Next of Kin (12 page)

While the girl was gone, Long wandered around the reception area. There wasn’t much to it. The walls were a gray two shades lighter than the carpet, and there were two framed prints
hanging on one wall. They were standard, innocuous office fare; outside scenes of boats for one, a farm landscape for the other. Neither gave any hint as to what the business was really all
about.

Long was looking at the print of the boats when he heard the door open behind him. ‘Can I help you, Officer?’ a male voice asked.

‘Detective,’ Long said as he turned. The man standing in front of him was dressed in a tailored English suit, polished cap-toed shoes, and an expensive silk tie. All the clothes in
the world, though, couldn’t disguise the coarseness of the man’s physique and demeanor, and his face was familiar to every Boston cop. ‘Eamonn McDougal,’ Long said.

The man smiled humorlessly. ‘See, Janice,’ he said to the woman behind him. His girth nearly hid her from Long’s view. ‘I told you the cops know me.’ He turned back
to Long. ‘What can I do for you,
Detective
?’

Something about the way the man carried himself lit the anger in Long. He stood there in his four-thousand-dollar suit, his hair swept back from his forehead, smiling as though there were
nothing that anyone could do to touch him. Long instantly felt the desire to bring him down.

‘I’m here investigating the murder of Elizabeth Connor,’ Long said.

The smile never left McDougal’s face. ‘Seems like a pretty serious issue,’ he said. ‘You should probably come into my office to talk.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Finn leaned into the bar at the empty space next to the old man. ‘You mind if we talk?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know you,’ the old man said. He didn’t look at Finn.

‘No, you don’t,’ Finn said. ‘But you knew her.’ He took out the photograph of Elizabeth Connor at the morgue and laid it on the bar in front of the man.

‘Aw, shit,’ the man said. His hand went to his mouth, and his eyes went to the empty shot glasses in front of him. ‘Frank,’ he called out to the bartender. ‘I need
another.’

The bartender raised his eyebrows, but took a shot glass off the shelf behind the bar and reached for a bottle.

‘You knew her,’ Finn repeated. Up close, the man looked younger than he had from across the bar. He was in his seventies, probably.

‘So you say.’ He looked at the Polaroid again. ‘Frank, you got that shot?’ he yelled.

The bartender walked over and put the shot down in front of the old man. ‘Four bucks, Jack,’ he said.

The old man looked up sharply, but Kozlowski threw a five on the bar before any harsh words could be exchanged. The old man turned and looked behind him. ‘Much obliged,’ he said. He
hoisted the shot glass, paused and tipped it slightly toward the picture.

‘It’s not a question,’ Finn said. ‘I want to hear you say it.’

The man put his head down and sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I knew her. I didn’t do that to her, if that’s what you’re getting at. I didn’t even know she
was . . .’ he paused. ‘I didn’t know until you put that in front of me.’

‘What’s your name?’

The man made a face, as though he wasn’t going to say, but another quick glance behind him at Kozlowski changed his mind. ‘Howland,’ he said. ‘Jack Howland.’

‘How long did you know her? How long were you two involved?’ Finn asked.

‘Who are you, and why do you give a shit?’ the man responded.

‘I’m her son.’

The old man turned and took a good look at Finn for the first time. ‘I wasn’t
involved
with her long enough to be your daddy,’ he said after a moment. He reached over to
take a sip of his beer.

‘Imagine my relief,’ Finn said. ‘How long did you know her?’

The man shrugged. ‘Long time, that’s for sure. Most of my life.’

‘What was she like?’

‘She was a fuckin’ pistol,’ he said. ‘At least she was when she was younger, back the first time we got together. Like I said, that was a long time ago. Back then, I had
some juice. Might not know it to look at me now. I had cars, I had women, I had anything I wanted.’

‘What happened?’ Finn asked.

‘Real estate. I made some bad plays even before things really hit the shits. Got overextended, and I was off balance when it all came down. I got out with enough to live on, if you call
this living.’

‘How did you meet my mother?’ Finn asked.

‘We both grew up around Dorchester. Two kids from the neighborhood, but I was older, and I’d made it out. She was always lookin’ for some angle to get her where she thought she
should be.’

‘Which was where?’

‘Anywhere but here.’ He looked around the bar and gave a subtle shudder.

