Next of Kin (29 page)

‘Do whatever you want with the senator,’ McDougal said. ‘This is between you and him now. But keep me out of it if you go public. If you tell the police you got this from me,
I’ll come after you. I’ll send the same man who cleaned up after Buchanan when he did your mother. Except he won’t leave a body if he comes after you. There won’t be enough
to identify you with if it comes to that, you understand?’

Finn thought about the deal he’d cut with the DA’s office. His life depended on the hope that there would be no leaks coming from that office. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I
understand.’

He turned and walked to the door. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard McDougal laughing behind him. ‘Cheer up, Finny,’ he said. ‘You may have lost your mother
again, but at least you’ve found a father.’

Coale sat in his Mercedes outside McDougal’s office. He was in the back of the parking lot, toward the water. He had an apple in his hand, and he sliced through it with
his knife, the blade touching the pad of his thumb with every pass.

The lawyer exited the building, looking lost. He wandered toward his car, turned around and headed back toward the building. He made it halfway to the front door before he stopped, standing
there looking back and forth between the door and his car, the indecision etched on his face. It took several moments before he made up his mind and moved with any sense of purpose. When he did, it
was in the direction of his car. He climbed in, started the engine and pulled out.

Coale put a last slice of the apple in his mouth, chucked the core out the window and followed at a safe distance. McDougal had told Coale what he was going to say to Finn, so he had a good idea
where the lawyer was headed now. He would stay close, observing, but he would only intercede if he absolutely had to.

Eventually it would become necessary, he knew.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The sun was sliding down the front side of Beacon Hill when Finn pulled into Louisburg Square. It chased the afternoon clouds toward Cambridge, the Back Bay and Newton on its
daily journey out to the newer parts of the country. On the Square, though, none of that existed. It was almost as though the place were trapped in an earlier time, when power and privilege were
birthrights passed from generation to generation.

Finn should have been a part of this world. By rights, he should have grown up safe and secure and happy. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d struggled for every scrap and crumb. He’d
been cast out to fend for himself. Even before he’d drawn his first breath he’d been deemed unworthy, and as he climbed out of his car in front of the Buchanan mansion, the anger was
building inside of him.

He climbed the front steps and rang the bell. He had no idea what he was going to say or do; all he knew was that he had to confront James Buchanan. His father. The man who had murdered his
mother.

He rang the doorbell again, reached up to the great brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s head and began slamming it down as loud as he could. He was still holding onto the lion’s
head when the door swung open.

‘What?’ the woman on the other side demanded.

Finn was startled. The woman who stood before him was young and casually dressed, but she had about her the air of confidence that comes from growing up with unchallengeable wealth.

It took a moment for Finn to recover his composure.

‘What?’ the woman demanded again. ‘You’re banging loud enough to break the door, you must want something.’

‘I need to talk to Senator Buchanan,’ Finn finally managed to say.

‘Yeah, you and everyone else in the world,’ the girl said. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No,’ Finn said. ‘But I still need to see him.’ As he spoke the words, he realized how insane he sounded. Maybe he was insane.

The woman looked at him with an expression that made clear that she, too, thought he was insane. A voice came from behind Finn. ‘Is there a problem, Ms Buchanan?’ Finn turned around
to see a bulky gentleman in a dark suit and sunglasses. A wire trailed from his ear into his jacket.

The woman looked at the man. ‘No, Maurice. This man was about to leave.’ She turned back to Finn, gave him a pitying look. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Finn hesitated, and the man moved in toward him. ‘Are you his daughter?’ Finn asked. The question lit a fire under the security guard, who took two quick steps and hooked a hand
under Finn’s arm.

‘Okay, sir,’ he said. Security was always polite, even when they were kicking the crap out of someone. ‘It’s time for you to leave.’

The young woman pushed the door. Before it could close completely, though, Finn yelled, ‘Wait!’ He pulled his arm free. ‘I’m here about Elizabeth Connor! I’m her
son!’

The door slammed shut, and the security guard reestablished his grip, this time digging his fingers into Finn’s arm. ‘I said, it’s time for you to leave, sir,’ he said,
his voice harsh. Finn could see the bulge under the man’s jacket where his holster rested against his side.

