Dark Harbor (23 page)
F
LAHERTY WAS FIVE MINUTES
early for her meeting with Governor Clarke, and was asked to wait in a small room off to one side of the suite of offices that housed the governor and his staff. The room looked like it was decorated for high tea in the late 1800s. Two broad armchairs of ornate French design with yellow fleur-de-lis fabric flanked a high-backed loveseat in front of a large oval coffee table set low to the ground. The hard-wood floors were covered with a thick oriental rug, and the heavy drapes let in only a hint of natural light from the tall windows along the wall. In a room like this, it was difficult to keep uncivil thoughts in your head, Flaherty thought. Perhaps that was the point.
It felt odd being there. She’d spent days trying to invent a pretext to meet with the governor, but nothing she could come up with seemed reasonable. Then, just when she was considering either giving up entirely or busting her way into the governor’s schedule with all the finesse of an agitated moose, she’d received a call from Clarke’s secretary, summoning her to the State House.
“Why does the governor want to see me?” she’d asked. It seemed a reasonable question.
“You’ll have to take that up with the governor,” was the curt reply from his personal secretary.
It seemed odd, but at least it would afford her the opportunity to ask Clarke some questions about Natalie Caldwell.
Flaherty languished in the waiting room for another fifteen minutes before a tall young man in a blue blazer came to fetch her. He greeted her in an overly friendly manner that failed to conceal his assumed superiority.
“Miss Flaherty,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The governor couldn’t be more pleased with the job you’ve done on the Little Jack investigation.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
He stood there, looking as if he expected her to say something more—as if a mere “thank you” was insufficient acknowledgment of the governor’s compliment. But she stared back at him in silence.
“Please, come with me,” he said after a painful pause. He led her through the catacomb of offices and anterooms in the governor’s suite to the inner sanctum of Clarke’s office. The young man, clearly displeased with her lack of solicitude, informed her that the governor would be with her shortly, and withdrew, leaving her alone in the huge office.
Flaherty was amazed. She’d never seen an office as large. In fact, she hadn’t seen many apartments as large. It was long and wide, with several distinct areas. On the left side of the room, two deep leather couches faced each other across an antique oriental coffee table, like two aging bulls readying themselves for a confrontation. To the right, four large, comfortable wing-backed chairs bracketed two smaller tables, suggesting more amiable encounters. Toward the back of the room was a secretary’s desk, complete with stenotype machine for transcribing conversations. And in the center of the room, against the far windows, was the governor’s desk. It made Loring’s power piece look like the desk of a schoolchild. It was huge, spreading out at least eight feet wide, with ornate etchings along the corners and elaborate inlays throughout the front panels.
She walked over for a better look, but forgot about the desk when she saw the view through the windows behind it. They looked out over Boston Common, toward the tall buildings downtown, and down in the direction of the harbor. Since Governor Samuel Adams and Paul Revere set the keystone to the building in 1795, the State House and its inhabitants had kept a watchful eye on the continuous growth of the city, checking its expansion through a patchwork of regulations and zoning ordinances, exacting a pound of flesh for each favor and privilege. Little had changed during that time, Flaherty knew. The skyline had risen, but so much of the city’s foundation remained bogged down in the quagmire of local and state politics.
“It’s a spectacular view, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind Flaherty, startling her.
“It is,” she agreed as she turned around to face Clarke. She hadn’t heard him enter the room.
“Sometimes when I look out there, I’m overwhelmed by the responsibility of this great office. I never knew how humbling it could be, trying to guard the well-being of so many. In some ways, the governorship of Massachusetts is unique. The fortunes of the commonwealth are inseparable from the fortunes of Boston, and as I look out here at the city, I realize I have to balance both state and city politics to do my job properly.” The governor was standing next to Flaherty now, gazing out the window in the same direction she had been.
“How does Mayor Tribinio feel about that?” Flaherty asked, which drew a laugh from Clarke.
“He’s fine with it, of course,” he said. “It’s a delicate dance, to be sure, but one that governors and mayors have been doing with varying degrees of grace and success for three hundred years.” He smiled. “No one has tripped over anyone else’s toes—yet.”
“That’s some skillful dancing.”
The governor laughed again. “It’s all a matter of knowing where the spheres of influence lie. The mayor holds his power in the wards of Boston—in the day-to-day running of the city. He runs the machine, if you will. My mandate, on the other hand, is somewhat larger. I represent what the people want the city and state to be—the future they’re searching for on a grander scale. I’m expected to be the visionary leader. As a result, the larger projects—the Big Dig, the airport and harbor reconstructions, major city infrastructure changes—those become my bailiwick even more than the mayor’s.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.”
“It is. And it’s why I asked you to meet with me today.” “Asked? That’s funny. I thought I was ordered.” The smirk on the governor’s face told Flaherty he liked the perception and recognized the truth in it.
“I’m sorry you were given that impression. Sometimes my staff expresses my desires as edicts. I really just wanted to thank you for the job you’ve done on the Little Jack case. I challenged you—directly, intentionally—and you came through with flying colors. The city and the commonwealth owe you an enormous debt. As do I. You should feel proud of yourself.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but you should know that most of the credit belongs to the people who were working with me. They’re the ones who broke the case open.”
“It’s the mark of a good leader that she shares credit with her subordinates. It engenders loyalty, and loyalty is the key to leadership,” the governor commented. “But you shouldn’t be too modest.”
“It’s not modesty, it’s the truth.”
