Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (20 page)

I could hear restaurant sounds around her. She had stepped away from a table and the sounds became more slight.

“I took a drunk woman home last night,” I said. I leaned back in my office chair and crossed one jogging shoe over the other. “She got naked as a jaybird.”

“Good for you,” Susan said.

“And this morning, I brought her breakfast.”

“Even better,” she said. “If you had made her breakfast, I might become resentful.”

“She had great legs. Very tan and muscular.”

“Why else would you take her home?” Susan said.

“That and two men tried to kidnap her at gunpoint,” I said. “I had to intervene.”

“Are they dead?”

“One.”

“She must have been frightened to death. Or is she used to this kind of life?”

“Can’t say,” I said. “She’s from Vegas.”

“Ah,” Susan said. “The Brit who used to work for Rick Weinberg.”

“She says she’s now the CEO of his company.”

“And what does Rachel Weinberg say about that?”

“I don’t think she knows,” I said. “I’ve tried to reach her, without success.”

“Does your Brit admit to the affair?”

“She said Rachel and Rick had an open marriage.”

“Professionally, I do not condone or refute an open marriage,” she said. “I have patients who find it not only freeing but sexually stimulating.”

“Ick.”

“You would not find it sexually stimulating to think of me with another man.”

“Did you miss the part where I just killed someone?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. My chest swelled with the sound of her breathing. “Have you spoken to Hawk?”

“I’m starting to develop a complex,” I said. “Every time something dangerous happens, you want me to call Hawk.”

“Just looking out for you.”

“I call Hawk only in case of emergency,” I said. “I break that glass sparingly.”

“Where is Z?”

“Close.”

“He is not Hawk,” she said.

“Hawk would argue that nobody is.”

“He may be right.”

“Z stumbled a bit after the beating,” I said. “Physically and mentally, but he’s making a comeback.”

“Is he drinking?”

“Not to excess.”

“As much as he tries to emulate you, you can’t change ingrained behavior overnight. It takes time. And often, therapy.”

“He works hard on his own,” I said. “I hope he’ll come back even better.”

“Has he wavered on wanting to be like you and Hawk?”

“Nope.”

“Could I interest him in a solid career as a social worker or a stable office job?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“And if he’s going to do this, we both have to watch him stumble and fail.”

“It’s never pretty,” I said.

“Before I met you, did you often fail?”

“Meaning did I often have the crap kicked out of me?”

“Yes.”

“But I never liked it much.”

“Perhaps until Z is one hundred percent, you find better help.”

“Few options,” I said.

“Vinnie?”

“I will explain later.”

“And dare I ask about the naked woman?”

“I plan to drop her at the Boston Harbor Hotel,” I said. “Z will watch her. But first I’ll make sure she puts on some clothes.”

“Did she really look that good naked?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I had my hands over my eyes.”

“Hmm.”

“But she is no lithe, flexible Jewess.”

“No shit,” Susan said.

“Z seems very excited about his new gig,” I said. “I think he put on some cologne.”

“Be careful,” she said. “After what he’s been through, he may be very susceptible to her advances.”

“And that would be bad?”

“You yourself seem not to trust the woman.”

“I don’t one bit.”

“And may I remind you, Z can be quite impressionable.”

“True.”

There was another long pause. Susan sounded lovely breathing way down south. “Not long,” she said.

“Every minute,” I said.

“Safe,” she said. “Please be safe.”

46

MANY BOATS FILLED
the Boston Harbor that afternoon. Sailboats, speedboats, and water shuttles cut across the choppy, dark water. The day was bright, beautiful, and cloudless. There was a heavy wind as Henry and I stood outside the health club for a chat. The wind ruffled his white hair as he stood rock-solid in satin running pants and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. The shirt had the logo for Harbor Health Club on the pocket.

“Put me on the shirts,” I said, “and you’d sell more memberships.”

“You need to work your legs more,” Henry said. “Do more squats.”

“I had a tip that there may have been another offer on the Ocean View.”

Henry leaned against a piling. The air smelled heavily of salt and dead fish. No amount of posh condos and restaurants could eradicate the smell. But the wind was strong and cool, and felt good against my face.

“Yep,” he said. “Just heard myself. Five hundred grand more than the original.”

“They had a deal.”

“Tell that to Lou Coffone,” Henry said. “He’d screw a dog for a nickel.”

“Hard times.”

“They want to hire another lawyer to deep-six what we signed.”

“Will they?” I said.

“What do you think?”

I leaned against a separate piling, my back to the harbor and the wind. The day was warm enough to leave my jacket in the car. I wore a navy T-shirt with Levi’s and my dress running shoes. I held the edge of my T-shirt down with my right hand so as not to let the wind expose my .38.

“I need to tell Rachel Weinberg what’s going on.”

“I think her husband was stand-up,” Henry said. He chewed on his cheek and nodded. “Do it.”

I nodded.

“Z told me about what happened,” he said. “Fucking Gino Fish’s nephew?”

“I have it on good authority Gino wasn’t overly fond of him.”

“Does that matter?” Henry said. “Jesus, I’m sorry I pulled you into this crazy fucking mess. I just wanted to keep my place. I like it out in Revere.”

“Z seems to like it here.”

“And I want the kid to stay,” Henry said. “Part of his training is being able to live where he works out. We still got some work to do.”

