Next of Kin (32 page)

‘It isn’t hard to imagine at all,’ Long said.

She raised a dismissive hand. ‘You’re being kind. But back then, I was something. I was trim and blond and beautiful. More importantly, I was from the right family. A family that
made a good strategic match for my husband and his people. I was “Catherine St. James, of the Wellesley St. Jameses”. That’s how I was described by people. As though my lineage
was actually part of my name.’ She laughed bitterly, took a deep breath and sighed. ‘It was a spectacular wedding, though. Six hundred people. The society pages talked about the
place-settings for six months. It was almost enough to make up for the fact that my fiancé had been with another woman the night before.’

‘But you married him anyway.’

She turned and looked at him as though he were an idiot. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I was Catherine St. James. I had responsibilities. Responsibilities, in many ways, I never
lived up to.’

‘How so?’

‘My husband was from a large family. I was expected to produce children – many children, preferably male. I couldn’t. We were married for more than a decade before we had
Brooke, and that was it. If my husband has a certain level of anger toward me over that, I suppose I don’t even blame him. I blame myself. And so, when you stand there and you ask me to help
you put my husband in jail, you must realize how silly you sound. Besides, I could never break up our family.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He looked around the room. ‘How can you give up all this? Better to put up with the beatings – call it anger and rationalize it away.
Besides, you’re in no real danger, right? After all, you’re his wife. You’re the mother of his child.’ He nodded to her. ‘You take care of yourself. I’ll let
myself out.’ He crossed to the French doors, then paused. ‘There is one other thing you should know, though. Elizabeth Connor wasn’t just some woman helping him break the law. He
knew her more than forty years ago.’

Catherine Buchanan shook her head in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He knew her even before he met you. In fact, he fathered her child.’ He let that sink in for a moment. ‘Then he abandoned both of them. The baby was given up for adoption. I
think he murdered her.’ She was shaking her head furiously now, the tears running down her cheeks. ‘You sure you won’t help me?’ Long thought he had her. There wasn’t
a doubt in his mind. In another second she would be willing to do anything he asked her to do. In that second, though, a gasp came from behind him, from outside of the room.

‘No!’

It was a woman’s voice, and Long turned to see Brooke Buchanan standing in the parlor just outside the sun room. He wondered for how long she’d been eavesdropping. From the look on
her face, it had been for long enough. ‘No!’ she choked again.

Catherine Buchanan’s demeanor changed instantly. Any sense of vulnerability was gone. She drew herself up and took a deep breath. ‘It’s time for you to leave, Detective,’
she said.

He looked back and forth between mother and daughter. Catherine’s tears had already dried, but Brooke’s were just starting.

‘You can’t protect him anymore, Mother. You just can’t,’ the younger woman pleaded. ‘It’s time.’

‘Detective!’ Catherine screamed. ‘Unless you have a warrant, I want you out of this house this instant!’

‘Mrs Buchanan, Elizabeth Connor was murdered!’ Long said. ‘Can’t you see what that means? She was the mother of your husband’s child. She made five sets of calls to
your husband and Mr McDougal in the weeks before her death. No one had a better motive to kill her than your husband. If I could just –’

‘Now, Detective! Leave now, or I swear I will have your badge before you get back to your desk.’

‘Mother, please!’ Brooke screamed. ‘It’s gone on for too long. He can’t treat you like this anymore! He can’t treat either of us like this anymore!’

‘Brooke, shut your mouth!’ Catherine yelled to her daughter. She turned back to Long. ‘Now!’

He put up his hands. He’d learned years before that no creature was more ferocious than a mother protecting her child. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘Eventually it will
come out.’

‘Perhaps,’ Catherine said. ‘But if it does, it won’t come from anyone in this family.’

Peter Mitchell sat in a van outside Joey Slade’s office in Dorchester. There were seven of them crammed into the vehicle, all wearing blue windbreakers with BPD
emblazoned in yellow. Everyone except Mitchell was armed, two of the cops had shotguns. Mitchell secretly wished they had more artillery. Not because he thought there was any danger – there
clearly wasn’t – but because he wanted to make the most public statement possible. Shock and awe. It might not work perfectly in war, but Mitchell figured it would be pretty damned
effective in the middle of Boston.

