by David Hosp
“You treated these scum?” Finn’s tone was indignant.
“I treat everyone,” Salazar said, matching Finn’s outrage. “I told you that. I treated both sides in El Salvador. I treat the criminals in this godforsaken place—no matter what their crimes. And yes, I treated the ‘scum’ in VDS. It is my place to heal, not to judge.”
“But these people—”
“Exactly, Mr. Finn. People. These are people. I’d treat the police officers who blinded my daughter if they were injured.” Salazar rattled the chains around his wrists as he wrung his hands. “But think about it: Even if what the police say is true, even if I was a member of VDS, why would I have my own lawyer killed? He was trying to get me out of this place. What possible motive would I have to get him killed?”
“I asked the police that,” Finn admitted.
“And did they have any kind of answer?”
“Not one that made any sense to me.”
“Because it could make no sense,” Salazar said. “I will blame myself for Dobson’s death for the rest of my life, but not because I wanted it. Only because I let him put himself in danger. In fact, I led him into danger. Of that, I am truly responsible.”
“How did you lead him into danger?”
“I told him too much.”
“What did you tell him?” Finn asked.
Salazar smiled bitterly. “God might forgive my mistake once, Mr. Finn. I’m not sure I’ll be welcome in heaven if I greet Saint Peter with your blood mixed with Dobson’s on my hands.”
“I can help you, though,” Finn protested. “If you tell me what I need to know.”
Salazar shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
Finn gave it some thought. Then he leaned forward in his chair and stared intently at Salazar. “Fine, don’t tell me,” he said. “But am I safe in assuming that whatever you told him had something to do with VDS?”
Salazar considered the question before answering. “Yes,” he said at last.
“And it has something to do with why you’re in here?”
Salazar hesitated. “I think so. I don’t know for sure. I only have what I’ve pieced together in here over the past fifteen years. It’s bits and scraps of rumors and gossip, but it all fits.”
The two men looked at each other, measuring. “You were framed, right?” Finn asked. “This wasn’t just a mistake. It wasn’t just bad luck. Someone did this to you on purpose.”
Salazar’s expression hardened. “There’s no such thing as a mistake. Not like this, and not in my case.”
Finn closed his eyes and thought. “It couldn’t have happened without someone on the inside,” he said, as much to himself as to Salazar.
“Cops.”
“It couldn’t have happened without cops,” Salazar agreed.
“Do you have any thoughts about who it might have been? Any names you can give me?”
“No,” Salazar said. He looked closely at Finn. “But you have some, don’t you?”
“One. But it’s only a suspicion.”
“Maybe it’s better that you not tell me until you’re sure.”
“That was my thought.” Finn stood up and walked to the door. “Guard!” he called.
Salazar looked at him. “What are you going to do?”
Finn turned. “I’m your lawyer,” he said. “I’m going to do my job.”
“I can’t be responsible for putting more people in danger.”
“You’re not responsible for anything,” Finn replied. “You didn’t tell me whatever it was that got Dobson killed, did you? I’m not going to focus on his murder right now. I’m going to prove that you didn’t attack Madeline Steele. I’m not going after VDS, am I?”
“What about the police? You’re going after them?”
Finn smiled. “I’ve dealt with cops before.”
The door opened. “You done now?” the guard asked.
Finn turned and looked at him. “No. I’m just getting started, actually.” He stepped past the guard and headed out toward the prison’s exit.
Chapter Seventeen
Tom Kozlowski stood bent over the sink in the men’s room at the Ritz-Carlton, splashing cold water on his face. He let the streams drip from his nose and chin before he stood and regarded his reflection in the mirror.
What the hell was he doing here? What was he thinking? That was what the image staring back at him was asking. Who was he trying to fool?
Lissa Krantz was the answer. He was trying to fool Lissa Krantz, and what was most disturbing was that it seemed to be working.
The words had come out of his mouth so casually, as if he uttered them all the time. He’d walked out of his office to see whether she was ready to go grab a bite and talk about fingerprint experts in the Salazar case. She was, and he’d grabbed his coat. But before he could get to the door, she’d asked the question: one that, against all logic, he somehow hadn’t expected. “Where do you want to go?”
He’d been startled. He never would have admitted out loud that he’d panicked, but deep down he knew that was what had happened. They always went to O’Doul’s, around the corner from the office. Who would have thought there was any other option? He answered without thought or hesitation. “How about the Ritz?”
As much as the answer had surprised him, he knew where it came from. The old Ritz-Carlton was on the corner of Arlington and Boylston, right next to the Public Garden. It had been renamed the Taj recently, but to true Bostonians it would always be the Ritz. It was one of those special places that existed for other people, not for him. He’d passed by it often on his circuit of the Common in search of inner peace. He’d stood by the window and seen the revelry during the holiday season, but he’d always been on the outside looking in. If there was ever a chance for him to dip his toe into that world, even for just a moment, it was now, with this woman.
And now here he was. She’d raised an eyebrow at his suggestion. “Holy fuck,” she’d said. “I mean, that’d be nice.”