“In any event, it was your operation, and you deserve most of the credit—as well as the lion’s share of the spoils. Have you thought about what you’ll do with your newfound celebrity?” Clarke raised his eyebrows in a provocative manner. Clearly, there was something on his mind.
“Well,” Flaherty said, “first I have to finish the investigation.” “Finish?” Clarke frowned. “I would think that there’d be very little left to investigate.”
“There are some open issues regarding the Caldwell woman that we still need to resolve.” She watched him closely as she said the words, trying to register any reaction. As far as she could tell, there was none.
“I’m sure you could hand this small part of the investigation off to someone else if necessary, though, am I correct?” Again, Flaherty had the sense that Clarke was trying to entice her somehow, suggesting some as yet undisclosed agenda. She found it annoying, but it did pique her curiosity.
“Did you have something in particular in mind?” she asked, resisting the temptation to waggle her eyebrows back at him in mockery.
Governor Clarke smiled broadly. “Now that you mention it, there’s a position opening up you might be interested in. You’re familiar, of course, with the federal Department of Homeland Security.” Flaherty nodded. “The president is about to announce the creation of parallel agencies at the state level to help in the fight against terrorism. The new Commonwealth Security Department in Massachusetts will begin with an annual budget of one hundred million dollars. The department will liaise with law enforcement personnel at all levels of both federal and state agencies to coordinate and direct investigations into terrorist activities, and will have its own five-hundred-officer police force.”
“Sounds like a major initiative,” said Flaherty, genuinely impressed.
“It is,” Clarke agreed. “And whoever heads it up will have a very major, important job. As we in Massachusetts are particularly aware, terrorism is the greatest threat we all face. So the only question left to be answered is: are you a big enough person to take on the responsibility of heading up this new department?”
“Me?” Flaherty was shocked. She’d expected him to offer her a position as a deputy in the department. The thought of
heading
it … “I could never—”
“Lead this department?” Clarke interrupted. “Nonsense, of course you could. You have the required law enforcement background. You understand what needs to happen both on the prevention side of the equation and on the investigative side. Plus, I’ve been watching you on television throughout this entire Little Jack ordeal. You possess the poise and the political skills necessary to deal with other agencies, as well as the press. I’ve been very impressed. I know you can do the job. The only question is whether you’re brave enough to take it.”
Flaherty’s head was swimming. It was the type of career opportunity that only came along once. More than that, it was the chance to do something really important—to take her training and her intuition and put them to work preventing crimes on a massive scale.
“I’d have to finish up the work I’m doing now, and that might take another month or so,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. The job requires you to start within two weeks,” Clarke explained.
“That soon?” she said, showing her disappointment. “It’s just that there are still some questions about whether Townsend actually killed Natalie Caldwell.” Saying the words was enough to break the spell, and a sickeningly obvious thought crossed her mind. It made her angry. “That reminds me,” she said, forcing herself to focus on the questions she’d come to ask in the first place, “I meant to ask you if you knew Ms. Caldwell.”
Clarke shook his head. “No. I never had the pleasure.”
“That’s curious,” Flaherty said in an offhand manner. “I was going through her personal effects the other day, and I came across a picture of the two of you standing together.”
Clarke forced a smile and a quizzical look. “That’s odd,” he said. “Although, I appear so many places and at so many functions, and so many people ask to have their picture taken with me—particularly during campaign season—that it’s quite possible she obtained that picture without our ever having been introduced.”
“That’s a possibility,” Flaherty said, again filling her tone with indifference. She paused, and then crinkled her nose as though considering an inconsequential but nettlesome riddle. “Although, now that I think about it, I believe the picture was signed by you.” Clarke’s smile disappeared. “Yes, that’s right, it said something about thanking her for her work on a committee, and it was signed ‘Bill.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
Clarke was doing an impressive job of keeping his composure, Flaherty noted, but his face had gone white, and his brow was slightly furrowed. “Really?” he said. “Well, there are literally hundreds of committees I have minimal involvement with, although I’ve probably met many of the committee members. I don’t remember most of them, naturally. I’ll have my assistant run through our records and see if Ms. Caldwell was on any of these committees. In any event, I have no recollection of ever having met the woman.”
It was a weak story, and they both knew it as they stood there in the governor’s office in front of the grand windows overlooking Boston Common. Neither of them, it seemed, had anything further to say.
“Well,” Flaherty said finally, “it would be helpful if you could have your assistant check that out. We just want to be sure Townsend actually killed all of these women. We wouldn’t want to find out later that we left a murderer walking around free.”
“Of course,” Clarke replied. “I’ll have that information messengered over to your office by the end of the day.” He swept his arm toward the door, inviting her to leave. “I’ll walk you out,” he offered. There was an uncomfortable silence as they made their way toward the door. As they neared the threshold, he turned to her. “Do you read much for pleasure, Detective?” he asked.
“Occasionally,” she replied.
“You should read Machiavelli’s
The Prince
if you ever get the chance. It’s still considered one of the leading manuals for political survival, and it might help you if you take this new job.”
“I’ll be sure to pick up a copy.”
He smiled again, but this time it contained no warmth. “You know, one piece of advice he gives is still as true today as it was five hundred years ago.”
“Really?” Flaherty asked. “What’s that?”
They were at the door now, and Clarke faced her fully, holding on to her arm at the elbow and looking straight into her face. “He advised that if you’re going to plot to assassinate a prince, you’d better make damned sure you succeed.”
This time it was Flaherty who smiled. “Good advice in any age, I suppose.”
Clarke nodded. “I’ll need an answer on the job offer within a week,” he said. “You should seriously consider it.”