Dark Harbor (25 page)
F
INN LIT HIS CIGARETTE
, wincing at the pain in his split lip as he inhaled. He held up the lighter in front of his face, reading the inscription over and over again. That part of his past was a blur to him now—the time when he and Tigh ran the show down on Chelsea Street. Screening his memories held no more reality to him now than watching a documentary. The images flashed briefly and then disappeared without letting him feel the grime under his fingernails, or smell the acid on the 3 a.m. streets.
Those streets had been filled with a lust and danger that no longer existed for him. His was a paper world now, he thought with a tinge of regret. He spent his days pushing mountains of paper back and forth, organizing the facts of others’ experiences into neat written summaries for judges and juries. As a lawyer, he never really got his hands dirty. He never had to reach down and grab hold of the pain that the people he represented—or litigated against—felt. To him they were just numbers on a settlement analysis sheet.
He’d known the pain firsthand, once. He’d sat on an empty street, silent except for an excited dog braying in the distance following the fury, holding Joey’s head as he bled out his young life into Charlestown’s gutters, watching his best friend plead with him for one more day to make his life right. They’d been thrown together since before Finn could remember, and as little boys, defenseless in a world without compassion, they’d clung to each other in a pretense of safety. Taking their beatings together had somehow lessened the pain and the fear. Later, when they were in their teens, and they’d adopted the ways of their tormentors, terrorizing the residents of Chelsea Street, they’d relied on each other for the strength to be vicious. Without each other, they’d never have been able to fight their consciences to do the things that were necessary to survive.
On that night so many years ago, Finn had held Joey and listened to his best friend pour out a list of things he’d wanted to do with his life—a litany Finn had only suspected, within both Joey and himself. Then, after Joey’s lips had stilled and his eyes had glazed over, Finn slipped away before the police arrived to ask questions.
He’d never forgotten the desperation in his friend’s voice, though, and it had changed him. From that moment on, everything he did was directed toward getting out. Tigh had noticed the change, and at first tried to drag Finn back into the streets. But finally he accepted it, and gave Finn the distance he needed to succeed. It was, Finn knew, one of the greatest gifts he’d received.
Now that he was out of that life, he wondered what he’d really gained. Another friend had been taken from him, and he still felt the same helplessness and impotence he had nearly two decades before. His new life hadn’t given him the power to protect Natalie, or even avenge her murder, and the pain that he felt now laid bare the dimensionless nature of the world he’d chosen.
Finn was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the phone until the third ring. He reached over to the end table and picked it up. “Hello,” he said dully.
“Finn, it’s Nancy.” Finn recognized his secretary’s voice. He cleared his throat and tried to sound professional.
“Yes, Nancy, what’s up?”
“Nick Williams stopped by, looking for you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Okay, can you give me his extension?” Finn asked. He wrote down the number. “Anything else?”
“The only other call was from Peter Bostick. No urgency, he said.”
“You might as well give me his number.” Finn jotted it down and hung up. He stared at the phone numbers in front of him. He had no interest in dealing with work at the moment. It all seemed so pointless. He thought back to the deposition of Amy Tannery. She’d been so strong, so determined. Finn wished he had a fraction of her strength. He knew though, that he had to push through the pain and do his job—if for no other reason than to not let down Preston. He looked at the numbers again, then he picked up the phone.
Finn waited patiently on the line until Williams’s assistant picked up.
“Hi, Finn, yes, he’s in his office. Let me just put you through.”
“Finn, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you,” Williams said when he came on the line.
“I’m just working from home,” Finn said, somewhat embarrassed. In the macho world of big-firm litigation, lawyers took pride in not allowing minor inconveniences like illness, or childbirth, or holidays to affect their work schedule.
“Well, I’ve got some great news. Are you ready for this? They want to settle.”
Finn hesitated. “Who wants to settle?”
“The widow Tannery. I got a call from Barnolk this morning. They’re ready to cut a deal.”
Finn was puzzled. “What are you talking about? They said they’d never be interested in any settlements.” He remembered Amy Tannery at her deposition, the picture of determination. It seemed unlikely she’d settle the case for any amount of money.
“I know, I know, isn’t it awesome? Man, talking to Barnolk he was practically begging me, he was so desperate to get out of the case.”
“How much are they asking?” Finn queried. He remembered the calculation that, to break even as compared to the settlement Amy Tannery would have received under the Federal Victims Compensation Act, she needed to collect at least five million dollars.