‘I just want to talk to him,’ Finn protested, clearly not helping the situation.

‘The senator is a busy man,’ the security guard said, speaking to Finn as if he were a five-year-old. ‘I don’t want to call the police, but I will.’

The door swung open as quickly as it had shut. The young woman was looking at Finn with renewed curiosity. ‘The woman who was killed?’ she said. ‘The woman the police were
asking my father about?’

The security guard was still dragging Finn away. ‘It’s okay, Ms Buchanan,’ he said. ‘I can take care of this.’

‘That’s right,’ Finn called to her, struggling to get free from the larger man’s hold. ‘The woman who was killed. I didn’t know about the police.’

‘Let him go,’ the young woman said to the security guard.

‘You know him?’ he asked her, looking doubtful.

‘I said, let him go,’ she said, more sharply this time, with a tone that made clear she was rarely questioned or disobeyed, particularly by someone as lowly as a security guard.

The man released Finn, giving him a hard shove to punctuate his annoyance. ‘Is your father here?’ Finn asked the woman.

She nodded slowly. ‘He’s in a meeting. What do you want to talk to him about?’

Finn shook his head. ‘You don’t need to be involved. I . . .’ he stammered, looking for the right words as his world spun out of control. ‘It’s something between
him and me.’

She looked at the security guard. ‘Search him, Maurice, please.’

The guard spun Finn around and pushed him up against the Range Rover parked at the curb. He spread Finn’s hands and kicked his feet apart, ran his hands over Finn’s body, looking for
weapons. He pulled Finn’s wallet out of his back pocket.

‘Hey!’ Finn protested.

‘Easy,’ the guard said, pushing a fist into Finn’s back between the shoulder blades. He looked up at the young woman. ‘He’s a lawyer,’ he said. ‘Name is
Scott Finn. No weapons.’ He checked in Finn’s other pockets and pulled out the Polaroid of Elizabeth Connor’s corpse. ‘Nice.’ He held it up.

‘Let me see it,’ the girl said.

The guard flipped it to her without letting up on Finn.

‘Your mother?’ she asked.

Finn nodded. ‘Yeah.’

She looked at him closely, almost as though there were something familiar in his face. It could have just been his own paranoia, but he looked away. ‘You can come in,’ she said.
‘You can talk to him after his meeting. On one condition.’

He looked back at her. ‘What’s the condition?’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’

She led him through the house, toward the back. Under different circumstances Finn might have marveled at the rooms they passed through, with their towering ceilings and ornate
crown moldings and beautiful artwork. At the moment, though, the surroundings washed over him unnoticed.

‘There was a detective here the other day to talk to my father,’ the young woman said. ‘He asked me if I’d ever heard of Elizabeth Connor. I looked her up on the
Internet, and I saw what happened to her. I’m very sorry.’ She didn’t look at Finn as they walked; her eyes stayed focused ahead of her. ‘I’m Brooke, by the
way.’ She didn’t offer to shake hands.

‘I’m Finn.’

‘Maurice said Scott, right?’

‘Nobody calls me Scott.’

‘Oh. Anyway, I heard my father talking to his chief of staff the other day, saying that he had to go back and talk to the police again. I heard them mention your mother’s name
again.’

‘Did you hear why?’

She shook her head. ‘Do you know why?’

They had arrived at the kitchen. It was huge, with granite countertops and an endless rolling butcher-block island. Glass sliders led out onto an expanse of teak decking.

‘You should ask your father,’ Finn said.

She rolled her eyes. ‘My father doesn’t tell me anything.’

‘Maybe he’s just trying to protect you,’ Finn offered. ‘He’s your father.’

‘I don’t want to be protected, I want to know what’s going on.’ She looked out at the patio. ‘It’s been a difficult election,’ she said quietly.
‘My father is not himself. He . . .’ She hesitated. ‘He scares me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Finn had no idea what else to say. He was beginning to think coming was a bad idea.

‘What does he have to do with your mother’s murder? Did he kill her?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.’

She nodded. ‘What will you do if it turns out that he did? He can be a very dangerous person; will you try to put him in jail?’

