Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  Flaherty looked at Kozlowski. “We need to bring him in. Now.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  FINN CLOSED THE DRAWER of his desk and slipped the folded sheets of paper into his inside breast pocket. Getting into the office had been a breeze. No one at the firm other than Preston knew that he’d been arrested yet, and the office was quiet on that Saturday evening. He was also convinced that his circuitous route had thrown off anyone who was trying to follow him. He’d even told the cab driver to drop him off a few blocks from the office so he could see if anyone was still on his tail.

  Boston was in its full glory that evening. Summer was yielding grudgingly to autumn as September matured, and the sun no longer baked the city’s inhabitants mercilessly. Now it bit through the crisp, clean air at the tourists thronging Quincy Market and strolling past the ubiquitous statues evoking Boston’s revolutionary past.

  Finn walked over to the window of his office and looked out at the harbor. The last rays of the day twinkled off the casual ripples that graced the water’s surface.

  He loved this view. It made him feel as though he’d made it to the top of the highest mountain in the world and had staked a claim no one could nullify. Now he wondered if he’d ever enjoy the view again. The law firm of Howery, Black & Long-bothum would suffer very seriously from the scandal if their client was involved in government corruption and murder— particularly if the evidence that sent the client away had been turned over to the police by one of Huron’s lawyers. The partners would be looking for a sacrificial scalp, and Finn’s would be the obvious choice.

  He took another moment to memorize the picture from his window high above the streets of Boston. Several old wooden ships, with their sails playing in the breeze, shared the harbor with tankers and mammoth cargo barges, harkening back to a simpler time. Maybe it would all be for the best, Finn thought. Then he spun on his heels and headed out the door, turning off the light behind him.

  Once out on the street he headed for the police station five blocks away. Even if Flaherty wasn’t there, he’d wait for her. He couldn’t go back to his apartment for fear he’d be followed, and for the same reason he didn’t want to be on the street any longer than necessary.

  As he walked, he rehearsed what he’d say to Flaherty. She’d be skeptical, clearly, and not without good reason, but he knew he could convince her. He had the evidence now, and she’d have to listen.

  He thought carefully about every word he’d use to sway her—it was like constructing an opening argument, a trial, and a closing argument all at once. Tell the jury what they’re going to see; then show it to them; then tell them what they just saw. It was one of the fundamentals of trial presentation. He just needed to make sure his presentation incorporated enough finesse to be convincing.

  He heard the van door slide open as he walked by, but the meaning of the sound was lost on him until it was too late. Two men jumped out of the nondescript utility vehicle and were on him before he could react. One held out a black plastic baton with a wide opening and steel teeth at one end. Finn saw the electrical current buzzing between the metal teeth of the baton for only a split second before it was thrust into his side.

  “No!” he tried to scream, but the current robbed his body of all control. As the electricity sped throughout his arms and legs, up his spine, and into the base of his skull, it felt like someone had screwed him into a light socket and thrown the switch. His eyes rolled up into his head, and the last thing his mind registered was the faint odor of burning flesh. Then his body went slack and he collapsed into the arms of his two attackers, who quickly slid him through the van’s open side door and sped away from the curb.

  The entire abduction had taken less than five seconds, and no one on the street noticed or cared. Across the street in Quincy Market, the tourists smiled in the early autumn evening, waiting for the leaves to change, reveling in the beautiful New England day.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  “THERE’S NO ANSWER on his cell phone,” Flaherty said.

  “You’ve tried his office and his home as well?” Loring asked. They were still in his office, and the discussion had quickly turned to Finn’s safety.

  “I’ve tried all three places. I even had a patrol car go by his apartment in Charlestown to see if he might be there. Nothing.”

  “Does he have any family he might contact, maybe to go stay with during all of this?”

  Flaherty shook her head. “He’s an orphan, with no brothers or sisters.”

  “How about a girlfriend?”

  “No,” Flaherty responded a little too quickly.

  “Okay, okay,” Loring said, holding up his hands. “I’m just checking. I want to make sure we’ve considered every reasonable possibility before we start using my contacts.”

  “He’s fallen off the face of the earth,” Flaherty said, “and we need to use any means we have to find him. His life may be in danger.”

  “Finn’s a big boy,” Kozlowski interjected with a note of subtle reprimand. “He’s been on the street before, and he can take care of himself.”

  “Not against these people,” Loring said. “It’s safe to say that if McGuire has gotten his hands on Mr. Finn, we don’t have much time.”

  “What can you do?”

  Loring hesitated. “As I told you, we’ve been keeping an eye on Mr. Finn because of his connection to Huron and the rumors we were hearing on the street. I may be able to locate him.” Flaherty and Kozlowski looked at him expectantly. “There’s a catch, though,” he continued. “To find him, I’ll have to risk compromising one of the best informants I’ve ever had—one of the best in the history of the FBI.”

  “Better than Whitey Bulger?” Kozlowski said wryly.

  Loring scowled. “Bulger was a mistake,” he said. “I knew he was shady, but I had no idea how far over the line he and Connolly were. I screwed up on that score because I wasn’t paying close enough attention. People died because of those mistakes, and I have to live with that.”