‘Bartender says you still bought her drinks,’ Finn said.

‘Bartenders should shut the fuck up,’ Howland said loudly. The bartender glared at Finn, but Finn ignored it. Howland let his head hang down another inch or two. ‘I still
bought her drinks,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘Not that it would’ve done me any good at this point. Even at her age, even with our history, she wouldn’t let anyone near
her without cash. She was like that her entire life, even when she was a teenager. If she thought you had juice – if she knew you had money and she might be able to get at it – she was
willing to go anywhere, do just about anything. Without it, though . . .’ he held his hand up in a fist, then opened it to show it was empty. ‘Nothing. Not even for her favorite
Scotch.’

‘At least she had standards,’ Finn muttered.

‘Oh, she had standards,’ Howland said. He looked over at Finn again, examining him from head to toe. ‘They might not reach up to yours, from the look of you, but she definitely
had standards. She was always looking for a big score, always thinking that just a little more money would fix her. Truth is, money wasn’t what was broke about her.’

‘What was broke about her, then?’ Finn asked.

‘Beats the shit outta me,’ Howland said. He took another sip from his beer. ‘She told me about you, once.’

Finn raised his eyebrows.

‘Not in the way you think. We were drunk once, way back. Out on the town, tearing it up the way we used to do. I remember we were laughing, laughing so hard we were crying, I can’t
remember what about. And suddenly I realized she wasn’t laughing anymore, she was just crying. I figured it was the booze, and that was part of it, but there was more, I could tell. She told
me she had a son. Said she’d had a boy who’d died after he was born. I guess she was only telling me part of the story.’

‘She gave me up for adoption,’ Finn said.

Howland nodded. ‘Makes sense. I can’t imagine her with a kid.’

‘Do you know who could have been the father?’ Finn asked. ‘Was there anyone she was dating forty-five years ago?’

‘She didn’t
date
.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Howland shook his head. ‘That’s a long time ago, and she wasn’t the type to keep to one attachment at a time. Whoever he was, though, you can bet he had some money. That was
her rule.’

Finn thought about that for a few minutes. ‘You know anyone who would have wanted to kill her?’

‘Not specifically,’ Howland said.

‘What does that mean?’

Howland looked at Finn. ‘Look, I’m trying to be diplomatic here, okay? She was your mother, even if you didn’t know her. I don’t wanna say anything that’s gonna
piss you off.’

‘You can’t say anything about her that would piss me off,’ Finn said. ‘I just want to find out what I can.’

Howland looked up at the ceiling. ‘Fine, you wanna know, I’ll tell you. Your mother was a first-class bitch. I mean, I liked her, ’cause she was such a pistol, but she treated
people like shit. That’s just the plain truth. She could try the patience of the saints. So, yeah, I could see lots of people gettin’ pissed off enough to take a swing at her. But do I
know of anyone in particular who was that mad at her? No.’

‘Nothing more specific than that?’

‘No. You wanna talk specifics, you got the wrong guy. I didn’t even really know her anymore. I’d see her sometimes in here. If I had money, I’d buy her a drink, just for
old time’s sake.’ He frowned, as though reconsidering. ‘I do know she was into her company for a pretty penny.’ Finn flashed him an inquiring glance. ‘I never trusted
that place. Other than that, there’s nothing I can tell you.’

Finn stood up and threw a twenty on the bar. ‘I’ll buy the next round,’ he said.

‘Much obliged,’ Howland said again. Finn turned to leave, but Howland caught him by the arm. ‘You were probably better off,’ he said. ‘Putting you up for adoption;
that was the right thing for her to do. She was a selfish person. She wasn’t the kind of person you would have wanted as a mother.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Finn said.

‘No, but I would.’ Howland pushed the twenty to the edge of the bar. ‘Frank!’ he called out to the bartender. ‘Gimme another shot and a beer!’ He nodded
toward the twenty on the bar. ‘Thanks again,’ he said over his shoulder to Finn. ‘Good luck with whatever you’re lookin’ for.’

‘You too,’ Finn said.

Howland smiled sadly. ‘My lookin’ days are over. If I haven’t found it by now, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.’

‘Long, was it?’

‘Detective Long, yes.’