“Barnolk opened at ten million, and I just laughed. He didn’t even pause before he was down to seven and a half million. At that point, I thought he could be serious about settling. I let him sweat for a little before suggesting two point five might work. I swear to God, I hadn’t finished my sentence when he dropped to five million. I still have to get sign-off from the client, but it looks like we’re going to get out of this mess for three point seven five million!” Williams was clearly excited.
“Holy shit!” Finn exclaimed. “After taxes and Barnolk’s cut, she’ll end up with less than she would have gotten from the government!”
“More important,” Williams pointed out, “it’s well below Huron’s insurance cap. They’re going to get out of this thing without paying a dime.”
“Other than our legal fees,” Finn corrected.
“Well, of course. Justice must be served. But that’s the best money they’ve ever spent. Not only is insurance going to cover this, but Huron will be done with the issue without any finding of negligence or wrongdoing.”
“Does that really matter?” Finn asked.
“Are you kidding?” Williams blurted. “That’s what matters most. Huron is competing for additional contracts—and not just in Massachusetts, but in other states as well. If there was ever a finding of negligence or wrongdoing, they’d have to close up shop. No one would ever hire them again.”
“So the client’s got to be pretty happy.”
“You have a gift for understatement, Finn,” Williams said. “The client is thrilled.”
Finn was silent for a moment before saying hesitantly, “It’s kind of weird, though, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Williams asked. “
It seems out of character for Barnolk, don’t you think? I mean, the guy loves publicity, and this trial would have put his face on the nightly news for a month. And Mrs. Tannery seemed determined not to settle—acted as if the lawsuit had nothing to do with money.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” Williams said at last. “It does seem a little odd.” He paused again. “Then again, I read the transcript of the deposition you took of Amy Tannery, and it was fantastic. You ripped into her pretty hard. It may just be that they realized that they had no case, and that taking this thing to trial was only going to drag her husband’s reputation through the gutter.”
Finn considered the possibility and rejected it. “I don’t think that’s it,” he said. “She seemed pretty dedicated to the case. I think it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
Finn worked the possibilities in his mind. “How well do you know Tony McGuire?” he asked Nick.
“Huron’s president?” Williams considered the question. “Not well, really. I know he’s one of Preston’s biggest clients, and I know he pays the bills on time. Other than that, I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he seemed like a decent guy. He’s a little demanding, but then, what client isn’t?” There was silence on the line again. “What are you thinking, Finn?”
“I don’t know, Nick. Something about Huron just doesn’t feel right.”
“Like what?”
There was no point in dragging Nick into his own paranoid delusions, Finn realized, and he really had nothing to back up his suspicions. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You gotta lighten up, Finn, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Any way you look at this, it’s a great victory for the client, and that’s what really matters.”
“It’s not just a victory for the client, Finn, it’s a huge victory for you. Don’t think for a second this isn’t going to give you a significant boost toward partnership. Preston already had a very high opinion of you, and your work on this case is only going to reaffirm that. I’d say your future here is pretty much guaranteed.”
Less than a month before, that news would have thrilled Finn. It was what he’d been hoping to hear for more than six years. But now, somehow, it all seemed less important. It felt like he was being played by forces hiding in the shadows, and it set him off. He felt like he’d spent too much of his life running other people’s errands, and doing other people’s dirty work. He was tired and fed up. “Thanks,” he said weakly.
If Williams noticed Finn’s lack of enthusiasm, he didn’t acknowledge it. “No problem, Finn, you deserve it. Just to warn you, though, you’re probably going to be the one putting together the settlement papers, so don’t get too comfortable hanging out at home on a weekday.”
“I won’t. Thanks again, Nick.”
“I’ll see you, Finn.”
Finn hung up the phone, still stunned by the turn of events. He thought back to the deposition of Amy Tannery. Had he misread her? Was this lawsuit always really about money? No, he decided. There was something else going on. His mind kept drifting back to the exchange between McGuire and Barnolk after McGuire’s deposition. He wondered what McGuire had said to Barnolk that shocked him so, and whether it had anything to do with Mrs. Tannery’s willingness to settle.
He was still in shock when the phone rang.
“Finn here,” he said into the receiver.
“Hey, Finn, it’s Bostick.”
“Hello, Bostick, I meant to call you to check in. How is everything?”
“Not too bad. As long as you keep feeding me work, I’ll keep eating.”
“Not that it matters particularly anymore, but did you ever get any word on the addresses I gave you the other day?” Finn asked. He’d been so busy with other issues, he hadn’t thought to follow up on the issue.
“That’s what I was calling you about.”
“Well?”
“I’m not sure I want to talk about it over the phone. I found something a little screwy. Can you meet me?”
Finn looked at his watch and noted that it was already noon. He needed to go out to get some lunch anyway. “Where do you want to meet?”