  “But you’re willing to make the same mistake again?” Flaherty demanded.

  “No,” Loring said. “This is different. This guy is on the level and only engages in some bookmaking to stay on the wrong side of the line with access to the bad guys. I have a personal relationship with him, and I’ve made sure he’s never taken anything too far.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Flaherty asked.

  “I had him tailed for more than a year in the beginning. Since then, I’ve put an agent on him periodically just to make sure there’s been no backsliding. There hasn’t been. This guy was looking for a way out on his own—it’s not like he was busted and had no choice. He came to us and asked for a way out, and we gave it to him. Since then, he’s been responsible for dozens of high-profile organized crime arrests in New England. That’s a pretty good track record.”

  “It still seems a little dangerous in light of all of the past screwups the Bureau has had in Boston,” Kozlowski noted.

  “Oh, come off it, Detective. You know as well as I do that law enforcement depends on informants to get the job done. You can’t tell me the police department would be effective without them.”

  Kozlowski thought for a moment. “No, I can’t.”

  “There are always risks. The best we can do is to try to minimize those risks. The guy I’m dealing with here is clean. At least, he’s as clean as any informant who can help accomplish anything is ever going to be. By the time he came inside with us, his reputation on the street was so nasty he didn’t have to mess with people anymore—because no one messes with him.” Loring could see the detectives were still skeptical. “Believe me, I hate to expose this guy. He’s the best pipeline of information we’ve ever had. More than that, he’s put his life on the line by working with us, and now we’re going to have to ask him to expose himself and make himself a target. I hate to do it, but if Mr. Finn has evidence that can make a case against McGuire, it would be worth it.”

  “Why would this g
uy agree to put himself in that kind of danger?” Kozlowski asked.

  “Trust me, he has reason enough.”

  “Make the call,” Flaherty said.

  Tigh McCluen sat behind the counter at the Downtown Liquor Outlet in Charlestown, leaning into the Boston Herald sports pages that were laid out in front of him.

  “Sox lost again, huh, Mr. McCluen?” Billy Shea said as he stocked liquor bottles on the racks nearby.

  Tigh smiled through his goatee. “That they did, son.”

  “So you must be having a pretty good day then, right?”

  “Ah, Billy, you’ve got to learn never to take joy in someone else’s misery. In this business, you can’t be making moral judgments about who should win and who should lose. It’s a business plain and simple. All you can do as the house is balance the odds and take your cut.”

  Billy nodded. It was a slow day at the Outlet, but that wasn’t that unusual. While the liquor business generally turned a tidy profit, the store’s real value was as a cash funnel for more lucrative, illicit enterprises. The store generally cleared more money in a day in the rackets than it did in a month on sales of booze. Billy, a skinny street teen with the look of a beaten pound dog, worked the register and kept the store running. Tigh, who was nominally the store manager, used the place as his office for running a gambling operation. Day after day he sat behind the counter, getting up occasionally to use the stockroom for any transaction that was better suited for privacy.

  “Still,” Billy pushed, “you must’ve done all right, right?”

  Tigh smiled again. “The fans in this city are very loyal,” he said. “They bet with their hearts, and that gives anyone who plays the odds well an advantage.”

  Tigh stopped talking as a customer walked in and began to browse through the discount booze that was displayed prominently at the front of the store: Mad Dog, Thunderbird, Old Crow. These were the brands that moved the fastest off the shelves in the small shop that stood across Water Street from the projects. He kept a couple of cases of chardonnay in the back to provide some cover for the wealthier heavy betters from up on Monument Square, but it was the cheap stuff that made the store itself profitable.

  It wasn’t a bad life on the whole, Tigh reflected. He didn’t miss the danger of the old days, when he was out on the street as one of the most feared enforcers for the Winter Hill Gang. His size and his tolerance for pain—both the pain he inflicted on others and the pain others inflicted on him—made him a legend on the street. He reputation was so well established that no one had challenged him in years. He preferred being off the streets; preferred even the cracked linoleum and yellow lights of the Liquor Outlet to the endless battles and posturing and bullying that were such a central part of his past.

  The buzzing of Tigh’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He flipped open the cover and held the phone up to his ear. “Hello?” he said in his typically gruff voice.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  Tigh took the phone away from his ear and looked around him. Billy was leaning against the counter behind the register idly flipping through the pages of one of the particularly graphic pornographic magazines the store sold from behind the register, along with cigarettes and lottery tickets. It was a one-stop vice shop, Tigh had commented once. You could get your booze, your bets, your smokes, your lotto, and your porn. He got up from his stool and walked to the back of the store.

  “Billy, if anyone’s looking for me, tell them I’m in back, and I’ll be out in a minute, all right?” he yelled as he walked.

  “Okay, Mr. McCluen.”

  Once in the back storeroom, Tigh spoke into the phone again. “We’re on a cell phone, remember,” were his first words. They were unnecessary, but Tigh said them in every conversation nonetheless. It made him feel safer.

