Dark Harbor (24 page)
F
INN TOOK FRIDAY OFF
from work. He had to. The bruises on his face were too pronounced to hide, and he knew he’d never escape hard questions he couldn’t answer. By Monday the swelling would be down, he reasoned, and he might be able to pass off his injuries as a basketball mishap.
Besides, the wonders of modern communication had made working from home realistic. Often he found he was able to get more accomplished when he stayed out of the office, away from the constantly ringing telephone and ever-pressing minor emergencies. At home, he could access his messages when he needed, and log on to the law firm’s server directly. He called his assistant, Nancy, to let her know he wouldn’t be in, and to contact him at home if anything really urgent came up.
“This isn’t a Friday morning hangover, is it?” she asked playfully.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t have a single drink last night. I just can’t make it in today. If Preston calls, or if there are any real emergencies, just call me here. If you can’t reach me here, try my cell phone; I’ll have that with me.”
“Will do,” Nancy said, “and I hope you feel better.”
After he hung up he walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror again. It wasn’t pretty. His right eye was swollen and turning purple, the discoloration spreading like a tide from his cheekbone. His lip was split at the center, making it painful to smile, or frown, or eat, or speak. He touched his throat where the knife had slit the skin. The bandages were dark red from sopping up the blood, but there was no fresh bleeding, and the butterfly bandage was already pulling the corners of the gash together. He shivered as he thought about the knife edge slicing into his neck, close enough to the carotid artery to drive home the warning.
He sighed at his appearance, wincing as his rib cage contracted with the painful expulsion of breath, the bruises enough to make each movement an individual agony. It was better that he’d stayed home, he thought. The partners would have too many questions.
Looking into the mirror, for just a moment Finn saw a younger version of himself: a little thinner, and a little stronger, with the hunger of his childhood visible in his soul, and anger flowing through his veins. In many ways he’d left his stray-dog youth behind. Often he’d go days without thinking about his past. But it was always there, he knew; the skeleton of his prior life lurking beneath the well-fed layer that had covered it with the passage of time.
He opened the medicine cabinet and took out some ibuprofen, washing down three pills with tap water, then swallowing a fourth after a brief internal debate. He closed the cabinet, and as the mirror swung back into place, he was startled to see a reflection behind him, looming in silence.
“Tigh! For Christ’s sake, what the hell are you doing, trying to kill me?”
Tigh McCluen smiled in the mirror. “It would take more than a start to kill you, I hope.” He took a good long look at Finn’s reflection, noting the cuts and bruises with some admiration. “Besides,” he said, “it looks as if someone else has been giving it a bit more of an effort.” He regarded Finn. “What the hell happened?”
“Disgruntled client,” Finn quipped.
McCluen nodded. “I’ve always said you’d be better off in an honest profession.”
“I’ll give it some thought. How’d you get in here?” Finn asked.
“The door was open,” Tigh replied with a familiar roguish look. “I let myself in.”
“The door was locked,” Finn corrected.
“Only once, Scotty boy. I consider a single lock practically an open invitation. So did you at one time.” He winked at his friend.
“Why didn’t you just knock? I’d have let you in, for Christ sakes.”
“I thought you’d be at work. I was just planning on leaving you a note. I had no idea you’d be here—or that you’d be looking like haggis.”
“That bad, huh?” Finn asked, feeling a rush of pride in his gruesome appearance. He often worried that his old friends thought he’d gone too soft, and he liked Tigh’s seeing he could still take a beating and keep his sense of humor.
Tigh cocked his head to one side and held up his thumb, like an art critic appraising a new work, taking a closer look at the carnage. “Well, no matter,” he said, laughing. “You were never much of a looker anyway.”
Finn laughed. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “This is twice that I’ve seen you in as many weeks, and that after, what, three years? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me.”
The smile disappeared from Tigh’s face. “Not stalking you enough, as it turns out. I meant to stop by here yesterday, and the day before that, but I just couldn’t seem to find the time. More’s the point, I didn’t know exactly what to tell you.” He paused. “Lookin’ at you now, it seems clear I should have come sooner.”
Finn’s hand went instinctively to his throat, probing the raw spot around the edges of the cut gently, then trailing up to evaluate the bruises on his jaw and cheeks. “You know who did this, don’t you.”
Tigh shook his head. “Not exactly. And certainly not to tell anyone.”
Finn glared at his old friend. “What was that expression you told me the last time we spoke?
‘Don’t see what you see. Don’t hear what you hear. And if you’re asked, say you don’t know’
?”
McCluen nodded. “That’s it exactly, Scotty.”
“It’s a shitty motto to live by, Tigh.”
