Dark Harbor (3 page)

Chapter Three

S
COTT
T. F
INN
, E
SQ.
, stood at the window of his downtown office. It was small, little more than a cubicle with four walls, as were all of the associates’ offices at the venerable law firm of Howery, Black & Longbothum, PC, but the large window behind the desk offered a beautiful view of the harbor and South Boston. Once he made partner, he’d get a much bigger office, he knew.

He rubbed his hand over the stubble that covered his chin. He’d have to take care of that before any of the partners came in. That was fine. He kept a razor and shaving cream in his desk drawer, along with Advil and Alka-Seltzer.

It had been a long weekend. It was amazing to him that two days could feel so long. He’d crammed too much drinking into too little time, and he was paying for it now. He needed to stop drinking so much, he knew. He needed to start acting like the seventh-year associate at Howery, Black he was. Finn thought back to the madness of his youth on the streets of Charlestown and marveled at how far he’d come. It seemed like a short time ago that he and his crew were running errands for the local crime bosses. It had been a matter of survival, but he had always felt that it wasn’t a part of who he was meant to be. After that fateful night, he knew he had to get out, and that was just what he’d done.

He’d fought the odds to get to college, and finished in four years, despite working two jobs at the same time. That was followed by law school in Suffolk University’s night program, and then a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-year job as a public defender. He’d probably be there still if he hadn’t been noticed by a well-connected prosecutor who told his friend Preston Holland, the managing partner at Howery, Black, that he’d recently come up against one of the finest young courtroom lawyers he’d seen in years. With that recommendation, Finn was able to get a job at the white-shoe law firm, where his salary had immediately increased to one hundred and thirty thousand dollars a year.

Now, six years later, he was only one year away from making partner if everything went according to plan. And while there were certainly no guarantees, he knew he was catching the attention of some of the more influential senior partners, and had even become a protégé of Preston Holland himself, which gave him an advantage over most of the other associates. In a law firm where roughly one out of thirty starting associates managed to make partner, he felt like his chances were better than fifty-fifty, and he was going to do everything he could to increase those odds. He could already taste victory.

Maybe then he could relax a little. Maybe then the hole he’d felt throughout his life would fill in, and he could put his past behind him.

But first he had to shave.

He also had to apologize to Natalie. He’d acted like a jackass toward her on Friday night, and he needed to make sure he hadn’t caused any permanent damage to their friendship. Natalie Caldwell was his closest ally at the firm, and he relied on her to get through the hard times. She was a couple of years behind him, but she had been at the Justice Department for two years before coming to Howery, and she was regarded as a star in her own right. He’d been drawn to her from the moment she joined the firm, and she to him, though less compulsively. For a brief period, just after she joined the firm, they’d been more than friends. It had hurt when she ended it, and they hadn’t been as close since, but she was still a better friend to him than anyone else.

Their drinks date on Friday had been a disaster. They’d started out well enough; they got a table at the International and ordered margaritas. They hadn’t spent much time alone together since she’d ended their tryst, and he quickly realized how much he’d missed her company. She was funny and open, playfully licking salt from the rim of her glass and laughing seductively. “I’ve missed this,” she said, echoing Finn’s thoughts.

“Missed what?” Finn asked, hesitant.

“This,” Natalie said. “You and me alone, talking to each other. When was the last time you and I really let our hair down together?”

“I don’t know,” Finn answered, but it was a lie. He remembered exactly, and it had been a very long time.

“Well, I’m glad we’re doing it again.” Natalie raised her glass in a toast, and Finn could feel the eyes of every man in the bar following her every move, wondering who she was, and how they might be lucky enough to be with someone like her.

By the third drink, Finn was feeling a little light-headed, and it seemed as if he’d been transported back in time to when he and Natalie had been intimate. He felt sure she was feeling the same way. She seemed comfortable, and yet she kept casting sideways glances at him, her smile suggesting a hidden agenda. In his state, Finn easily convinced himself that her agenda was reconciliation.