  “We’ve got a problem with your friend.” “Shit. How serious?” “As serious as it gets. We’re going to need your help with him.” There was a pause on the line. “And Tigh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This could be the ball game, you know what I mean?”

  Tigh shook his head. Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, you could never escape your past. “Pick me up at the usual spot in thirty minutes,” he said. Then he flipped the phone closed before the caller could respond.

  He had dreaded this possibility from the outset, but he knew he had obligations from which he couldn’t run. Slowly, without enthusiasm, he stood and walked back out into the main part of the Outlet and looked around, taking in every detail. He’d probably never be back, he knew.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  FINN HEARD THE RINGING. He was eight years old and all he wanted was sleep, but the noise wouldn’t stop. He flailed out from his bed, trying to locate the snooze button on the clock to stop the alarm, but he’d only been with this foster family for a few days, and he still didn’t know where things were in the dark. His arm swung out and caught the lamp by the side of the table, sending it crashing to the floor. Suddenly there were voices everywhere.

  “I’m sorry!” he screamed, but to no avail. They were coming for him, and he could already feel the heavy sting of the leather belt on his back.

  “I’m sorry! It was an accident!” he yelled again, knowing it would do no good, and might even prolong the beating.

  “Please! I’m sorry!” he cried again in the darkness, frightened for his life. His eyes were shut to try to keep out the pain, shut so tight he could see shapes forming on the insides of his eyelids: flashes of light in red and yellow and white mixing to form an image that was becoming clearer and clearer until Natalie Caldwell’s face hovered before him, the eyes sad and desperate, and so full of life.

  “I’m sorry!” he yelled again.

  Finn opened his eyes. It was dark and cold, and it took a moment for him to get his bearings as he tried to remember where he was. Every muscle in his body ached as if he’d run a marathon. Then he remembered the two men who’d attacked him in the street, and the electricity they’d sent through his body to incapacitate him. He rolled his neck in memory of the pain, and tried to rub the back of his head, but something was preventing him from raising his arm. He felt down and realized, even in the darkness, that he was tied to a chair with plastic wire restraints.

  He wiggled himself back and forth in the chair to test the strength of the plastic, and determined that his legs were similarly bound. The plastic was strong, and cut into his flesh when he pulled against it, so he rested for a moment and concentrated on acclimating his eyes to the darkness.

  There wasn’t much he could tell about where he was. The room he was in seemed huge—so huge he couldn’t tell where it ended in the darkness. He could also hear the echo of dripping water off the cold stone floor, and he could smell the mildew on the damp walls.

  Suddenly, just as he felt his eyes were adjusting, someone flashed a bright light directly into them, blinding him. He screamed out in shock and pain as his eyes snapped shut reflexively. It was at that moment that he heard the laughing. It was low and deep and sinister, coming from some point just beyond the light source.

  “Who is that?” Finn demanded impotently. The only response was an increase in the laughter, turning it from a chuckle to a cackle that died down again to silence.

  “Who is that?” Finn yelled again as panic began to set in. He tried to calm himself, but it was no use. This was bad, he knew. He was in more trouble than he’d ever been in before, and there was nothing he could do. He started to struggle against the restraints again. He knew it was pointless, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled so hard that he felt himself bleeding from his wrists and ankles, but he didn’t care. It gave him an added sense of control, and if he caught an artery and bled to death, at least it would be by his own hand, not by the hand of his captor beyond the light. He continued to struggle until he heard the voice, clear and strong.

  “Relax, Counselor, we just want to talk to you.” />
  Finn stopped struggling and he could feel his body go cold. He recognized the voice—and the sarcasm. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  “Good to see you, too,” the voice replied.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  TIGH MCCLUEN WALKED SLOWLY along the road, lugging a thick duffel bag over his shoulder. It was well into the evening, and his giant frame, caught in the lights from the cars, cast long shadows that grew and sharpened, then disappeared as the cars passed. He made his way along the O’Brien Highway, which headed into Cambridge from Charlestown, keeping an eye out for his ride. At the same time he took in every visual detail of the neighborhood, memorizing the town that had been his home for more than two decades, ever since the first day he stepped off the boat. This might be the last time he ever saw this place, he knew.

  On his way out of Charlestown, he passed Sullivan’s Tavern, a pub established in 1756, whose wide pine flooring and heavy oak bar still held the aura of revolution. That was where they often used to celebrate, in a private room in the back. They’d gather together, a dozen or so of them, and toast their violence and thievery.

  The first time Tigh had been included was when he was eighteen, having only recently been recruited as an enforcer. It was right after the Chelsea Street Regulars broke up—right after Joey’s death. Finn was still on the streets, but he’d already begun to drift away, and Tigh felt truly lonely for the first time in his life.

  As a newcomer to the elite world of organized crime, he sat quietly at the edge of the crowd, drinking it all in, wondering if this would be his new family. Bravado poured forth from the older crowd as they swapped stories from the days of the long-running gang wars.

  After a few hours, Whitey Bulger made his way over to Tigh and sat next to him, introducing himself as though anyone didn’t know who he was.

  “You don’t say much, do you, kid?” he said after a moment or two of trying to draw Tigh out.