Innocence (16 page)

“They both worked for the BPD, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she replied. “We need someone with some decent credibility, and anyone local who’s any good came out of the goddamned department.”

“We’ve gotta go outside Boston for this,” Kozlowski commented, trying to sound authoritative. “There’s too much of a conflict if we stay here. We probably won’t get the full scoop if we use someone local with ties to the fingerprint unit.”

“Thin blue line?” Lissa asked.

Kozlowski nodded.

“Still?”

“Grim, isn’t it? But it’s still there. Cops protect each other, especially cops they know, or cops in the same department.”

“But these people are retired.”

“Doesn’t matter. Once a cop, always a cop.”

She turned to look at him. “Where does that leave you?”

Kozlowski felt himself squirm under her scrutiny. “What do you mean?”

“You were a cop. Would you protect other cops?”

He shifted his stance uncomfortably. “Depends, I guess.”

“On what?”

He shrugged. “On the situation. On the cop.”

“What happened to that black-and-white view of morality you were talking to Finn about earlier? Is that just for other people?”

“No, it’s not. But it’s a little different for cops. It’s like being in the military. You’re out there in a war zone, and people are trying to kill you. The only ones you know have your back are the other cops you work with. You start messing with that trust, and the world becomes a very dangerous place very quickly. That’s drilled into you, and it’s tough to get out.”

“So? Is it out of you yet?”

He tried a smile. “I think so, but I’m a little bit of an oddity.”

She turned back to the computer. “No fucking argument here,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Neither of them said anything and the silence weighed on Kozlowski in a manner it never had before. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve got some thoughts on who we might use if we go outside Boston on the fingerprint issue.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’ve got a list back in my office. I’ll get it.” He turned and started back through the door, paused, started into his office again, and then stepped back out once again. He looked over at her. “I’ve got a couple things I have to finish up, and it’s starting to get late. If you want, we could grab a drink in a little while. Maybe talk about it over dinner.”

She looked at him again.

“I mean, only if you want. You may have other things going on, and we can always get to it tomorrow. But if you want . . .” He heard his voice trail off. He felt intimidated. It was a bizarre experience for him.

Her expression betrayed her surprise. “Sure,” she said. “What the fuck, right?”

“Good. An hour or so?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll come get you.”

“From the other room?”

“Right. From the other room. I’ll pop my head in.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay.” He turned and walked back to his office. It was only four paces, but it felt like a journey. Once safely in his own space, he rested against the wall. He felt exhausted and confused, and yet he couldn’t ever remember feeling quite so alive.

z

“I killed him,” Salazar repeated. They were seated at the table in the attorney visiting room, and the convict’s head was in his hands, his elbows resting on the chipped-wood surface. “I might as well have swung the machete myself.”

“What happened?”

“I wanted out so badly. Too badly. I wanted to sit with my daughter without guards watching me every time I gave her a hug. I wanted to sit on the back porch of my brother’s house—I’ve seen it in pictures and in my dreams—and talk quietly with him about medicine. I try to keep up with many of the new procedures and treatments, but it’s not the same reading about in journals as it is living with it.” He ripped his hands through his long hair. “I wanted it all so badly, I was willing to put Dobson’s life in danger. He was the only person outside of my family who has ever believed in me—in my innocence—and I got him killed.”

Finn watched Salazar, trying to determine whether he was acting. “I was at the police department earlier today,” he said. “They blame you.”

Salazar looked up at him. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever agreed with the police,” he said. “I suppose there’s a first for everything.”

“No,” Finn said. “They don’t think you got him killed; they think you
had
him killed.”

Salazar rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “Why?”

Finn leaned back. “They say you are a member of VDS. A leader, in fact.”

“That’s a load of
mierda
. Bullshit. Did they give you any proof?”

“They had pictures,” Finn said.

“Of?”

“You with VDS gang members. You looked like you were conferencing pretty seriously about something.”

“No,” Salazar said. “It’s not true.”

“I saw the pictures.”