By the time he started on his fourth margarita, he’d decided to take a chance. As she was laughing her way through their conversation, closing her eyes and doubling over toward him, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, gently, but with determination. It clearly startled her, and she stiffened, pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She looked almost scared, and a little bit angry, as though Finn had broken her trust, and he realized instantly he’d mis-read her. “I told you a long time ago, we’re just friends,” she said. Finn felt his face redden, and then, worse, he recognized her look of pity. She softened her tone somewhat. “Look, you’re a great guy, Finn, but I’ve moved on.”

“Hey, I know that, Nat. I was just kidding around.”

She hesitated. “I’m seeing someone else now.”

He looked away from her, knowing he wouldn’t react well to the news. “That’s great,” he said, realizing how forced the words seemed. “Really, I’m happy for you. Who’s the lucky guy?” As soon as the question left his lips he regretted asking. It was bad enough she was seeing someone else; he realized he didn’t really want to know the details.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. He’s older,” she said, “and there are complications. But he’s been really good for me, teaching me a lot.” She continued talking, but Finn was no longer listening. The drinks and his mortification caught up with him quickly, and his light-headedness quickly turned to nausea. He tried to focus on the television above the bar, just to get his bearings, but it was no use, he had to get out of there. As she continued talking, he pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the table.

“What are you doing?” she asked, interrupting her monologue.

“Listen, Nat, I’m sorry, but I’m feeling a little under the weather. The tequila’s hitting me a little harder than I thought it would,” Finn responded. “This should cover our drinks, and then some.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I know, I feel bad about it, but I’ve really got to head out. I guess I just can’t drink the way I used to when we … when I was younger.”

“But I have something I need to talk to you about,” Natalie protested. “I really need your help. That was the reason I asked you to meet me tonight.”

Finn forced a laugh. “You mean it wasn’t just for the pleasure of my company?” He heard his voice, and it sounded petty and weak. He had to get out of there before she lost all respect for him. He pasted a smile on his face and patted her on the shoulder clumsily. “I really am sorry, but I feel like shit. Let’s do this another time—maybe we can get together for lunch early next week, okay?” She didn’t respond, but just looked up at him with an expression of hurt that made him want to take her in his arms. He had to leave. “Okay then, I’ll see you Monday.”

As he walked out the front door, he turned to look at her, and she flashed him a look of anger that settled in his memory even through the alcohol. He knew he’d have trouble sleeping well again until he made things right between them. After all, in spite of their problems, they were still good friends.

That she would in fact forgive him was not a question in his mind. She’d understand, he knew. That was the thing about their relationship; strained though it was at times, they understood each other. Finn knew he’d never have made it this far in the rarefied environs of Howery, Black if he hadn’t had Natalie Caldwell to turn to. She’d
have
to forgive him.

Shaking himself free from the memories of Friday night, Finn picked up the phone and dialed her extension. The phone rang four times before the automated voice-mail system picked up. He put the phone back down.
No point leaving her a message.
He’d catch her when she got in. An apology might go over better in person anyway.

He turned back toward the window and looked out over the harbor again. From his vantage he could see police lines set up near the edge of the rusted Northern Avenue Bridge, close to the Federal Courthouse, where he spent much of his time.
That must be where they found Little Jack’s latest victim.
Like everyone else in Boston, he’d followed the investigation for the past few months. With the infamous Red Sox curse no longer holding his attention, the saga of murder was one of the few entertainments left in the newspapers. He looked down on the few police officers that were still at the scene, covering every inch of the lot as though they might actually find something useful.
Poor bastards.

He took a deep breath as he surveyed the rest of the harbor and the islands that lay to the south, running their way down toward the tony shoreline suburbs and beyond to Cape Cod. Yeah, things were about as good as they could get from up here on the forty-fourth floor. He just had to make it through the next year or so, then he could relax a little. He raised his arms in a stretch, smiling as he did.