“It’s a shitty world to live in, Finn.” He paused. “At least, it still is for me.”
Finn sighed in understanding, if not agreement. He remembered the world Tigh lived in—the world from which Finn had escaped. There were rules that were inviolable, and chief among them was:
Silence is golden.
Tigh didn’t make the rules, Finn knew, but he had to play by them.
“So why are you here if you have nothing to tell me?” Finn asked.
“To warn you,” Tigh replied.
“My second warning in as many days.”
Tigh nodded. “So it would seem. I can’t tell you who did it, or who ordered it done, because I genuinely don’t know. But I can tell you that I’ve heard your name bandied about in conversation in certain circles where it’s never good to be known. I’m not sure what it is you’ve done, but it’s pissed off the wrong people.”
“I haven’t done anything!” Finn yelled. “I’m just trying to figure out who killed my best friend!”
“Maybe that’s a job for the authorities, Scotty. It certainly looks like it would be safer if you left it up to them.”
Finn shook his head. “The authorities think maybe I did it, that’s part of the problem. If I don’t find out who killed her, I might end up in prison.”
“There’s worse things,” said Tigh pointedly.
Finn glowered. “I’m
not
going back there, Tigh. Never.”
Tigh held up his hands. “Just trying to look out for you, that’s all.” A sad smile slowly returned to his face. “You got any smokes, Scotty? I’m fresh out.”
“Yeah, over there in my pocket,” Finn said, pointing to the suit jacket thrown over one of the living room chairs. “I think there are matches in there, too.”
“Don’t need them.” Tigh pulled a small silver object out of his pocket and held it up. “That’s the other reason I came.” He flipped the object quickly in his palm, producing a huge flame in what almost seemed like an act of magic. He lit the cigarette between his lips and flipped his wrist again, extinguishing the flame. “I found this in my drawer the other day, and I was going to leave it here for you.” He tossed the warm Zippo lighter across the room.
Finn caught it with one hand and held it up. It was battered and dented, like some piece of well-used military equipment brought home and forgotten after years of active service. The inscription had faded as the years wore down the casing, but it was still legible. “
Chelsea Street Regulars
,” Finn read out loud, and then looked up at McCluen.
“That there is a collector’s item,” Tigh said.
Finn nodded. “Only five ever made. I lost mine years ago.”
“I know. And who knows where Jimmy and Joe left theirs. It’s hard to get answers from corpses. As for Willie … well, once you’ve been in the joint for as long as he has, your brain turns to mush and you put away childhood dreams.”
Finn laughed bitterly. “We were going to take over all of Charlestown.”
“Indeed, we were going to wipe out the Winter Hill Gang and make a name for ourselves,” said Tigh. “Then we were going to take on those fuckin’ wops in the North End. You know why?”
“Because,
Nobody fucks with the Chelsea Street Regulars
!” They both chanted their adolescent slogan in unison.
“I can’t keep this,” Finn said after he’d stopped laughing. “It’s probably the last one.”
“You keep it,” Tigh said. “You and I are the only two left. I’m still here because I’m the biggest, meanest son of a bitch in this town. You’re still here because you were the smart one and you got out. Now, I can’t stop being mean. Can you stop being smart?”
“What does that mean?”
“Let this thing with the girl die like she did. Let the authorities take care of it. It’s the smart thing to do.”
“Who sent you, Tigh?”
“Nobody sent me, Scotty. I just came here to give an old friend some good advice. I’m hoping you’re smart enough to take it.”
“Fuck that, Tigh. And fuck you. You and I go too far back for this. Tell me who sent you.”
“I’m being straight with you, Scotty. Nobody sent me, I’m here on my own.”
“What have you become?”
“The same as you, Scotty—a survivor. That involves compromises no matter what your job title says, you know what I’m saying?” Finn didn’t answer. “Now don’t go getting all high and mighty on me. We’ve known each other too long to lie to each other like that.”
“What if I can’t let it drop?” Finn asked after a moment.
“Who knows for sure?” Tigh answered, shrugging. “But there’s one thing I do know.” He smiled. “You’re not a Chelsea Street Regular anymore.”
“W
HAT DO YOU THINK?
” Flaherty asked.
“I think this is getting messy,” Kozlowski said. “Governor Clarke really threatened you?”
“Not directly, but the message was clear. There’s no doubt he wants us to back off any investigation involving him. And if we continue, I’d say we’ll be in an all-out war.”
Kozlowski was sitting across from Flaherty in a booth at O’Malley’s across from the Fleet Center in the no-man’s-land between downtown, Beacon Hill, and the North End. It was a cop bar, except on nights when the Bruins or the Celtics were playing at home. Then it turned into a smear of drunken jerseys singing the lament of the Boston faithful. Cops stayed away on those nights—too much hassle to deal with. But this was the end of August, when the Fleet Center was quiet except for the occasional rock concert.
