Next of Kin (17 page)

‘Maybe,’ Finn said. ‘But I’ll never know if that’s what happened to my mother because you won’t give me whatever information you have in my file.’

‘I can’t,’ Ms Tesco said, shaking her head. ‘The law
–
’

‘Fuck the law,’ Finn blurted.

Sally leaned forward. ‘Ms Tesco, I’ve only known Finn for a year, but he’s one of the few really good people I’ve ever met. He took me in when my father was killed and my
mother left me. He just found out who his mother was, and that she was murdered. If you were the one who’d been killed, and it was your daughter searching for information, what would you want
the person on your side of the desk to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do.’

Ms Tesco looked at Sally for a long moment. ‘It may take some time to find the file,’ she said.

‘We understand.’

‘I’m not promising anything,’ she said. ‘But I’ll think about it.’

Sally nodded. ‘That’s all we can ask.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finn was still adjusting to Saturdays. During the week, he was so busy working and taking care of Sally he had no time to think; he had to keep his feet moving just to keep
things from falling apart. When the weekend came, though, there was time to draw breath and consider the complications of being the guardian to someone else’s child. It was that time that
scared him most – the time he was most afraid of screwing up.

That Saturday, Sally slept later than usual. They’d stopped to get dinner on the drive back from New Hampshire and had gotten home later than anticipated. Finn woke up at five-thirty, as
was his habit. He would have liked to sleep later, but his body wouldn’t let him. It was one of the great ironies of growing older: it seemed the more sleep he craved, the less his body
tolerated.

He threw on a pair of running shoes and a tattered T-shirt and headed out for a morning jog. He’d never been a devotee of exercise for its own sake, but there was something about the city
early on a Saturday morning that he loved. It was all his. There was a stillness to it as he swept through the early morning mist – down Bunker Hill, along the waterfront, then back up along
the Charles. The Boston skyline slumbered off to his left. The brownstones along the river, with their multi-million dollar views, were dark and quiet; the office towers behind them gave no signs
of life. It felt as though he were the last man alive, and it all belonged to him – the only one who truly knew the place for all its faults and beauty and grace. It was like watching a lover
sleep – an exquisite moment of unrequited intimacy.

By the time he crossed back into Charlestown the city was beginning to stir. Delivery trucks rolled slowly down toward the commercial district, and an occasional taxi passed him, lacking its
accustomed weekday hurry. The spell had been broken, and once again he had to share the city he loved so much.

He could see Kozlowski waiting for him on the stoop as he turned the corner at the bottom of the hill and headed up toward his apartment. The raincoat gave him away.

‘I rang the bell,’ Kozlowski said as Finn approached.

‘I was running,’ Finn replied. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

‘Sally?’

‘Sleeping,’ Finn said. ‘She’s a teenager. A terrorist attack wouldn’t wake her on a Saturday morning.’ Kozlowski didn’t crack a smile.
‘What’s up?’ Finn asked.

‘Detective Long came to visit the firm yesterday. He wasn’t happy.’

Finn frowned. ‘He found out we’re still looking into my mother’s murder?’ Kozlowski nodded, and Finn’s frown deepened. ‘That’s gonna cause some
problems.’

‘There’s more,’ Kozlowski said.

‘What?’

‘He was out questioning McDougal.’

‘Eamonn?’ Finn said. ‘Why?’

‘Because McDougal was your mother’s boss when she was working at Rescue Finance. She called him a bunch of times before she was killed.’

Finn frowned. ‘My mother worked for McDougal?’

Kozlowski nodded. ‘Apparently.’

‘And you needed to tell me about this at six o’clock in the morning?’

‘I was nervous,’ Kozlowski said. ‘I figured if McDougal had some reason to kill your mother, and he found out that you had been up in New Hampshire yesterday poking around, who
knows? Maybe he’d think he had some reason to come after you. Stranger things have happened.’ Finn finally understood why Kozlowski had been concerned that the doorbell had not been
answered. His eyes widened. ‘Oh my God,’ he whispered. ‘Sally.’ He turned and bounded up the staircase to his apartment in a panic.