Then he pulled out the razor and shaving cream from his top desk drawer and padded down to the men’s room.

Chapter Four

“H
IS TASTE HAS GOTTEN BETTER
,” said Farmalant.

Flaherty was examining the pile of clothes and personal effects on the table in the corner of the room and wasn’t listening. “What?” she asked.

“Little Jack,” he said. “His taste in prostitutes has gotten better. The first six we had in here were in pretty ragged shape— even before he got to them. Malnourished, needle tracks up the arms, scars, the works. But this one’s a real beauty. Clean, pretty, nice musculature. Maybe he figures that, with his new fame, he can afford call girls instead of streetwalkers?”

Flaherty couldn’t tell whether Farmalant was kidding, but she made a mental note to have someone do a quick check of the different escort services around the city.

“She’s even got expensive clothes,” Farmalant pointed out, nodding at the table in front of Flaherty.

It was true; Flaherty had already noticed it. The leather skirt she’d been wearing was from Giordano’s, a chic fashion boutique on Newbury Street. The matching leather jacket didn’t have a store label, but it was a Ferragamo design. Even the lingerie, which made up the rest of the outfit, was high-quality: stockings and a garter belt from Victoria’s Secret, and a satin bustier from Saks. There were no panties, Flaherty noticed without surprise.

“Anything come in with her besides the clothes?” she asked.

“That’s pretty much it,” Farmalant replied. “No wallet, no credit cards, no purse. Just the pack of matches we found in her jacket pocket over there.”

Flaherty picked up the matches lying on the corner of the table. The cover was entirely black except for a bright red imprint of a lipstick kiss emblazoned in the middle.

“The Kiss Club,” Flaherty said.

“What?”

“The matches. They’re from the Kiss Club in the leather district. It’s a pickup joint owned by one of Whitey Bulger’s old crew. Sleazy, but in an upscale sort of way. It’s very popular with high-end hookers looking for out-of-towners with some money to spend. It draws in the local scumbags, but it also gets some of the yuppies looking for a night out on the wild side.”

“Sounds pretty sketchy. I’m surprised you’d turn a blind eye to someplace like that, Detective. That doesn’t seem like your style.”

Flaherty shrugged. “Not my call. I work homicide, not vice. Besides, I think people are afraid of who we might find in there if we ever raided the place.”

Farmalant nodded and turned back toward the autopsy table. He flipped the switch on the microphone that hung around his neck to record his observations.

“The deceased is a female, Caucasian, approximately twenty-eight to thirty-five years old. Body length has been recorded at sixty-eight and a quarter inches; weight before incision is one hundred and twenty-two pounds, seven ounces. Fingerprints have been taken, as have external prelims. Judging from the state of rigor and the level of decomposition at the time the body was found, the time of death has been estimated between one and four a.m. on Saturday morning.

“The deceased has a large incision in her chest and abdomen, running from the top of her sternum to approximately two inches above her navel. There’s significant lividity at the edges of the wound at the bottom, much less at the top. It’s apparent that the sternum has been cleaved and the rib cage opened. The wound has been partially sewn together with what appears to be either a light fishing line or a heavy surgical suture. I’m proceeding to open the stitches, and I’m spreading the rib cage to examine the chest cavity.

“There’s significant surface damage to both lungs, as well as to the trachea. The damage appears to have been caused by a straight blade with a fine edge, possibly a surgical scalpel.”

Farmalant switched off his microphone. “He’s losing his patience,” he said to Flaherty.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s never been what I would consider a skilled surgeon. I mean, I wouldn’t want him operating on me. But he’s always shown a reasonable amount of proficiency. He’s known what he’s after, and where to get it. In the past there’s been relatively little damage to the other organs. This is a hatchet job by comparison.”

“You think he may have rushed this one?”