As he sipped his scotch Kozlowski ran his fingers over the thick, ugly scar that ran down the side of his face. His medical insurance would have covered the simple plastic surgery that could correct his appearance, but he’d never bothered to have the operation.
“What are you thinking?” Flaherty asked.
“I’m just considering the possibility that the governor is not involved in this, and maybe we’re making a mistake by pushing the issue.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Kozlowski I know,” Flaherty said. She looked concerned. “What’s this really about, partner?”
Kozlowski shook his head and took a long sip of his drink. He put his glass on the table and looked up at Flaherty. “I’m thinking about Tony Garibaldi,” he said.
“Your first partner? ‘The Legend’?”
“Yeah, my first partner. ‘The Legend.’ ” Kozlowski played his half-empty glass back and forth between his fat, stubby fingers. “Have I ever told you how I got my scar?”
“No,” Flaherty said quietly. She’d never asked, and he’d never offered. She was curious at one time, but then she began to see that to her partner it was more than just a physical scar, and she’d left it alone, respecting his privacy. She’d heard the rumors, and she knew it had something to do with the night that Garibaldi—a hero within the department—had been killed.
“It was the night Tony Garibaldi saved my life,” Kozlowski began. “This was more than twenty years ago. Tony was about ten years older than me, and I was a rookie who worshipped him. He taught me most of what I know about being a cop.” He took another sip of his drink, gathering himself as he launched into his pile of discarded memories.
“At one point, after we’d been riding together for about a year, we stumbled onto what we thought was a massive cocaine ring. It was going to be a huge bust for us—particularly for me, because I was the one who discovered it. The one hitch was, it looked like there were police officers involved. Tony suggested we take it slow and talk to some of the higher-ups in the department—cut a deal and take the drug dealers out quietly. But I was young, and full of piss, so I pushed him. I thought I could make a real reputation for myself.
“One night we finally moved in and busted four of the guys during a score. One of the guys pulled out a shotgun and pointed it square into my chest. I knew right then I was a dead man. But as I saw the guy pull the trigger, Tony dove at me and pushed me out a window. That was how I sliced open my face.”
“What happened to Tony?”
“He took the shotgun blast right in the head. He was dead before he hit the floor.”
“They caught the guys, though, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, they did. Three of them were cops. It hurt like hell losing Tony, but I felt like we’d done our job. You know, when you’re young you can deal with the idea of death, as long as it seems to mean something—as long as there’s a principle or a purpose involved.”
Flaherty nodded. “There’s something to that, though, isn’t there? The sacrifices we make as cops have to be worth something, don’t they?”
Kozlowski smiled, and the irony locked into his jaw gave Flaherty a pit in her stomach. “A year or so later I went to the jail to visit one of the cops we busted. He was a guy I knew— we were even friends. I wanted to know how it happened. You know what he told me?”
Flaherty shook her head. “
That Tony had been the ringleader of the group that was dealing drugs. He’d set up the whole operation. The night he was killed—he set that up, too. The plan was to murder me because I wouldn’t let the investigation drop.”
Flaherty frowned. “If he set you up to be killed, why save your life?”
Kozlowski shrugged, and his tired smile held more sadness than Flaherty could comprehend. “I’ve been wondering about that for the last two decades. I don’t know. He must have changed his mind. Maybe, deep down, he knew he couldn’t live with murder. Who knows? I’d like to think he redeemed himself in that last action. I’d like to think that when he’s judged, that last impulse will be enough to get him off the hook for all the other shit he did. He meant so much to me.”
Flaherty shook her head. “The guy in jail must have been lying to you,” she insisted. “Just to get back at you for pushing the investigation and getting him busted.”
Kozlowski smiled again. “I did my own investigation after that. Quietly, on my own. I found the money. I found the contact sheets. Tony was up to his eyeballs in the thing. I never told anyone, though. He was a hero in the department by then. The Legend. There just didn’t seem to be any point in dragging his memory through the gutter and giving the whole department a black eye.”
The two police detectives sat in silence for several minutes. Neither could think of anything to say. “So what do you want to do?” Flaherty asked at last.
“I want to take it slow,” Kozlowski said. He pointed to the side of his face. “I kept this scar to remind myself that nothing is the way it looks at first. Not even me. It helps to reinforce that nothing is more dangerous to a cop than a partial picture. You need to have all of the pieces in front of you before you can solve any puzzle. So, we go on with our digging, but we dig carefully, and quietly.” He looked at her and raised his glass in a pact. “And most important, we dig deep.”