McDougal pushed the intercom button on his desk phone. ‘Janice, could you bring some coffee for Detective Long?’ He took his finger off the button. ‘How do you take it,
Detective Long?’ The emphasis in the question offended Long. He was pretty sure it was intentional.

‘Nothing for me,’ Long replied.

‘You sure?’ McDougal asked. ‘Maybe you could use a little pick-me-up. You look a little frayed at the edges, y’know?’

‘Nothing, thanks,’ Long said. It occurred to him that one disadvantage to carrying a gun was how often he had to fight the inclination to use it.

McDougal clicked the intercom again. ‘Never mind, Janice. The detective will tough it out.’ He took his finger off the phone and sat down. They were in a windowless room. The rug was
the same industrial turf from the reception area, but the décor was a step and a half above. McDougal’s desk was large and ornately carved. The green leather desktop matched the
upholstery on the chair. The pictures on the walls showed McDougal with a wide range of Bostonians of varying infamy. Politicians featured prominently; Long could name only a few of them, but their
faces were familiar enough from the papers for him to know they were men of local significance. The centerpiece was a signed photograph of McDougal with Kurt Schilling from 2004. McDougal noticed
Long examining it. ‘Game six of the Yankees series,’ he said. ‘That picture was taken right after. I had tickets with some of Menino’s boys. Great game.’

‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘I remember.’

‘You there?’

Long shook his head. ‘I’ve got to ask you some questions about Elizabeth Connor, Mr McDougal.’

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Detective.’

‘Is it some matter of national security?’

‘Zachary.’

McDougal nodded. ‘I knew the name was familiar. You’re the cop who killed his partner. Shit, it’s good to meet you.’ He smiled and stuck his hand out.

Long ignored the hand. ‘I’m going to need whatever information you have on Ms Connor,’ he said. ‘All her employment records, any correspondence the company has had with
her. Everything.’

‘I’ll have Janice put that together for you just as soon as she gets a chance,’ McDougal said. ‘You looking for anything in particular?’

‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘I’m particularly looking to find out who killed her and why.’

‘I guess that narrows it down,’ McDougal said.

‘What’s Joey Slade’s interest in the company?’ Long asked.

‘Careful, Detective,’ McDougal said. There was menace in his tone, though he was still smiling. ‘You don’t wanna be pissing off the wrong people.’

‘He’s listed with the Secretary of State’s office as one of the owners. Is there a reason my knowing his role here would piss him off? Seems like that would only be the case if
someone was trying to hide something.’

The smile on McDougal’s face vanished. ‘I know you, Detective,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. You’re a man who’d rather stand on principle and shoot his
partner than look the other way. I admire that. I admire Don Quixote, too, but the windmills still beat him every time.’

‘I’ll ask the question again,’ Long said. ‘What’s Joey Slade’s involvement in this company?’

McDougal looked down at the desk. After a moment’s thought, he said, ‘Mr Slade is an investor in the company. He is, for all intents and purposes, a silent partner in the
operations.’

‘He trusts the operations to you?’ Long asked.

‘He does. I’m very reliable.’

‘Does he keep an office here?’

‘No. I’m not sure he’s ever been to this building. Only Janice and me work here. The rest of it’s a warehouse. Like I said, he’s a silent partner.’

‘How about Elizabeth Connor?’ Long asked.

‘How about her? She’s dead.’

‘Had she ever been to the offices here?’

‘How should I know?’ McDougal responded. ‘I don’t know all the people who work for me. I never met the woman, so I wouldn’t know her if her ghost walked through
that door right now.’

‘You ever talk to her? Even over the phone?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Long said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone along with the copy of Elizabeth Connor’s phone records. He dialed the highlighted number.

‘What are you doing?’ McDougal asked.

‘Checking something.’

The phone on McDougal’s table rang. He looked at it, looked at Long. On the second ring, Janice picked up from out in the reception area.

‘355 Water Street,’ she said sharply.

‘Thanks, Janice,’ Long said. He closed his phone. ‘Funny thing, Mr McDougal. Elizabeth Connor called this number five times in the month before she was killed. In each case,
the call lasted more than five minutes. In two cases it lasted more than ten. You tell me that there are only two people who work here – you and Janice – but both of you say
you’ve never spoken to her. How is that?’

‘It’s time for you to leave,’ McDougal said.