“It’s possible. But we still haven’t established that this woman’s killer is in fact Little Jack.” He turned the microphone back on. “I’m now separating the lungs to reveal the thoracic cavity.” He paused as he ran his hands around the insides of the body. “There’s a defined severance of the aorta at approximately one-quarter inch. There’s a similar severance of the pulmonary artery. There’s significant arterial and tissue damage to the surrounding area.” He paused again and looked at Flaherty. “The deceased’s heart has been completely removed.”

“Little Jack,” Flaherty said under her breath.

“Little Jack,” Farmalant repeated. He didn’t realize his microphone was still on.

Back in Farmalant’s office, Flaherty sat in one of the doctor’s matching leather chairs. He’d clearly bought these himself, she thought. The city didn’t spring for such luxuries.

“I thought we might be dealing with a copycat when I saw the damage to the lungs,” Farmalant was saying. “It just didn’t seem like Little Jack’s work.” He said it casually enough, but to Flaherty it still felt like a sharp jab.

“We haven’t told the press about the missing hearts, though. So how could a copycat have known what to mimic?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. Still …”

“If somebody
had
leaked something like that, it would have been in every newspaper in Boston. We haven’t even told everyone on the task force. That’s on a need-to-know basis. It’s hard to see how the information about the hearts could have gotten out when we’re even keeping it from our own guys.” Flaherty leaned back and looked at the ceiling. The truth was, she didn’t want to consider the possibility that they had a copy-cat on the loose. That would mean they had two serial killers to catch. The thought was more than she could bear.

“You’re probably right,” the coroner admitted. He said it without conviction, though.

“I’ve gotta get this guy. Did you see anything in there that might give us some direction?”

“Not really. Just what we already know. We’re almost certainly dealing with a white male in his twenties or thirties. All of the victims have been prostitutes, so there may be some sort of moral or retributive motive. And the skillful cutting of the previous six victims suggests it’s someone with at least some medical training. Finally, given the location where the bodies have been found, it’s likely our boy lives or works either in downtown Boston or in Southie.”

“Thanks,” Flaherty said. “You just summarized my last memo.”

“Like I said, I don’t have anything you don’t already know.”

Just then the door to Farmalant’s office banged open. Detective Tom Kozlowski stood at the threshold. He was short and squat, but powerfully built. It looked for a moment like he wasn’t going to get his shoulders through. As usual, his graying hair was mussed and his collar was crooked. A thick, ugly scar ran from the corner of his left eye halfway down his cheek. He was an old-school cop in every way, and he and Flaherty had been partners for three years. His skill at the job kept him on the force, but his temperament kept him from advancing. Since they’d been partnered together, Flaherty had been promoted twice, while Kozlowski had remained a detective sergeant.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said. His voice was low and gravelly from four decades of cigarettes. He seemed tired in that immovable sort of way that comes only after cops reach twenty years on the force and have locked in their pensions. It gives them a certain resistance to the pressures that bear down on them on a daily basis. Kozlowski had passed his twenty years more than half a decade ago. “I had the tech guys put a rush on Jane Doe’s fingerprints.”

“Did we get lucky?” Flaherty was leaning forward in the plush leather chair now.

“Sort of. I guess it depends on your point of view.”

“Let me guess,” the medical examiner interrupted. “Numerous arrests for solicitation? Maybe one or two for indecent exposure or disturbing the peace, right?”

“Close, but not quite, Doc.” Kozlowski looked at Flaherty, hesitant to reveal his information in front of Farmalant, who wasn’t technically on the task force.

“Well?” Flaherty prodded.

“Actually, she was in the FBI database.”

“FBI?” Farmalant raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Kozlowski nodded grimly. “Turns out she was once a federal prosecutor.”

“She was
what
?” Flaherty almost fell out of the comfortable leather chair.

Kozlowski nodded. “Unless the system is completely screwed up, the lady lying on that table is former assistant United States attorney Natalie J. Caldwell.”

Flaherty took a deep breath, blowing it out through puffed cheeks in a massive sigh. “Aw shit,” she said finally.

“Yeah,” Kozlowski agreed. “Shit.”