and there was no reason it shouldn’t be him. Natalie would have understood; she always believed everyone had to look after his or her own interests first and foremost.
“I’ll take the case,” he said finally.
Holland smiled. “Good.” He lowered his voice. “In all honesty, I’m not sure I would have trusted this to anyone else here. If things go well …” He didn’t finish his sentence. “I’ll send the files down, and we can talk about the case in the morning. I’ll also have Nick Williams stop by to fill you in on exactly where we stand. Nick’s second-chairing this for me.” He paused and looked Finn straight in the eyes. “It’s good to have you on board. Now, you should clear out of here and get some rest.”
Finn nodded. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Once Holland was gone, Finn resumed throwing some papers into his briefcase. He knew he wouldn’t look at them, but he would have felt naked walking out of the office without enough work to take up every moment between the time he left and the time he returned.
Before leaving, he turned toward the window again, looking out over the channel to the small area marked off by police tape on the other side. There were no police officers left. One corner of the yellow tape had come loose from the post around which it had been tied, and it flapped in the breeze. Soon, he knew, the tape would be gone—blown away by the wind or stolen by homeless scavengers who saw value in anything that could be gathered up and trucked away in their shopping carts. By the next day there’d be no way to tell that anything of consequence had happened there, and only the few who knew Natalie Caldwell would shiver when they passed. Life would go on, he knew, but it would be different for him. He’d lost one of the most important people in his life.
He took one last look from his perch high in the office tower above the water, still safe from the violent currents that had once directed his life. Then he turned off the light and headed for the elevator.
Chapter Eight
T HE HONORABLE WILLIAM H. CLARKE , governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, sat at the kitchen table of his Beacon Hill mansion in his underwear and a rumpled T-shirt. A bathrobe was pulled around his shoulders, but he hadn’t bothered to tie it at the waist. Clarke’s hair stood on end, jutting out at impossible angles from his head, and the stubble of his beard was patched with gray. It was just after five o’clock in the morning, and it was hardly a photo-op moment for the middle-aged politician.
Wendyl Shore stood in front of the governor, nearly at attention. Even at this ungodly hour, Shore was dressed in pressed khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a Brooks Brothers rep tie. He looked like a cross between an aging college a cappella singer and a marine sergeant. For all of Shore’s idiosyncrasies, though, he was the best chief of staff Clarke could ever hope for. His loyalty, even when it was driven by self-interest, could not be questioned, and he was discreet in all respects. Certainly, Clarke knew, Wendyl had more than enough information to bring him down. For good or bad, the governor had entrusted him with all of his affairs.
“How bad is it?” Clarke asked.
“It could be better,” Wendyl replied. “It would help if the police could find this ‘Little Jack’ killer. I think that would contain any fallout.”
“We have people on that issue,” Clarke assured him. “I expect it’ll be taken care of very shortly. The commissioner has arranged for a female detective to run the task force, which will play nicely in the press. My understanding is that not only is this Lieutenant Flaherty poised, attractive, and presentable, but her investigative skills are top-rate. I doubt this ‘Little Jack’ will be at large for too much longer.”
Wendyl shrugged. It was the closest to direct insubordination he’d ever come. “If you say so, sir. I think we might want to be more
“I’ll take the case,” he said finally.
Holland smiled. “Good.” He lowered his voice. “In all honesty, I’m not sure I would have trusted this to anyone else here. If things go well …” He didn’t finish his sentence. “I’ll send the files down, and we can talk about the case in the morning. I’ll also have Nick Williams stop by to fill you in on exactly where we stand. Nick’s second-chairing this for me.” He paused and looked Finn straight in the eyes. “It’s good to have you on board. Now, you should clear out of here and get some rest.”
Finn nodded. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Once Holland was gone, Finn resumed throwing some papers into his briefcase. He knew he wouldn’t look at them, but he would have felt naked walking out of the office without enough work to take up every moment between the time he left and the time he returned.
Before leaving, he turned toward the window again, looking out over the channel to the small area marked off by police tape on the other side. There were no police officers left. One corner of the yellow tape had come loose from the post around which it had been tied, and it flapped in the breeze. Soon, he knew, the tape would be gone—blown away by the wind or stolen by homeless scavengers who saw value in anything that could be gathered up and trucked away in their shopping carts. By the next day there’d be no way to tell that anything of consequence had happened there, and only the few who knew Natalie Caldwell would shiver when they passed. Life would go on, he knew, but it would be different for him. He’d lost one of the most important people in his life.
He took one last look from his perch high in the office tower above the water, still safe from the violent currents that had once directed his life. Then he turned off the light and headed for the elevator.
Chapter Eight
T HE HONORABLE WILLIAM H. CLARKE , governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, sat at the kitchen table of his Beacon Hill mansion in his underwear and a rumpled T-shirt. A bathrobe was pulled around his shoulders, but he hadn’t bothered to tie it at the waist. Clarke’s hair stood on end, jutting out at impossible angles from his head, and the stubble of his beard was patched with gray. It was just after five o’clock in the morning, and it was hardly a photo-op moment for the middle-aged politician.
Wendyl Shore stood in front of the governor, nearly at attention. Even at this ungodly hour, Shore was dressed in pressed khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a Brooks Brothers rep tie. He looked like a cross between an aging college a cappella singer and a marine sergeant. For all of Shore’s idiosyncrasies, though, he was the best chief of staff Clarke could ever hope for. His loyalty, even when it was driven by self-interest, could not be questioned, and he was discreet in all respects. Certainly, Clarke knew, Wendyl had more than enough information to bring him down. For good or bad, the governor had entrusted him with all of his affairs.
“How bad is it?” Clarke asked.
“It could be better,” Wendyl replied. “It would help if the police could find this ‘Little Jack’ killer. I think that would contain any fallout.”
“We have people on that issue,” Clarke assured him. “I expect it’ll be taken care of very shortly. The commissioner has arranged for a female detective to run the task force, which will play nicely in the press. My understanding is that not only is this Lieutenant Flaherty poised, attractive, and presentable, but her investigative skills are top-rate. I doubt this ‘Little Jack’ will be at large for too much longer.”
Wendyl shrugged. It was the closest to direct insubordination he’d ever come. “If you say so, sir. I think we might want to be more
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