Long woke up on his couch. His arm was hanging off the edge, numb, and his face was mashed so far into the corduroy fabric that he could feel the pattern impressed on his skin.
Pushing himself up with his one working hand, he caught a glimpse of the stain of his drool, spreading out on the sofa cushion like a map of Florida from the spot where his mouth had lolled open
for most of the night.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The pain was intense, and radiated out from behind his eyeballs toward his temples.

The sunlight was streaming through the windows, and opening his eyes to behold the mess from the night before was agony. The bottle of Jägermeister lay on its side on the coffee table,
nearly depleted, a thin puddle having dribbled from the top onto the light-colored wood, like his own mocking, inanimate doppelganger. Even from where he sat, he could see the pile of broken glass
spilling out from the top of his sink. For a moment, he wondered whether he should vomit but the impulse was not urgent enough to give in to just yet. Perhaps later.

The events of the day before came back to him in disjointed flashes. The interview with McDougal; his abrupt and unsuccessful visit to the lawyer’s office; Julie Racine’s intrusion
into his apartment. The shame of it all tormented him, and he let out a low, tired moan.

He reached out and took hold of the bottle of Jägermeister. There was still some left. Not enough to get drunk; maybe just enough to stop the pain.

Bringing the bottle to his lips, he held it there for a moment.
Just a little
, he thought.
Just enough to get through the day
.

As he began to raise his arm to take the sip, he looked over the bottle and saw a folder on the coffee table. One corner was soaking up some of the alcohol that had spilled the night before. His
forehead wrinkled as he struggled to remember. It was there, in his memory, just out of focus. Julie had brought the folder, hadn’t she? Why? It came back to him in dribs and drabs. The
Connor case. Phone records. Homeland Security.

Just as the alcohol reached the lip of the bottle, the memory came clear.

Senator Buchanan.

He put the bottle down without taking the sip and reached for the file. The soaked corner stuck to the table, and tore when he picked it up. Inside the folder, the records were there, the
information clear in black and white. Elizabeth Connor had called Senator James Buchanan five times in the weeks leading up to her death. Each time, after hanging up, she had immediately called
Eamonn McDougal.

Long stared at the information in the folder for a few moments. His mind grinded like rusted machinery. The questions were multiplying to the point at which they could no longer be ignored. What
was the connection between McDougal, Connor and Senator Buchanan?

He didn’t even realize he was standing. Instinctively, he was headed toward the bathroom to shower, shave, and brush his teeth. His mind was consumed with planning out the attack, thinking
through various approaches, and considering the consequences. It wasn’t until he reached the hallway that led back to the bathroom that he turned and looked back at the coffee table.

The bottle was still there. Sitting open on the table. Three fingers full, waiting for him.

He took a step back, toward the bottle. It wouldn’t hurt, would it? It might even make it better, make his mind clearer. It might even be the right thing to do.

He hesitated, then turned toward the bathroom and went in. The bottle would be waiting for him when he got out of the shower. Maybe then.

Finn poured a cup of coffee. His hand was still shaking. ‘So, what now?’ Kozlowski asked.

The two of them had rushed up the stairs in a panic. It took two tries for Finn to get the apartment door unlocked, and once accomplished he slammed the door open and sprinted down the hallway
to Sally’s room. It was amazing how quickly it had become
her
room. For years it had been the guest room. Even when she first moved in, that was what he continued to call it for a
while. But now there was no doubt – it was her room, and she belonged there.

He threw open her door, and yelled, breathlessly, ‘Sally!’

She was there. Still stretched out, asleep, under the covers, oblivious to the world. His scream shocked her out of her slumber.

‘Jesus! What the hell!’ she screamed.

Finn held up his hands. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I thought . . . I just . . . Sorry.’

He could feel Kozlowski in the doorway behind him, shaking his head.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sally had demanded.

‘Nothing,’ Finn lied. ‘Just go back to sleep. Sorry.’

‘Jesus,’ Sally repeated. She threw the blankets back over her head, and Finn had closed the door gingerly.

‘Sorry,’ he’d said once more.

He and Kozlowski had gone into the living room and reported to each other the events of the previous day. Finn made the coffee as Kozlowski described Long’s visit to the office. The
adrenaline from his panic over Sally was still coursing through Finn’s veins when Kozlowski asked about next steps.