He was the leader of Team A, which was tasked with taking down Slade’s office. This was where the action was likely to be. They knew Slade was at his desk. Team B was securing the
man’s home, and Team C was freezing an offsite storage facility maintained by Slade. As the investigation expanded, Mitchell knew there would be other teams. It was his hope – his
expectation, really – that Slade would be the wedge. From everything he knew about the man, he was not the sort to allow himself to end up in prison. His sense of self-importance and
self-preservation were too highly developed for that. Once he believed a conviction was virtually guaranteed, Slade would roll over like a well-trained dog. And if his involvement in the Boston
underworld was as broad as it was rumored . . . well, this was Mitchell’s bust, and he might as well start measuring the governor’s office for drapes.

He looked at his watch – two o’clock. The operation was scheduled for four. Right now they were simply in place to conduct surveillance so there were no surprises when it was time to
move. The air in the van was stale and hot. It stank of coffee breath and nervous sweat, and it was starting to make Mitchell feel ill. He sat up straight and shook off the nausea.

Two hours . . .

He could do that standing on his head, he figured. For the payoff, he could endure just about anything for two hours. Years from now, as he sat in the State House and all those white boys were
kissing his ass, he would look back on this moment with fondness. This was the door, and he was about to walk through it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Finn saw them coming from the window in his office. There were two of them, and they converged on the building from both ends of the street, walking toward each other and
meeting in front of the door with military precision. With their dark suits, sunglasses and ear pieces, Finn initially thought they were feds. The hair was too long, though, and after a moment Finn
recognized the bodyguard who’d tried to keep him from going into Buchanan’s house the day before.

Private security. One step up from common thugs. Loyal, though.

He reached for the phone, ready to dial 911, expecting the door to be kicked in at any moment. Buchanan had already had two people killed, why stop there? And yet it wouldn’t make sense to
take him in broad daylight, on a busy street. Finn hesitated.

As he watched from the window, the two men never made a move toward the door. They simply stood there, hands folded in front of their crotches, as though they were protecting themselves, staring
straight ahead. A moment later a black car drove up behind them. The door opened, and James Buchanan stepped out. The two men parted as Buchanan approached the door and rang the door bell.

Finn was unsure what to do. Looking through the window, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind.

Buchanan rang again.

Finn walked around into the hallway, over to the entryway, turned the knob slowly, and opened the door.

‘Mr Finn,’ Buchanan said in a formal tone, almost as if he were out campaigning and he was about to explain why Finn should consider voting for him.

‘Yes?’ Finn was in shock; he had no idea what else to say.

‘I thought it might make sense for us to talk.’

Inside the office, the air was electric. Finn’s expectations were suffocating. Even Buchanan looked nervous. ‘Do you mind if we sit?’

Finn blinked. ‘Sure.’ It felt inappropriately civilized, and yet he couldn’t resist. ‘Do you want something to drink? Some coffee?’

Buchanan nodded. ‘A glass of water would be nice, thank you.’

‘Just a second.’ Finn walked out to the little kitchenette and drew a glass of water from the faucet. His hands were shaking the entire time. As he walked back into the office, he
set the glass down on a side table near Buchanan to hide the tremors.

Buchanan reached over and picked up the glass, took a sip. He looked around the office. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself,’ he said.

‘It’s not Louisburg Square,’ Finn said.

‘No, but you built this yourself. I had my people look into your background. You came from nothing. You had every disadvantage a man can have stacked against him, and yet you succeeded.
The modern American self-made man. I admire that. I never had the chance to prove I was capable of that; I don’t know whether I would have been.’

‘I guess that makes me lucky.’

‘It’s not luck.’

‘No? What is it then?’ Finn looked hard at Buchanan. ‘Breeding?’