“Of course you did. And I’m sure they had pictures of me with VDS. I treated them. I was the closest thing to a real doctor to everyone in the neighborhood. That included VDS gang members. I treated them when they got sick. When they got shot. When they got pregnant. It wouldn’t be very hard to have pictures of me with them.”

“You treated these scum?” Finn’s tone was indignant.

“I treat everyone,” Salazar said, matching Finn’s outrage. “I told you that. I treated both sides in El Salvador. I treat the criminals in this godforsaken place—no matter what their crimes. And yes, I treated the ‘scum’ in VDS. It is my place to heal, not to judge.”

“But these people—”

“Exactly, Mr. Finn.
People
. These are people. I’d treat the police officers who blinded my daughter if they were injured.” Salazar rattled the chains around his wrists as he wrung his hands. “But think about it: Even if what the police say is true, even if I was a member of VDS, why would I have my own lawyer killed? He was trying to get me out of this place. What possible motive would I have to get him killed?”

“I asked the police that,” Finn admitted.

“And did they have any kind of answer?”

“Not one that made any sense to me.”

“Because it could make no sense,” Salazar said. “I will blame myself for Dobson’s death for the rest of my life, but not because I wanted it. Only because I let him put himself in danger. In fact, I led him into danger. Of that, I am truly responsible.”

“How did you lead him into danger?”

“I told him too much.”

“What did you tell him?” Finn asked.

Salazar smiled bitterly. “God might forgive my mistake once, Mr. Finn. I’m not sure I’ll be welcome in heaven if I greet Saint Peter with your blood mixed with Dobson’s on my hands.”

“I can help you, though,” Finn protested. “If you tell me what I need to know.”

Salazar shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

Finn gave it some thought. Then he leaned forward in his chair and stared intently at Salazar. “Fine, don’t tell me,” he said. “But am I safe in assuming that whatever you told him had something to do with VDS?”

Salazar considered the question before answering. “Yes,” he said at last.

“And it has something to do with why you’re in here?”

Salazar hesitated. “I think so. I don’t know for sure. I only have what I’ve pieced together in here over the past fifteen years. It’s bits and scraps of rumors and gossip, but it all fits.”

The two men looked at each other, measuring. “You were framed, right?” Finn asked. “This wasn’t just a mistake. It wasn’t just bad luck. Someone did this to you on purpose.”

Salazar’s expression hardened. “There’s no such thing as a mistake. Not like this, and not in my case.”

Finn closed his eyes and thought. “It couldn’t have happened without someone on the inside,” he said, as much to himself as to Salazar.

“Cops.”

“It couldn’t have happened without cops,” Salazar agreed.

“Do you have any thoughts about who it might have been? Any names you can give me?”

“No,” Salazar said. He looked closely at Finn. “But you have some, don’t you?”

“One. But it’s only a suspicion.”

“Maybe it’s better that you not tell me until you’re sure.”

“That was my thought.” Finn stood up and walked to the door. “Guard!” he called.

Salazar looked at him. “What are you going to do?”

Finn turned. “I’m your lawyer,” he said. “I’m going to do my job.”

“I can’t be responsible for putting more people in danger.”

“You’re not responsible for anything,” Finn replied. “You didn’t tell me whatever it was that got Dobson killed, did you? I’m not going to focus on his murder right now. I’m going to prove that you didn’t attack Madeline Steele. I’m not going after VDS, am I?”

“What about the police? You’re going after them?”

Finn smiled. “I’ve dealt with cops before.”

The door opened. “You done now?” the guard asked.

Finn turned and looked at him. “No. I’m just getting started, actually.” He stepped past the guard and headed out toward the prison’s exit.

Chapter Seventee
n

Tom Kozlowski stood bent over the sink in the men’s room at the Ritz-Carlton, splashing cold water on his face. He let the streams drip from his nose and chin before he stood and regarded his reflection in the mirror.

What the hell was he doing here? What was he thinking? That was what the image staring back at him was asking. Who was he trying to fool?