Climbing into his boxy Crown Victoria, they’d left her BMW behind and cruised across the Charles River. They’d circled around Beacon Hill and the Common and found a parking spot on Commonwealth. Walking through the door to the dining room, Kozlowski had felt surreal, as though he’d been put in someone else’s body—someone else’s life.
The food was delicious, he was sure, but he hardly tasted a thing. He was so focused on her. The conversation had started out stilted and uncomfortable, but he’d brought some notes on various fingerprint experts, and once the ice was broken, they moved the conversation from the professional to the casual to the personal. It was intoxicating. He was still convinced that she was just being nice to him and that there was no chance of progressing past dinner, but it was still one of the best evenings he could ever remember.
After dinner, he’d forked over half a month’s income, and they’d headed down to the bar. It was a legendary spot, with deep carpeting and luxuriously upholstered seats looking out onto Arlington’s wide thoroughfare and across the street to the Public Garden. Bostonians hurried by the window in a Dickensian swirl, dodging the snowflakes with their packages of early holiday cheer, and Kozlowski began to understand for the first time why some people worked so hard for a taste of the good life.
He took a soft towel from the bathroom attendant and wiped his face, then dug through his pockets for a dollar to drop in the tip jar. Tipping another man just because he’d taken a leak was too weird for him to think much about, but other than that, it had been a truly memorable night.
At the door, he paused and sucked in a lungful of reality. Just don’t do anything stupid now, he told himself. A single clumsy, unwanted advance from him could turn one of the best experiences of his life into one of the worst. Better, he thought, to be satisfied later with what the evening had been than to regret what it hadn’t.
He blew out his breath, opened the door, and stepped back into the lobby of the hotel.
z
Lissa sat in the
bar, waiting for Kozlowski to return. She leaned back and let the soft chair swallow her. It was set perpendicular to the picture window, allowing her equally advantageous views of the street outside and the scene in the bar. It was the interior view that fascinated her most. Confident creatures in impeccable dress moved in and out of the bar, pulling apart, then jelling like quicksilver in intimate groupings, bubbling on carefree waves, as though no ugliness could reach inside the place.
She picked up her drink—a thimbleful of Grans-Fassian that had cost forty dollars—and took a sip. It was good, she had to admit. She’d have felt guilty for ordering it had Kozlowski not insisted, and had he not ordered an even more expensive taste of vintage port. He had surprised her throughout the evening. She was used to this type of place; it was the kind of spot many of her wealthy, more boring dates took her, but she had gotten a look at Finn’s office finances once, and she knew
what Kozlowski made. In an odd way, the fact that he couldn’t afford the evening was one of the things that made it special.
She saw him re-enter the bar, and she stifled a laugh at how out of place he looked. All the other men there were cleaned and pressed and seemed so polished they glowed. Physically, the majority of them fit into two basic categories: the fat and the effete. Here and there an ostentatious bulge of gym-fed muscle stood out, but it was painfully fake. There was nothing fake about Kozlowski’s physique, and she found charm in the brown wool blazer she thought might be back in style in a few years if it held together that long. He might have been handsome in the heavy-browed style of 1940s Hollywood if not for the thick scar that split the right side of his face from the corner of his eye to the bottom of his ear. Even that, though, she felt gave him character and sex appeal.
In all, she was certain he was the most attractive man in the place.
He moved through the crowd, bumping several self-absorbed men out of the way, drawing disgruntled looks. But even those who were clearly annoyed kept their mouths shut after a brief evaluation.
At last he made it to their table and settled into his chair across from her. He picked up his own drink and took a sip. “Sorry about that.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “Leaving you?”
“To go to the bathroom?” She laughed. “What were the options?”
“I know, I just—”
“I didn’t seem to wilt,” she assured him.
“No chance of that, I guess,” he conceded. “You seem like a survivor.”
“I guess. I’ve certainly survived worse than being abandoned in the Ritz. Anyway, what is it they say, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?” She raised her glass. “So here’s to getting stronger.”
He raised his own glass and touched it to hers. “To getting stronger.”
They both sipped their drinks, looking at each other across the table. She leaned back in her chair again and surveyed the room once more. “So, tell me something, Koz,” she began.
“What?”
“Do you come here often?”
He turned in his chair to take a look around the bar himself as he considered the question. “I suppose that depends on how you define ‘often,’” he replied.
“How about ever?”
He looked back at her. “Oh. Okay, if you define it like that, then no, I don’t come here often. You?”
“A few times,” she admitted. “But I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed it as much as I have tonight. One more question?”
“Okay.”
“Does anyone ever call you anything other than Koz?”
“Sure. I’m usually called much worse.”
“You know what I mean.”
He looked down at his hands. “I had a sister once. When I was a kid. She was a couple years older than me. She called me Tom.”
“Not anymore?”
“She died.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Lissa wanted to bite off her tongue. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago. Car accident. She was sixteen. She was just crossing the street, and some guy came around a corner too fast. They say she didn’t suffer.”