Finn opened his mouth to answer, but stopped when he saw the door to the kitchen swing open. He recognized the tall, imposing figure of James Buchanan from news footage. An attractive older
woman stood behind him, her hands fretting the sides of her skirt.

‘Who is this, Brooke?’ Buchanan asked. His tone was polite, but sharp and threatening at the same time. ‘It’s almost dinnertime.’

‘This is Scott,’ Brooke replied.

‘Finn,’ Finn added.

‘Right. Finn,’ Brooke said. ‘No one calls him Scott. He says he needs to talk to you.’

‘He does?’ He said the words as though there were nothing more normal than for strangers to show up randomly, simply because they needed to talk to their senator. ‘What does he
need to talk to me about?’

‘I’m Elizabeth Connor’s son,’ Finn said.

Buchanan looked like he’d been slapped. ‘Are you?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

The silence that followed felt deadly. It was the older woman who broke it. ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ she said. It sounded like she meant it, but her husband turned on
her and gave her a nasty look.

‘Brooke, why don’t you take your mother into the dining room. I’ll join both of you shortly.’

‘I’d rather stay,’ Brooke said.

‘Catherine,’ he said to his wife. She hesitated. ‘Now!’ he yelled.

She jumped at the sound of his raised voice. A protective hand went to her face. She moved quickly forward and took her daughter by the arm. ‘Come, Brooke,’ she said. ‘Your
father needs to talk to this man.’

Brooke resisted at first. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I’m staying.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Buchanan said. He stared at her, and she wilted within seconds. She walked over to the door and she and her mother walked out of the kitchen.

Then they were gone, and Finn was alone with Buchanan. He looked at the man and saw that he was smiling. It was the most humorless smile Finn had ever seen.

‘So, Mr Finn,’ Buchanan said, ‘what would you like to talk about?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘He admitted it?’

Julie Racine was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Zachary Long’s apartment, a plate of Chinese food balanced on her knee, as she shoveled a mouthful of fried rice into her mouth. Long
was giving her a quick summary of his afternoon with Matthew Pillar, the manager of McDougal’s garage.

‘He did,’ Long said from the kitchen. ‘Do you want something to drink? I have the wine you left the other night.’

Her heart nearly stopped. ‘Are you having any?’

He looked sharply at her, and she averted her eyes. She knew he could tell what she was thinking, but she didn’t want him to see the confirmation in her eyes. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I’m not.’

‘I won’t either.’

‘I’m not saying I’m never drinking again,’ Long said. His voice was sharp. ‘I just don’t want a drink right now.’

‘I’m not saying you can’t drink again.’

‘Good.’

She wondered whether there was an appropriate thing to say. Some words of encouragement or support that would actually help and not make matters worse. She didn’t think so. Long
wasn’t the sort of man who would admit to a drinking problem out loud. It wasn’t in his nature. And yet the silence between them was unbearable. ‘So, what happened?’

He frowned. ‘With my drinking?’

She shook her head. ‘With Matthew Pillar.’

‘Oh, that.’ His frown disappeared and he came over toward her with his own plate, piled a heap of General Gau’s chicken on it, and topped it off with a couple of spare ribs.
‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone so scared,’ he said. ‘He’s a kid. Musician. Still asleep at five in the afternoon. I’m pretty sure he dropped a
load in his boxers.’

‘He knew why you were there?’

‘No. He thought I was there about his closet.’

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Hydroponics,’ Long said. ‘He had a forest growing in his closet, and it wasn’t evergreens.’

‘Pot?’

‘Yeah, and a lot of it. Not enough for him to be a real player. Enough for his own personal use, maybe some friends. Still, he assumed he was looking at serious time when he opened the
door and I showed him my badge. Stupid kid – didn’t even know enough to tell me to screw off. He could have. I didn’t have a warrant. But no, he’s too scared for that. He
let me in, and I could tell right away that he’s hiding something. So I asked him if I could use the bathroom, and on my way, I poke my head into the rooms. There’s this bright purple
glow coming from the crack under one of the closets. I looked at him and I said, “What’s that?” I thought he was gonna keel over. He just looked back at me, looking all sick, and
said, “What’s what?” So I pointed to the closet and said, “That. Mind if I take a look?” He just shrugged. He was crying before I even opened the closet
door.’