“No can do,” Finn replied. “I’ve got an important case I’m working on, as you well know. I can’t lose the time.”
“You can’t help my brother if you collapse. Your friends are outside; I’ll send them in. But you are going to have to stay here through the night.”
Finn wanted to argue, but all at once he felt too tired to think. He sat back on the bed. There was something to be said for getting a little rest, he supposed. Then he could start out fresh in the morning—the first thing he needed to find out was what Steele had been investigating in Roxbury on the night she was shot.
Finn looked at Miguel, who was making some notes on Finn’s medical chart, looking at his watch, and then writing some more. It was starting to sink in that, were it not for this young doctor, Finn would in all likelihood be dead.
Miguel hung the clipboard with Finn’s medical charts on the wall. “I’ll be back,” he assured his patient.
As the younger man walked to the door, Finn called out to him. “Hey, Doc?”
Miguel turned around.
“Thanks. Seriously.”
Miguel shook his head. “Thank my brother when you see him.”
z
Jimmy Alvarez sat against a brick wall in the shadows of the main temple of the Church of Christ, Scientist on Huntington Avenue. The Mother Church, as it was known in Boston, was a palatial domed structure on several acres, fronted by an endless reflecting pool. The church was built in 1894 to celebrate the philosophy of Mary Baker Eddy, who stressed the connection between the mind, the spirit, and the body. Central to the tenets of the religion was the belief in the ability of people to heal themselves through faith and prayer. Jimmy felt his shoulder and was doubtful that faith alone would mend the gunshot wound that throbbed excruciatingly.
The pool was dry for the winter, but the storm had picked up, and it was already half filled with powdery white snow. As Jimmy looked out on it, he longed for the warm winters of his Mexican border town and wondered how it was that he had found his way to this godforsaken urban tundra.
He pulled off his jacket, shivering as he looked down at his shoulder. The wound was still oozing, though the flow had eased, at least. He craned his neck to get a better view and saw clearly both the entry and exit wounds, which made him feel better. He could be reasonably sure that the bullet had not lodged within the flesh, and as he probed the wound with his fingers, it seemed the bullet had passed cleanly through the muscle without damaging any of the bones or joints. That was fortunate. While the pain was excruciating, he still had the full use of his arm—for now.
He couldn’t go to a hospital, he knew. A gunshot wound would raise all sorts of questions, and he didn’t have any good answers. Nor could he seek help from his associates in VDS. He had failed miserably in his assignment, and until he had corrected the mistake, he was a liability to them. He had seen how the Padre dealt with liabilities. His options were limited.
He picked up a handful of snow and spread it on the wound, hoping to stem the bleeding even further, fighting off the scream that the agony tried to force from his lungs. But the cold seemed to deaden the pain, and he relaxed a little, with his back to the bricks.
He thought through his predicament carefully. He was tempted to ditch town altogether—pack it in and head back south. It wouldn’t work, though. The only home he’d ever known was two thousand miles away, and even if he made it back, Carlos’s people would find him there. It might buy him a few weeks, but no more, and the terror of what they would do when they did catch up with him was too grotesque to consider.
On the other hand, setting things right in Boston would be no easy task. The lawyer would be on guard, and it would be difficult to get to him. More important, even if he had another chance, Jimmy recognized now that he didn’t have the mental strength to kill. He’d known that it would be difficult, but he’d thought he’d be able to do it. He’d ordered people beaten before, and while he’d never been directly involved in a killing, it was commonplace enough in his hometown for him to believe he would be able to cross the line without any significant problem.
He’d been wrong. Having people roughed up was one thing. That was business, and the lack of permanence in a beating allowed Jimmy to settle into a comfortable rationalization that still permitted him to sleep. As he’d held the blade to the lawyer’s throat, Jimmy had realized that the gulf between ordering a beating and slitting someone’s throat was too wide and deep for him to cross. Irrespective of the potential retribution from Carlos and his henchmen, he knew that he could never look someone in the eyes as he ended a life.
