis racquet. “Well, it certainly looks like you two are in for a strenuous few days of professional activity,” she said. Then she turned to Loring. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Loring. I apologize if my questions offended your sensibilities. I certainly wouldn’t want to contribute to any unfounded rumors about your personal life.” Loring fumed silently behind his desk, unable to defend himself.

  Flaherty smiled. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else,” she said, squeezing past Janet Reed as she left the office.

  Chapter Forty-three

  THE VIEW FROM THE governor’s office was spectacular. Located in the front of the State House, it perched on top of Beacon Hill in the heart of old Boston, looking down on the rest of the city as it ran from the hill toward the water on three sides. During the twentieth century, the skyscrapers had grown bit by bit from the lowlands in the financial district, eventually raising the altitude of the city’s business institutions above the level of the seat of government. But even this metaphorical challenge to the State House’s supremacy had done little to dampen the majesty of the view from the governor’s office.

  William Clarke stood facing the office’s grand windows, looking out at the vast expanse of the Boston Common and the Public Garden that were a focal point of Boston’s urban design. The phone was pressed hard to his ear and his grip on the receiver was too tight, as though he were trying to strangle the words coming out of the earpiece.

  “I understand,” he said. “Yes, that is disappointing,” and then after another pause, “I’ll let our friends know.” He hung up the receiver by reaching absentmindedly behind him and placing it on one of the four phones that lined the side of his desktop, keeping his eyes focused on the city below him.

  Wendyl Shore stood behind the governor. Even the creases in his slacks and the shine on his loafers couldn’t conceal the tension he was feeling. “Well?” he asked after several seconds.

  “Apparently Flaherty isn’t convinced about the Caldwell murder. She’s not sure it was Townsend’s doing, and she’s still pursuing the investigation.” Clarke’s voice had a dreamy quality to it as he watched young lovers strolling through the Common, hand in hand past the Frog Pond.

  “We have to stop her,” Wendyl said flatly. He didn’t want to think about what an investigation might uncover. He’d worked too hard to put the governor in a position where the political future was limitless. Some of the party elders were already whispering about the presidential nomination.

  “How?” Clarke asked, more to himself than to his companion. “What possible precedent could there be for a governor to step in and stop a murder investigation? It would raise too many questions—questions I certainly couldn’t answer.” He paused, debating whether to share the other piece of news. “Besides,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, “we have another problem.”

  “What?”

  “Scott Finn, the young man from the law firm, seems to be conducting his own investigation.”

  “What kind of an investigation?” Wendyl asked. This was clearly getting out of control.

  Clarke shrugged. “Into the Caldwell murder. Apparently he’s the one who fed Flaherty the information about Caldwell having a lover. And yesterday he visited Townsend in prison.”

  “What could he possibly want with Townsend?”

  “Answers,” Clarke said. “Mr. Finn didn’t stay long, but our sources at the prison say it was an animated discussion.”

  There was a long silence between them. Outside, the sun had passed its apex and was beginning its slide to the west, tinting the sky a premature orange that would last for a few more hours. Autumn was coming, Clarke reflected. He couldn’t wait. Autumn was a parodoxical time of rebirth in New England, where the residents identified themselves more with the dark winter months than with the heat of the summer. Every year after Labor Day a new cycle began, with children returning to school, businesses restarting their clocks on a new fiscal calendar, and the sins of summer disappearing under the brilliant autumn foliage.

  “So, what should we do?” Wendyl asked, suddenly unsure of himself.

  Clarke thought for a moment. “I think you and I can probably figure what to do about Flaherty.” He turned and faced his chief of staff. “Mr. Finn is someone else’s problem to deal with, however.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  PETER BOSTICK STOOD on a deserted street in Southie, down near the water looking out at the harbor across to East Boston and Logan Airport. He hated this kind of work. After twenty years on the police force, being a private investigator for a big law firm was more boring than he could ever have imagined. Howery, Black’s cases tended toward the respectable, and the work they needed him to do usually involved little more than errands. In this particular instance, Finn had asked him to track down some of the Huron security guards who’d worked on the commuter line before the terrorist attack. Tracking down witnesses was one of the dullest tasks he handled. Still, Finn was a decent sort—not like most of the snobs he dealt with. Bostick didn’t mind doing the work for him, and the pay was always satisfactory.

  He’d spent the morning running down the three addresses Finn had given him, with no success. He looked up at the battered old warehouse that was literally falling into the harbor, double-checking to make sure he had the address right.

  It must be a mistake, he thought. Maybe the address had been entered into Huron’s system incorrectly.
That wouldn’t be particularly unusual. A bad address was one of the most common reasons people hired him in the first place. He’d been told not to spend too much time on this particular errand, but he liked Finn. The young lawyer was one of the guys who referred good cases to him—ones that offered plenty of overtime and little effort. It wouldn’t hurt to reach out to some of his contacts to find out where these people really lived—no extra charge.

  Bostick got back into his car, pulled out his cell phone and address book, and started dialing.

  Chapter Forty-five

  FINN 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.
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br />   Chapter Forty-six

  FLAHERTY 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.