Lissa Krantz
was the answer. He was trying to fool Lissa Krantz, and what was most disturbing was that it seemed to be working.

The words had come out of his mouth so casually, as if he uttered them all the time. He’d walked out of his office to see whether she was ready to go grab a bite and talk about fingerprint experts in the Salazar case. She was, and he’d grabbed his coat. But before he could get to the door, she’d asked the question: one that, against all logic, he somehow hadn’t expected. “Where do you want to go?”

He’d been startled. He never would have admitted out loud that he’d panicked, but deep down he knew that was what had happened. They always went to O’Doul’s, around the corner from the office. Who would have thought there was any other option? He answered without thought or hesitation. “How about the Ritz?”

As much as the answer had surprised him, he knew where it came from. The old Ritz-Carlton was on the corner of Arlington and Boylston, right next to the Public Garden. It had been renamed the Taj recently, but to true Bostonians it would always be the Ritz. It was one of those special places that existed for other people, not for him. He’d passed by it often on his circuit of the Common in search of inner peace. He’d stood by the window and seen the revelry during the holiday season, but he’d always been on the outside looking in. If there was ever a chance for him to dip his toe into that world, even for just a moment, it was now, with this woman.

And now here he was. She’d raised an eyebrow at his suggestion. “Holy fuck,” she’d said. “I mean, that’d be nice.”

Climbing into his boxy Crown Victoria, they’d left her BMW behind and cruised across the Charles River. They’d circled around Beacon Hill and the Common and found a parking spot on Commonwealth. Walking through the door to the dining room, Kozlowski had felt surreal, as though he’d been put in someone else’s body—someone else’s life.

The food was delicious, he was sure, but he hardly tasted a thing. He was so focused on her. The conversation had started out stilted and uncomfortable, but he’d brought some notes on various fingerprint experts, and once the ice was broken, they moved the conversation from the professional to the casual to the personal. It was intoxicating. He was still convinced that she was just being nice to him and that there was no chance of progressing past dinner, but it was still one of the best evenings he could ever remember.

After dinner, he’d forked over half a month’s income, and they’d headed down to the bar. It was a legendary spot, with deep carpeting and luxuriously upholstered seats looking out onto Arlington’s wide thoroughfare and across the street to the Public Garden. Bostonians hurried by the window in a Dickensian swirl, dodging the snowflakes with their packages of early holiday cheer, and Kozlowski began to understand for the first time why some people worked so hard for a taste of the good life.

He took a soft towel from the bathroom attendant and wiped his face, then dug through his pockets for a dollar to drop in the tip jar. Tipping another man just because he’d taken a leak was too weird for him to think much about, but other than that, it had been a truly memorable night.

At the door, he paused and sucked in a lungful of reality.
Just don’t do anything stupid now,
he told himself. A single clumsy, unwanted advance from him could turn one of the best experiences of his life into one of the worst. Better, he thought, to be satisfied later with what the evening had been than to regret what it hadn’t.

He blew out his breath, opened the door, and stepped back into the lobby of the hotel.

z

Lissa sat in the bar, waiting for Kozlowski to return. She leaned back and let the soft chair swallow her. It was set perpendicular to the picture window, allowing her equally advantageous views of the street outside and the scene in the bar. It was the interior view that fascinated her most. Confident creatures in impeccable dress moved in and out of the bar, pulling apart, then jelling like quicksilver in intimate groupings, bubbling on carefree waves, as though no ugliness could reach inside the place.

She picked up her drink—a thimbleful of Grans-Fassian that had cost forty dollars—and took a sip. It was good, she had to admit. She’d have felt guilty for ordering it had Kozlowski not insisted, and had he not ordered an even more expensive taste of vintage port. He had surprised her throughout the evening. She was used to this type of place; it was the kind of spot many of her wealthy, more boring dates took her, but she had gotten a look at Finn’s office finances once, and she knew

what Kozlowski made. In an odd way, the fact that he couldn’t afford the evening was one of the things that made it special.