Buchanan took another sip of the water. Putting the glass down on the table, he looked back at Finn. ‘I’m not your father,’ he said.

‘Then why are you here?’

Buchanan stood up and paced in front of Finn. ‘As I said, I never had to prove that I was capable of making something for myself. Oh, I did an admirable job of protecting my family’s
wealth and businesses – growing them significantly. Many others in my position have squandered what they were given, pissed it away. But still, it’s not the same as building something
on your own. As a result, if I am to leave a true legacy, it will have to be through public service.’

‘In other words, you’re worried about the election.’

Buchanan stopped pacing. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am worried about the election. In times as dangerous as these, the right man in the right position can make all the
difference.’

‘You as senator? The right man for the right position?’

‘For now. In the future . . .’ Buchanan raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows where life will lead me?’

‘I don’t care where it will lead you. I have my own issues to deal with.’

‘Yes, you do.
Your
issues. Not mine!’ Buchanan’s voice was raised, and he pointed his finger at Finn. ‘Leave me out of this. Do you have any idea what kind of
damage you could do if you continue down the path you seem to have chosen?’

Finn just looked at Buchanan, unsure what to feel about this man who had given him life. This man who had abandoned him once, and now, given a second chance, was abandoning him again. Mostly,
Finn just felt sick.

‘You say you’re not my father,’ Finn said.

‘And I’m not!’

‘Prove it, then. Take a blood test.’

Buchanan shook his head. ‘I can’t. Don’t you see? Once I take a blood test, the story will get out. Once the story is out it won’t matter that the test comes back
negative. It won’t matter that I didn’t kill Elizabeth Connor.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is true. Most people still think of Richard Jewel as the man who bombed the Olympics. Everyone still thinks that Gary Condit killed Shandra Levy. It doesn’t matter that both of
them were innocent, and that in both cases they actually caught the real killers. For a man in my position, admitting even the legitimacy of suspicion is the same as admitting guilt.’

‘I don’t know where that leaves us,’ Finn said.

‘It leaves you in control of my fate, for now.’

It had been a terrible day at school. The classes Sally usually enjoyed seemed vapid and unimportant; the classes she normally tolerated seemed unbearable. All she could think
about was Finn. She’d even asked to skip school that day, but he was having none of it. She agreed to go only because she knew the importance he placed on her education.

As soon as her last class ended, she hopped a bus to the T and rode the train down to the final stop at Lechmere. From there it was only a half mile to Finn’s office. She walked with
purpose, desperate to know how the meeting with the police detective had gone, wondering whether Buchanan had been arrested. She hoped so. She had little patience for those who abandoned their
children.

She saw them as she rounded the corner on Warren Street, closing in on the office. Two men in suits and sunglasses standing with their backs to the doorway, looking out onto the street, their
heads swiveling, taking in everything around them. Their posture was condescending, and it annoyed her. The annoyance gave way almost immediately, though, to concern, as she wondered what they were
doing at Finn’s office.

She quickened her pace.

The man on the left noticed her first. The head-swivel paused, following her, noting her focus. He turned and looked at the other one, nodding to him. Both of them watched Sally as she
approached. She ignored them as she reached for the door, but they closed ranks and cut her off.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ the one on the right said. He was standing on the uneven six-inch granite step in front of the door, looking down at her.

‘You will be if you don’t let me through,’ she replied.

He looked over at his partner and gave a smile that made clear he was not intimidated. Looking back down at her, he said, ‘You can’t go in.’

‘I’m here to see Finn.’

‘Not right now, you’re not. He’s in a meeting.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait in Kozlowski’s office in back.’ She reached for the door again, but the one on the left reached down and swept her arm away.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said evenly, staring straight into his sunglasses.

‘You believe this?’ the one on the right asked his partner. His partner shook his head, but his expression didn’t change. ‘Mr Finn doesn’t want anyone bothering him
right now. He’s with someone.’

‘Let him tell me that himself,’ she said.

‘He asked us to tell people that.’

‘You’re lying.’ Her heart was beating fast now, and she wondered whether Finn was in danger.