Free Next of Kin by David Hosp Page A

equation. He knew about Scott T. Finn, Esquire. The lawyer had a colorful past. He had a reputation for being stubborn. That
wasn’t what Coale needed at the moment.
    He reached for his phone and dialed the number. Eamonn McDougal picked up on the second ring. ‘It’s me,’ Coale said. ‘I’m in Charlestown. Long just left the
lawyer’s apartment.’
    ‘That was fast,’ McDougal said. ‘Not surprising, though. I can use it to my advantage.’
    ‘How?’ Coale asked.
    ‘It’s not your concern.’
    ‘You hired me to do a job,’ he said. ‘Everything is my concern.’
    ‘Just stick with Finn. Let me know what he does.’
    Coale bristled. ‘I don’t take orders. If you don’t like it, hire someone else.’
    ‘You know that’s not an option,’ McDougal said. ‘I’ll double your rate.’
    Coale considered the offer. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the lawyer,’ he said. Realistically he didn’t have a choice.
    He closed his phone, opened it again. He had another call to make.

CHAPTER NINE
    Long stared at the paperwork on his desk, trying to rub the pain between his eyes away with his thumb and index finger. It wasn’t working. If anything, the pain seemed to
grow and spread out from the bridge of his nose to the rest of his skull like an oil spill. Mornings were the worst, he was finding.
    Elizabeth Connor’s life was spread out before him. Bank records, utility bills, phone records, credit reports. Even when the interview notes from her neighbors and co-workers were added,
it painted a thin, watery picture. From all appearances, the woman had lived on the edge, constantly in debt and falling further behind. She worked at a place called Rescue Finance, which was
little more than a legal loan-sharking business that advanced cash on future paychecks for those in trouble at a twenty-one percent interest rate. Probably a money laundering racket for the mob, as
well. It was a three-person office operation, the actual ownership of which was obscured in a corporate gopher warren. Her fellow workers seemed to know little about her; they described her as
distant. Her neighbors described her as unpleasant. No one described her as a friend.
    Digging through the woman’s life depressed Long. It all seemed too familiar. Few would mourn the passing of Elizabeth Conner, and it struck Long that that probably put her in a solid
majority of the population. Nobody really cared about anyone else in the end. You were born alone, and you died alone. At least that was how Long saw it through the lens of Elizabeth Connor’s
existence. All she’d left behind was a broken trail of paperwork.
    He glanced at the yellowed sketch artist’s drawing on the corner of his desk. He’d taken it from the bulletin board downstairs earlier in the morning. It had been hanging there for
years, and he had passed by it every day without taking conscious note of it. And yet it must have penetrated his brain at some level, because there on the sheet was the image of a middle-aged man
with gray hair pulled back from his forehead, revealing a light v-shaped scar. The man’s eyes were bright, and his expression in the image was cold. It was probably a coincidence, but the man
in the picture looked exactly like the man he’d seen in the crowd outside Elizabeth Connor’s apartment.
    ‘That the Mass Avenue job?’ a voice behind him asked.
    Long looked up. Captain Townsend was looking over his shoulder. He was short enough that he had to stretch his spine to see the desk. His interest seemed feigned. ‘Yeah,’ Long said.
‘Not much, is it?’
    ‘Anything worth following up on?’
    Long shook his head. ‘Probably not. Lab came back – no fingerprints, not even any from the murdered woman. Departed had a kid. Gave him up for adoption. He’s a lawyer now in
Charlestown. I went over there last night to check him out, but I don’t think there’s anything to it. He said he didn’t know who his mother was, and I believe him. He wrote