“Oh. I feel like an asshole now.”
“Don’t.”
“They ever catch the guy?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t much of a catch. He stopped. Young guy—early thirties—driving home to three kids and a wife. Maybe he’d had a drink or two after work. Not enough to make a difference, and this was before people looked too closely at the drinking-and-driving thing. He walked.”
Lissa shook her head. “I don’t know if I could’ve lived with him walking. I mean, I’ve never had any brothers or sisters—or any decent family to speak of—but if I did, and I cared about them, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“It was an accident,” Kozlowski disagreed. “Sometimes these days we forget that accidents do happen. Besides, the guy did a pretty good job of punishing himself. He was a wreck over it—lost his job, got divorced. I lost track of him years ago, but it wasn’t pretty. I wonder about him every once in a while. I hope he didn’t eat a gun; it wasn’t really his fault.”
She considered this. “You’re not exactly normal, are you?”
He smiled at her. “What tipped you off?”
She looked at him without answering. Then she tossed back the last of her drink. “Pay the bill, okay?”
He looked disappointed as he glanced at his watch. “I suppose you’re right. We should probably both be getting home. I had a good time, though. Thanks.”
“Too bad I’m not sleepy. I live a few blocks from here; I was kinda hoping you’d come up for a quick nightcap. Seems like the least I can do after you picked up the tab.” She watched him go white. It amused her.
“You sure?” he asked.
She folded her arms in mock indignation. “That’s the first time anyone’s ever questioned my sincerity following an invitation to my apartment.”
“No, no, no,” he stammered. “I’m not questioning. It’s just that . . . Are you sure?”
“Koz, do me a favor, okay? Pay the bill and shut the fuck up.” She stood up and took his hand as he tossed a handful of cash on the table, more than enough to cover the bill. Then the two of them walked hand in hand out into the street.
z
Vincente Salazar sat in his cell after lights-out. His mind was racing. There were too many variables in play, and he felt powerless sitting in the dark with no way of evaluating the risks as they unfolded. He needed a way to stay informed so the mistakes with Dobson wouldn’t be repeated.
He glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. He looked up just as the guard passed by his cell. Consistency was one of the few comforts of the prison environment. Schedules were set, and schedules were kept. Like the trains in Nazi Germany: no variation, no exception. There were occasional outbursts of mayhem—fights, murders, rapes—but they happened relatively infrequently, and they were dealt with as internal matters, for the most part, with swift and brutal punishment meted out by the prison administration: no trials, no appeals. Beyond those circumstances, though, life was regimented. For eighteen hours a day, they were in lockdown. If you could survive the other six, doing time was mainly an exercise in keeping your sanity in the face of mind-numbing boredom. Salazar was strong enough to deal with the boredom.
He looked at his watch again. Ten thirty-five. He heard the guard’s footsteps as he passed the cell again, heading back to his station. It would be two more hours before another guard would patrol the area.
Salazar reached under his mattress and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a T-shirt. He untied the shirt and pulled out a disposable cell phone. Cellular technology had become a staple of prison contraband, ranking with heroin and sex as marquee items in the currency of the underground jailhouse economy. He seldom used his phone, but he kept it for emergencies. This qualified.
Dialing, he still wasn’t sure what should be done.
“Hello?” the voice came from the other end of the line.
“It’s Vincente,” he said.
“Vincente! How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. I have to talk quickly. The other lawyer—Finn—he’s going to stay on the case.”
“Even after Dobson was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Brave man. Stupid, but brave.”
“Yes,” Salazar agreed. “We need to watch him.”
“By ‘we,’ I assume you mean me.”
“Given the circumstances—”
“It will be difficult.”
“I know,” Salazar conceded. “But we must. There are too many risks. I want you to take care of it yourself.”
It took a moment for the voice to answer. “I will.”
“Thank you.” Salazar hung up the phone. He wouldn’t sleep that night; there were still too many things that could go wrong—too much that was out of his control. Now, at least, he would have eyes on the outside.
z
Kozlowski had a good notion that Lissa Krantz had some money. She exhibited subtle telltale signs. Her clothes were always the latest styles; she drove an expensive car; her nails and hair were always perfectly kept. That kind of maintenance took cash, and Finn wasn’t paying her enough to keep her in that kind of lifestyle, so she had to have some other money elsewhere.
Nothing had prepared him for her apartment, though, and once he saw it, he realized that he’d vastly underestimated her financial resources. It took up the entire top floor of one of the grand town houses on Beacon Street overlooking the Charles River—prime real estate in one of the world’s most expensive cities. There were two bedrooms and an office that was overrun with boxes and papers and mess. The rest of the place was immaculate, and he guessed that someone other than Lissa came in to keep it that way. It was expensively decorated, and a wide carved staircase swept up from the center of the living room to a sizable roof house opening onto a private deck that had to be over a thousand square feet. That was where they were, out on the roof in the freezing cold, when he poured the expensive bottle of Chablis she’d given him to open.