“How about at the address you gave me for Carter in Southie. Do you have it?”
“Sure. Twelve forty-five okay?”
“Sounds good.” Finn could detect some stress in Bostick’s voice.
“Is everything okay?” Finn asked.
“Yeah,” Bostick replied. “I just think we should talk about this in person.”
“All right. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Finn hung up. He was puzzled. It wasn’t like Bostick to get spooked—he’d spent too much time on the police force for that. And yet, that was how he sounded—spooked.
F
INN DROVE TO SOUTHIE.
He wanted to get back that feeling of control that had deserted him again, and behind the wheel he felt, at least for the moment, powerful. Nothing made sense anymore. It seemed as if the world were closing in on him; like an ever-narrowing peephole crowding his vision. Maybe he shouldn’t fight it. Perhaps he should loosen his grip and allow himself to be swept away in whatever currents were gathering against him. It would be easier, he knew, but it wasn’t his way, and he knew that even better.
The drive into South Boston led through the heart of the city, and took him into the continuing construction of the Big Dig. The project had been approved by Congress in 1992 as a six-year, two-and-a-half-billion-dollar undertaking to sink under the streets the elevated interstate highway that snaked through Boston, opening up a thick ribbon of green space to encircle the city. Fourteen years and fifteen billion dollars later, the project was still not fully completed. Corruption and inefficiency had caused massive delays and cost overruns, and left an open scar on the city’s cheek that seemed destined never to heal. To facilitate the construction effort, the streets that led across the gaping divide separating the two halves of the city were opened and closed without pattern or warning, and it took Finn two tries to make his way through the construction and around into Southie.
Once through, he headed toward the far end of the neighborhood, passing along the outcroppings of urban renewal that had sprouted up in this old, traditional, blue-collar section of the city. Housing prices in the heart of the city had driven many of the young, trendy, upwardly mobile residents to Boston’s edges, and although the old-timers were putting up a fight, they were losing the battles for the streets that had been theirs for four generations. It was a silent campaign, fought with cold shoulders and angry stares, but without real violence, and the outcome was never really in doubt. The invading armies had better resources and more time with which to wage an agonizing war of attrition. Many of the older residents were already selling out and slipping away resentfully to points farther out on the urban sprawl.
Finn eased his car down Dorchester Street and took a left onto Preble Street, finally merging onto William J. Day Boulevard near the shoreline. He pulled up behind Bostick’s battered blue Ford and got out. Bostick was leaning on the hood of his car waiting for him.
“What the hell happened to you?” the private investigator said, frowning when Finn came close enough for him to see the bruises on his face.
Finn rubbed his jaw nervously. It was time to test out his cover story. “I took a nasty fall playing hoops last night, caught the floor pretty hard,” he said.
Bostick narrowed his eyes and took a closer look. The scrutiny made Finn even more self-conscious. Then Bostick whistled. “Looks more like the floor caught you, and more than once from the look of it—on both sides of your face, too.” He looked again. “You didn’t do anything to piss off this floor, did you? Hit on its girlfriend or something?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Bostick shrugged. “Suits me, you’re the one paying the bills. I’m just saying it might hurt less next time if the floor wasn’t wearing rings on its fingers.”
“So, what’s so important you can’t tell me over the phone?” Finn asked, trying to change the subject.
Bostick nodded at the derelict house in front of them. The shutters were kicked in, and the glass in the windows was broken. The falling-down structure sat at the edge of the road, close to the sidewalk, like something discarded on trash day. The only part that looked cared for was the mailbox, which gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Bostick handed Finn a piece of paper. “That’s one of them,” he said.
Finn looked at the paper. It was the list of three addresses he’d asked Bostick to check out. He looked over it, checking the street number. Sure enough, the crumbling structure was on the list.
“So which one of our boys lives here?” Finn asked.
“None of them,” Bostick replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. None of them lives here. In fact, I’m not even sure that anyone has been inside that building in years. This is supposed to be where Carter lives with his wife and two children. It’s where they supposedly lived for the last two years while he was a guard for the Massachusetts Transportation Safety Commission Guard Unit, but I’ve looked in the windows and, trust me, no one has lived in there for a long, long time.”
Finn thought for a moment. “Could it be just a bad address?”
“Yes and no,” Bostick said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that this is the correct address for this guy—this is where he’s had his checks sent every week—it’s just that the identification for the
guy himself
is all wrong.”
Finn shook his head. “I’m not following you.”
“What I’m telling you is that this is the correct information from Huron Security, but I’ve run this guy’s name through every database known to man, and I’ve come up with nothing. I ran him through search engines, through credit files, through the IRS—I even had a friend at the FBI do a search, and every single search came up empty.”