He had only one option. He’d studied Finn’s patterns enough to identify his weaknesses, and he thought in his heart that perhaps the man didn’t need to die. Perhaps there was another way.
Jimmy pulled his jacket back over his shoulder and stood up, battling a light head. He had work to do before he could rest. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, working through exactly what must be done. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible, he told himself.
He looked out one last time upon the reflecting pool, pale blue in the streetlights and covered in drifts. As he pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders and headed out toward the Back Bay, he wondered why anyone would choose to live in a place so cold.
z
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Kozlowski stood against the whitewashed wall of the hospital room, shaking his head. He felt like a father scolding his teenager, but he couldn’t help himself. Lissa sat in an uncomfortable-looking, semi-recliner by the side of Finn’s bed. Salazar had left the room to check in with the hospital staff.
“I was thinking I might learn something that could help us,” Finn replied. “I think maybe I did.”
“I think you almost helped yourself into the fucking morgue.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
Kozlowski shook his head. “No, you’re not listening to me. The pictures of Mark Dobson weren’t enough to clue you in? Whoever we’re dealing with is playing for keeps. Not the way Slocum plays for keeps, sending some Irish pituitary case to try to scare you. These people will cut your heart out and feed it to you. Literally. You get that now? You’re a target, and until this goddamned case is in the rearview mirror, you don’t go out on any part of this investigation without me, you understand?”
Finn sat up straight, almost tearing the IV out of his good arm. “I pay you, not the other way around. I can take care of myself.” The line feeding antibiotics and fluids into his system caught on his neck, and he struggled to free himself.
“You’re an arrogant idiot,” Kozlowski said, his face flushing. “You can’t even defend yourself against your fucking saline solution, but you want to take on these psychopaths on your own?”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
“No, fuck both of you,” Lissa cut in. “Jesus motherfucking Christ, what is it about testosterone that turns men into kindergarteners?” She looked back and forth between them and then mimicked in baby talk, “‘Fuck you.’ ‘No, fuck you.’ ‘You’re an asshole.’ ‘No, you are.’ You guys going to get into the whole ‘I’m rubber and you’re glue’ discussion next?” She turned to Kozlowski. “You can’t just bully people into following your orders, even if you know you’re right.” Then she looked at Finn. “And you are, in fact, an idiot if you don’t realize that you’re in real danger because of this case. Shit, look around you, Finn. This is a hospital you’re in, not the fucking Four Seasons. From what Salazar’s little brother said, you’re lucky to still have your fucking arm. No, wait, check that. If he hadn’t been keeping an eye on you, you wouldn’t be worried about your arm, you’d be fucking dead. You’re lucky you still have your head, forget about the arm. If you don’t take Koz up on his offer to watch your back through the rest of this, you’re dumber than you look. And trust me, after tonight, that’s hard to fucking believe.”
Kozlowski fought to suppress a smile. Lissa was a phenomenon. She was smart, and direct, and there wasn’t an ounce of bullshit anywhere in her. She was entirely different from any person he’d ever known. He looked over at Finn and saw that her speech had had an impact. Finn was looking down at his arm with guilt and concession in his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Me, too,” Kozlowski offered.
Lissa looked back and forth between them again. “Good,” she said. For a moment her stare kept its intensity, as if to dare either of them to reopen the debate. Then she let out a breath and seemed to relax. “My work is done here, then.” She stood up. “I’m going home to get some goddamned sleep.” She looked at Kozlowski. “I take it you’re staying here, after all your bitching about keeping an eye on him?”
Kozlowski looked at Finn. “It makes sense.”
“Fine,” Finn agreed, not meeting Kozlowski’s eyes.
“
Fine
?” Lissa’s voice was sharp and accusing.
Finn’s eyes drilled through the floor. “I mean
thank you
.”
“Very nice,” she praised him. “Was that so fucking hard? See, all you assholes needed was the softness of a woman’s touch.” She leaned forward and kissed Finn on the forehead. “I’ll see you at the office in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“I need to talk to you for just a second,” she said to Kozlowski as she passed him on the way out the door. He followed her out and she walked a short distance down the hallway and around the corner before she stopped, still facing away from him.