‘I don’t know,’ Finn replied, taking another sip of his coffee. He heard Sally turn on the shower, and he knew they only had a few moments to talk before she came out. He
didn’t want to alarm her any more than he already had. ‘Howland said my mother was borrowing tons of money from her boss. If Long is right, and Eamonn was her boss . . .’ Finn
blew out a heavy breath.

‘Eamonn doesn’t like it when people don’t pay him back. It makes him testy.’

‘Testy enough to kill?’

Kozlowski shrugged. ‘Depends on how much money she owed, I suppose.’

‘I need to confront Eamonn.’

Kozlowski’s head bounced from side to side, as he assessed the idea. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘You accuse him of murdering your mother, though, and it’s gonna strain the
attorney-client relationship.’

The shower stopped, and Finn could hear Sally moving around in her room. She wasn’t the primping type, and Finn knew their time was almost up. ‘I can’t just let this go,’
Finn said. ‘Besides, he’s gonna realize I know eventually. He’ll take one look at me the next time I meet him and he’ll see it in my eyes.’

‘Yeah, that’s probably right,’ Kozlowski agreed. ‘When do you want to do it?’

‘Today,’ Finn said.

‘He may not be at his office,’ Kozlowski pointed out.

‘I’ve got his cell number,’ Finn said. ‘I’m representing his son. He’ll show up if I call him and tell him I need to talk to him.’

‘You’re not meeting with him alone. I’m coming.’

‘He may insist I come alone.’

‘He can insist all he wants,’ Kozlowski said. ‘It’s not gonna happen.’

Finn nodded. ‘Can Lissa watch Sally this morning?’

‘Yeah,’ Kozlowski said. ‘She may want to know why, though.’

‘You gonna tell her?’

‘Some, probably,’ Kozlowski said. ‘Not all. Not until we know for sure.’

The door to Sally’s room down the hall opened. ‘I don’t want Sally to know about any of this,’ Finn said quietly.

Kozlowski nodded.

She was in the kitchen a few seconds later. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Somebody want to tell me what that was all about?’

Finn and Kozlowski looked at each other. ‘It was nothing,’ Finn said.

‘I’m not an idiot,’ Sally replied.

‘I was out running when Koz got here, and you didn’t answer when he rang the doorbell,’ Finn tried again. ‘I was just concerned that something had happened to
you.’

‘That wasn’t concerned, that was freaked out.’

‘Seriously, don’t worry about it, okay?’ Finn said. ‘Lissa wants your help with the baby this morning. Is that cool with you?’

‘As long as you tell me what’s really going on.’

Finn ignored the ultimatum. ‘Around noon?’ he asked Kozlowski.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Okay.’ Finn clapped his hands together to signal the end of the conversation. ‘I’m gonna go take a shower.’

‘I’m going back to the apartment,’ Kozlowski said.

Sally looked back and forth between the two of them. ‘Great. I guess I’ll just sit here by myself and try not to think about whatever it is that the two of you aren’t telling
me.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

Long found the connection between Elizabeth Connor, Eamonn McDougal, and Senator James Buchanan quickly. All it took was a single Google search, and the top link took him to a
website dedicated to tracking the political contributions reported by politicians. Connor and McDougal were both contributors to the senator’s campaign. Alone, that might have seemed
inconsequential. But as Long continued to dig, he discovered that they were not only contributors, but significant contributors. In fact, they had both given the maximum amount allowed under the
law in both of Buchanan’s elections – two thousand, four hundred dollars.

For McDougal it was a paltry sum. No one knew how much McDougal actually made for a living – most of it was obtained illegally – but it was well into the millions. Long had seen the
apartment where Elizabeth Connor lived, though. It was not the sort of place where most residents gave thousands of dollars to politicians. It didn’t make sense, and yet it hardly seemed
enough of a motive to justify murder.

Long continued to dig.

A half hour later he noticed another abnormality. It seemed that all of the employees of the ‘legitimate’ companies controlled by McDougal had maxed out on their contributions to
Senator Buchanan. From the managers to the janitors, each and every one of them had given the same amount.

Long went back to Google and put in a search for the Federal Election Commission. When he arrived at the website, he pulled up the phone number for the local office. The phone rang a dozen times
before it was answered. ‘FEC,’ the tired bureaucratic voice on the other end of the line said.