“How’d he find out about it?” Stone asked.
McAfee shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe the feds have some sort of newfangled crime detectors they aren’t sharing with us. Could’ve heard it on the radio, but he would have had to have been listening for it.”
Sanchez stepped into the shack. “Hewitt!” She didn’t quite shout it, but it was close. “Out here!”
Hewitt was standing against the far wall of the shack, staying out of the way, observing the crime scene people as they went about their business. He stepped around one of them who was on the ground, pulling up some debris and tagging it. “Detective Sanchez,” he said. He put his hand out.
She ignored the hand. Instead she pushed him toward the door.
“Take it easy, Detective,” he said. His voice was deep and there was a hint of a threat in it. “We’re on the same team.”
“Bullshit,” Sanchez said. “This is my team. I’m in charge here. If you were on my team, I’d know what the hell you’re doing here. I don’t.”
“I told you last time, at the Body Shop,” Hewitt said. “I’m involved in an organized crime task force. We have to investigate when connected guys get killed.”
“Bullshit again. Connected guys get killed in this city every day. I’ve never seen you at a crime scene before.”
Hewitt looked uncomfortable. “It’s a recent investigation,” he said. “This may be relevant to it.”
Sanchez put her hands on her hips. “Oh, well, why didn’t you tell me that? What’s the nature of the investigation? If we know that, then maybe we can help.”
Hewitt’s look went from uncomfortable to pained. “I’d like to, but it’s classified,” he said. “If there was any way…” His voice trailed off.
“Right,” Sanchez said. “If there was any way… I’ll tell you what, Special Agent Hewitt. You have three choices at this moment. You can tell me what you’re investigating, and we can work together. You can assert jurisdiction right now, in which case I’ll pull all my people off this. Or you can file an official request for cooperation through channels. Barring any one of those three, however, I want you to get the fuck out of my crime scene. I swear to God, if I see you within a hundred yards of any of my investigations, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed.
“I would. I’m sure the FBI’s Boston office would love another investigation into its operating procedures right now. The last one went so well.” She stood there with her arms crossed. Stone decided at that moment to try to avoid ever crossing her.
“I’ll file a request for cooperation,” Hewitt said after a moment. He walked past the officers who had gathered around the scene to watch the show.
“You do that!” Sanchez called after him. “I’ll make sure it gets exactly the consideration it deserves.” Hewitt didn’t turn around. “I don’t trust them,” she said in a quieter voice.
“The FBI?” Stone asked. “You don’t trust the entire organization?”
She looked at him. “You weren’t here back in the nineties. We had Bulger and his crew nailed a dozen different times, but the feds tipped him off every time. We’d have the bastard nailed, and then he’d skate. We thought he was clairvoyant. But no, it turned out that the FBI was crooked. So, no, I don’t trust the entire FBI.”
“That was one agent, though, wasn’t it? John Connolly, and he went to prison for it. You can’t blame the entire organization for that.”
“John Connolly was the only one caught. He was the only one prosecuted. He was the only one who went to jail. You think he was the only one involved? How likely is that? He was involved, but no one else in the entire office could figure it out in more than a decade? C’mon.”
“You really think Hewitt’s mobbed up?” Stone whistled doubtfully. “I ran a check on him; he’s got a solid rep, even with our people. He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Sanchez looked back up the driveway. Hewitt was nearly to the end of it now. The flashlights had been turned off as the sun came up, and the property had lost the otherworldly feeling to it. Now the dead men outside had the full edge of reality to them. “I don’t know. I’m just saying there’s something bad going on here, and I don’t trust them.” She looked up at Stone. “Now, are you ready to deal with the mess inside?”
Stone nodded.
“Good. Let’s get this done.” She walked back into the building.
As Stone followed her, he took one last look down the driveway. Hewitt had disappeared now. That was for the best, he thought. Given Sanchez’s opinions, they would never be able to be productive as long as he was there. Still, in his heart, Stone couldn’t accept the notion that Hewitt and the FBI might be involved.
Chapter Seventeen
The morning of Devon ’s arraignment, Finn arrived at the office later than usual. He’d dropped Sally off at school, and by the time he got back to Charlestown, it was nearly nine o’clock. Kozlowski was already cloistered away in his back office when Finn pushed open the door to the brownstone. Lissa was working at her desk. She looked up to say a quick hello and then put her nose back into her computer screen.
Finn had a couple of hours before he had to appear with Devon, and he planned to use the time effectively. He had a number of briefs and motions in other cases he had been neglecting, and he knew that if he didn’t get to them soon, he’d start missing deadlines. Tardiness was the only true cardinal sin in the judicial system. You could be a terrible lawyer in other respects-you could mis-cite precedent and fudge facts; lack logic and structure in your arguments; have trouble putting together a competent, grammatical English sentence-and you’d still receive a fair and reasonable hearing. But heaven help the lawyer who missed a deadline. For that transgression, the weight of the legal system would land with full force upon the lawyer’s client.
Fortunately, Finn liked writing. Since leaving the world of the mega-firm, he no longer had endless amounts of time to spend polishing his written work, but he still had a good feel for telling his clients’ stories. His approach was simple: state relevant facts and apply the appropriate legal principles from the case law in as few words as possible. Judges appreciated his brevity.
He was shortening a brief in a civil case for one of the few corporate clients he had when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Finn here,” he said.
“Mr. Finn, this is Detective Stone.”
“Detective,” Finn replied. “What can I do for you?” He tapped away at the keyboard as he spoke, rushing to complete the brief so that he could get it filed on time.
“We’d like you to come down to the station today to have a talk.”
“We?” Finn was deleting a redundant paragraph and only half paying attention.
“Me and my partner. Any chance you could make it this morning?”
“Today’s a little busy for me,” Finn said honestly. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about Eddie Ballick. We understand you talked to him yesterday.”
“I did.”
“We’d like to know what about.”
Finn was wrapping up the conclusion in his brief, typing out the last few words. “I can’t really talk about that, Detective. I was doing work for a client.”
“We’d still like you to come down.”
Finn finished the last sentence. He scrolled to the top of the document and started reading it through to make sure it made sense. “I’m very busy today,” he said. “Why are you interested in my conversation with Ballick?”
“Because he was murdered last night.”
Finn stopped reading the brief. He blinked hard and looked at the phone in his hand. A million questions ran through his head. He didn’t ask any of them; all he managed to get out of his mouth was a feeble, “What?”
“He was murdered, Mr. Finn,” Stone replied. “What time can we expect you at the station house?”