“Empty?”
“Empty. As in no information. As in, this guy doesn’t exist, he’s a phantom.”
Finn looked down at the list in his hand and then back up at the deserted building, rechecking the addresses. They still matched, but he couldn’t seem to grasp what it all meant. “What about the other names on the list?” he asked.
“Same deal. The social security numbers are all fakes, the addresses are dummies, and no government agency other than the Guard Unit has heard of these guys.”
“So where do we go from here?”
Bostick rubbed his hands together as if they were cold, even though the temperature was still in the seventies. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’ve already gone everywhere I know to go, and I’m not sure I want to go any further anyways. Do you know how hard it is to invent a whole person and get away with it?” He shook his head again. “I kept this all off the books—you’re not gonna be billed a dime—but I’m bowing out of this investigation if it’s all the same to you.”
“Why?”
Bostick stared at Finn, conscious that the young lawyer still wasn’t putting the pieces together. “Huron Security, which you represent, and which hired these guys for the Guard Unit, is one of the biggest companies in Massachusetts. It’s also one of the most difficult to get information on. It’s privately owned, and they don’t disclose anything to anyone, other than what they put on their info sheets to the state. But I did some checking with folks I know in the security business. Huron is connected with some pretty shady people. I don’t think I want this kind of company knowing I’m sniffing around. That’s more than I’m willing to do at this point in my life.”
“What is it you’re worried about, exactly?”
Bostick started to get frustrated. “Hey, look, what do I know, huh? It’s just that this company hires people using false identification, and then they disappear right after the Anniversary Bombing. These guys had access to the rail yard where the explosives were planted on the train that blew up. Who knows? Maybe these guys had a reason to disappear. I’m not sure I want to find out, y’know? What made you focus on these guys anyways?”
Finn hesitated. This was a complication he hadn’t expected, and he wasn’t sure how much information he wanted to divulge about the Tannery case. “Nothing in particular, they were just potential witnesses we couldn’t put our hands on.”
“Yeah, well, maybe there’s a reason you can’t put your hands on them. Maybe they had something to do with the bombing.”
Finn shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. What possible motive could Huron have for protecting these guys if they had something to do with the bombing?”
“Who knows? Maybe some wealthy Arabs paid Huron off. Or maybe they realized the security business would go through the ceiling if there was another attack. Or maybe they weren’t aware of the deception until afterwards, and they got so angry they made these guys disappear permanently.” Bostick drew his fingers across his neck in a gruesome gesture. “It doesn’t matter what the reason is, Finn. All that matters is that this feels a little too hot for me to deal with. I’m out.”
“I still don’t buy it,” Finn said. “There’s got to be an angle we’re missing.” He frowned, thinking through the various scenarios. He’d found the guards’ names in Natalie’s notes, and sometime after she’d made those notes, she’d been killed. Finn wondered if there was a connection. “I need your help,” he pleaded.
Bostick shook his head. “I told you, I’m out. It’s not worth the paycheck.”
“It’s not worth the paycheck?” Finn echoed. “You said yourself you’re keeping this off the books, so nobody’s going to have any idea you’re involved. Besides, you used to be a cop. I would think that if there really were some connection between Huron and the Anniversary Bombing, you’d want to find out about it.”
“I was a lousy cop,” Bostick said, shrugging.
“Oh, come on. If you really believe that these people had anything to do with the bombing, you can’t be willing to let them get away with it, can you?”
Bostick rubbed his face in exasperation. It was clear he was less than enamored with the idea of becoming involved in this case, but Finn had stirred up something in his conscience. “Aw, fuck. All right, what do you want me to do?”
“All I want you to do is to run the names of more of Huron’s security guards through the searches you did to see if there are more phantoms.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, really, but something isn’t right here. I need to know if these guards are anomalies, or if there’s some sort of a pattern. It might also help us figure out if Huron had anything to do with the bombing. If not, it should let you sleep easier.”
“Okay,” Bostick said. “But how are we going to get the list of names?”
“We’re going to my office right now to get it. We can use the computers there.”
“You’re going to go to your office looking like that?” Bostick asked, pointing to the bruises on Finn’s face. “I’ve got to tell you, the basketball story doesn’t hold water.”
Finn thought for a moment. He really didn’t want to be seen at the firm looking the way he did, but he needed answers fast, and the only way to get them was to go through the materials filed there. “It might not fool a former cop, but I think I can sell it to anyone we run into,” Finn said of his cover story. “Besides, I’ll try to keep a low profile.”
Bostick nodded. “Okay, but after this I’m out, understood?”