“What is it?” he asked.
She spun and, in one fluid motion, put her arms around his neck, pulling his head down and kissing him. It was a fierce, passionate kiss, her fingers running through the hair on the back of his head, her tongue slipping into his mouth, probing, her body pressed against his. He was aware of people staring as they passed by the pair locked in public intimacy, and at first he felt self-conscious. After a moment, though, the rest of the world faded away, and the thought of their public display aroused him. There was little question that she could feel his body respond.
She laughed through the kiss and pulled away from him. “My, my,” she said. “What a nice reaction. I’m flattered.” She pulled his head down again and kissed him gently on the lips. “Right now you have other things to concentrate on.” She nodded in the direction of Finn’s room. “You need to keep an eye on him.”
“I’d rather keep my eyes on you,” he admitted. Sexual innuendo was new to him, and he felt clumsy with it, like trying on someone else’s shoes, but he kind of liked it.
She smiled at him. “When all this is over, I’ll be sure to treat you to a little show. For now you need to stay sharp.”
He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. “You go get some sleep. I’ll make sure he survives the night.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just make sure you’re both being careful. I don’t want anyone taking a shot at him and hitting you by mistake.”
“Couldn’t happen. Bullets bounce off me.”
“Right,” she said. “Just don’t start believing your own bullshit.”
“Good advice.”
She kissed him once more, then turned and walked down the hallway to the elevator. He watched her, admiring the slight sway to her hips and the way her arms brushed her sides as they swung confidently with every stride.
He laughed softly to himself as the elevator door closed. It had actually happened, he realized. It had taken nearly half a century, but for the first time in his life, he was in love. He wiped his mouth discreetly and realized he could still taste her.
It had been worth the wait.
Chapter Twenty-nin
e
Lissa had left her car at the office, and she should have taken a taxi home from the hospital. The snowstorm had intensified, and while it still wouldn’t qualify as a blizzard in the minds of most New Englanders, it was falling hard enough to blur her vision; even in the spots where the city workers were making the effort to keep up with the snowfall, there were several inches of accumulation. A cab would have been the best way to get to the Back Bay. But when she walked out of the main entrance of the hospital, she could see several people already huddled in a line at the empty cabstand. On a snowy night, that would mean at least an hour’s wait. Looking up at the sky, she judged that the storm was likely to let up soon, and in any case, her apartment was under a half mile away. Even in the snow, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to walk, and there was a reasonable chance that she might be able to hail down a cab on Charles Street at the foot of Beacon Hill. So she bundled her scarf around her throat and headed out without a second thought.
She loved to walk the city, in part because the application of the word “city” always seemed ambitious to her. She had been raised in Manhattan, and as a consequence, she viewed Boston as more of a small town than a city. More than once, she had walked the entirety of Boston in a day, while she was quite sure she could live an entire lifetime in New York and never experience every part of it. That was the attraction of the Hub for her, though—its intimacy.
She rounded the angular corner at the traffic circle where Cambridge and Charles streets met in a brackish transition from modern urban redevelopment to ageless brownstone tradition. The snow had piled up even higher than she had anticipated while she had been at the hospital, and she struggled slightly to pull her feet from a couple of knee-high drifts. At least it was cold out; the ground cover was light and fluffy in spite of its depth. A few people moved about on the brick sidewalks, hurrying home from dinner or a late evening’s work, or heading out for a night of cozy drinks at one of the local pubs, but they moved like ghosts in the night, their footsteps and voices swallowed in the snowfall.
Her own feet crunched softly in the uneven snow, losing traction on every third or fourth step. But she was accustomed to the necessary duck walk of moving about in the winter, and like most Bostonians, she kept her dress shoes tucked into her oversize purse, opting for clumsy tractor-soled hiking boots as outdoor wear. Nonetheless, she had to concentrate so hard on keeping her balance that twice she nearly collided with other pedestrians coming the opposite way, appearing out of the storm and taking her by surprise.