R
ICH LORING, THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY
for the Federal District of Massachusetts, was sitting at his desk when Flaherty walked into his office. It was a big mahogany piece with a leather top that oozed power and importance. The entire room did, paneled as it was in dark wood and papered in dark green. The thick, cream-colored carpet absorbed sound and gave the room a confidential feel. The windows looked out across the water from the new Federal Courthouse in Southie toward the taller buildings of downtown Boston. The courthouse had been completed in 1998, at the apex of an economy that seemed limitless, and the optimism of the time was reflected in the plush appointments afforded.
It was late afternoon on a Thursday, and it looked like Loring was getting ready to leave early for a long weekend—one of the perks of being the boss, Flaherty supposed. A small overnight bag rested by the side of his desk with a tennis racquet leaning up against it.
“A long weekend away with the family, I presume?” Flaherty asked, startling him. He looked up with the expression of a little boy caught in the act of some disobedience.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded.
“Sorry, there’s no one out at your secretary’s desk, and the door was open, so I thought I’d just poke my head in.”
He was clearly annoyed. “Alice!” he called toward the open door, out to the empty vestibule where his secretary’s desk was located. There was no answer. “Alice!” he called again, with similar results.
“She’s not there, trust me,” Flaherty assured.
Loring grumbled, “I’d fire her if they’d let me.” Then he shrugged. “Try taking a job away from a civil servant with sixteen years seniority. It’s easier to separate a pit bull from a big, meaty bone.”
“Aw, the trials of being a political appointee in a bureaucratic world.”
Loring actually smiled at that. “It’s the truth.” Then he turned serious. “Look, if Alice had been here, I would have had her tell you that I’m leaving soon and that you need to make an appointment for next week. I have to get out of here for a legal conference. Will you call her to set something up?”
“That’s all right, I only need a minute or two. I can even walk you out while we talk.”
Loring shook his head nervously. “That won’t work, but I might be able to give you a quick minute—just a minute.” He walked over and closed the door, glancing outside the office as he did, then returned to his desk.
“That’s fine,” said Flaherty. She sat in one of the upholstered chairs opposite him.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Loring said grudgingly, leaning forward in his high-backed executive leather chair. “Catching Little Jack is a pretty big feather in your cap.”
“We’re happy we found him. Most of the credit goes to Kozlowski’s and Officer Stone’s intuition, but we’re definitely pleased.”
“That’s odd. I haven’t heard the media mention Kozlowski or Stone when they interview you. It must be an oversight,” he said with a wry smile.
“Actually, I’ve mentioned them in every interview I’ve given,” Flaherty retorted testily. “Sometimes they edit it out, but I keep trying.”
“They must think it makes a better story with a woman as the hero,” Loring said, again letting his sarcasm show. He shrugged. “In any case, I’m happy you found him, particularly for Natalie Caldwell’s sake. Hopefully, she’ll rest easier now.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Flaherty said. “How well did you know Natalie Caldwell?”
“We worked on several cases together in the two years she was at the Justice Department and I was at the FBI,” Loring said. “We got along, but I wouldn’t say we were particularly close.”
“What cases did you work on together?”
“A couple of drug investigations,” he offered. “Mainly ones involving the Asian gangs that run drugs up from Providence.”
“Didn’t she also work with you on the Bulger case?” Flaherty asked. She tried to make it sound offhanded, but it was too pointed a question to escape Loring’s attention.
“Yes, now that you mention it, we did work on that case together, but I’m not sure how that’s relevant to anything having to do with her death.”
“Did you and Ms. Caldwell see each other socially?”
“What the hell does that mean?” Loring barked.
Flaherty refused to back down. “It means exactly what it says. Did you see her outside of work?”
“That’s a highly unusual question, Lieutenant, and I’m trying to decide whether to take offense at it. I saw her when some of us went out for drinks after work, but nothing more than that. I’m married, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Flaherty replied. “Other than that, you’ve never seen her socially? Not even since she left the Justice Department?”
“I don’t think I like your tone, Detective,” Loring said. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“There are just a few discrepancies involving the Caldwell murder that we’re trying to clear up.”
Loring took a deep breath and brought his fingers together temple-style in front of his face, as if in deep contemplation. After a moment he said, “In that case, I think I
am
offended. I don’t appreciate your coming in here with baseless inquiries about my relationship with a murdered woman, particularly since it appears you’re simply looking for additional headlines in the media circus you’ve already created.”
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.
T
HE 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.”
P
ETER 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.