I nodded. A bright, warm wind kicked off the harbor. We watched the Logan shuttle dock at the wharf and the bright-eyed tourists setting foot on land. A man dressed as Ben Franklin met them, ringing a handbell. Henry pushed off the piling as if doing a one-handed push-up.

Ben Franklin kept ringing the bell. “Didn’t you used to go to school with him?” I said.

“He was in the grade up,” Henry said. “We thought he was a pussy ’cause he wore them socks.”

“I’ll explain to Rachel what’s going on,” I said. “Try and set something up with the board.”

“Tell her something for me,” Henry said. “Okay? Tell her that I ain’t a part of this. I shook hands with her husband. It was a done deal. I don’t even know who the hell these people are who want to buy it now.”

“Guy named Harvey Rose.”

“Harvey who?”

“Rose.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Sometimes a raven is just like a writing desk.”

“You need to get some fucking sleep, Spenser,” Henry said. “Before you go nuts.”

“Too late,” I said.

47

IN THE SPIRIT OF
true cooperation, I called Wayne Cosgrove as I drove back to my office. “How can we connect Rick Weinberg with any officials of our great Commonwealth?” I said.

“Now we’re a ‘we’?”

“Did I not share whiskey with you?”

“I had to stake out your place.”

“Can I help if I’m popular?”

Trees had started to leaf in the Common; red and yellow tulips waved in the light spring wind. My windows were down. I played some Gerry Mulligan. If there hadn’t been so much ugliness and Susan Silverman had been by my side, all would be right with the world.

“I read the report on the shooting,” Wayne said. “Jemma Fraser, formerly one of Weinberg’s inner circle, was with you.”

“Maybe not former.”

“What do you know?”

“Can you try and track down something on Weinberg and his philanthropic touch with local politicians?”

“I live to serve.”

“Ms. Fraser is now CEO of Weinberg’s company,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Advanced investigation techniques,” I said.

“She told you.”

“Yep.”

“And Mrs. Weinberg?”

“She may not like it,” I said. “But she voted on it. She’s stuck with Jemma.”

I passed the Angel of the Waters statue at the edge of the Public Garden. Traffic slowed at the light and I continued on west toward Clarendon. “You could search out some of Bill Brett’s party photos?” I said.

“Or I could look through donation records of some politicians I might suspect of shady dealings.”

“The reason I love you, Wayne.”

“How about a quote on the shooting last night?”

“Pow,” I said. And I hung up.

I parked in front of a Marshalls discount store and walked the rest of the way down Boylston. I was halfway down my hall when I spotted something not quite right. My door was wide open. Perhaps it was Z. Perhaps Hawk had come back early. Maybe it was Angelina Jolie, waiting to give me an early birthday surprise. Always the cynic, I pulled the .38 from my hip and kept it down by my right thigh.

I crept close to the door. I waited. I listened for the sound of paneled floors creaking, or the smell of smoke. After a couple minutes of feeling silly, I gave up and walked inside.

It was empty. But not as I’d left it.

My file cabinets hung wide open. Desk drawers had been removed, shaken of their contents, and dumped on the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open and thrown on the floor. Even my Vermeer prints had been pulled from their frames and carelessly flung about. At least I knew we were not dealing with a lover of the Low Country masters.

I checked my overturned right-hand drawer. I found my .357. I checked my top filing cabinet. I found my Bushmills. I sighed with relief.

I could call Frank Belson or Healy. They would both tell me to go cry in my soup. If someone was ratting around my office, they would have worn gloves. I knocked on the door to the design showroom across the hall. I asked two very tall, very attractive women if they had seen anything unusual.

They said no.

I asked if they knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men.

They stared blankly at each other.

I knocked on the door to a commercial real-estate firm and on the door of a two-person marketing team. Same answer without the second question.

I went back to my disheveled office. I picked up my Vermeer prints, set them back inside the frames, and hung them on the proper nails. I stood back in a pile of loose letters and files and noted the print on the left was crooked.

I closed the door behind me, opened a window, and poured some Black Bush into a coffee mug. The wind off Berkeley kicked up and stirred some papers and files. I set the phone back on the cradle. Stuffing exploded from the rips in the sofa. My printer lay cracked and useless in the corner. I lowered the blinds. I drank some more Bushmills while I studied Vermeer. A young woman caught while taking a music lesson. Holding sheet music, she seemed shocked by the interruption of the artist. Her tutor unaware.

I threw back the whiskey, left the papers where they lay, and locked the door behind me.

48

HENRY AND I MET
Rachel Weinberg and Blanchard the next day in Revere. Lou Coffone and his geriatric crew had chosen a one-story cracker box off 1A called the 3 Yolks. A place that proudly advertised eggs at both breakfast and lunch. Rachel was dressed in an ornate white blouse with lapels that spilled over a black jacket. Her pearl earrings must’ve choked the oyster. While we waited, she dabbed at the partially wet table with a folded napkin. The table was well-worn Formica and the booth padded in orange vinyl.

“Who needs the Four Seasons?” I said.

“Me,” she said.

Outside a row of plate-glass windows, I spotted Z standing next to my Explorer. He said he would rather keep watch while we talked. Keeping watch meant he did not have to listen to another speech by Coffone and Buddy.

“Why here?” Rachel said. “We could have met in town.” She crumpled up the wet napkin and left it for the waitress.

“Old and set in their ways,” Henry said. “They’re scared shitless because of what happened. This place is familiar and safe.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Unless you’re worried about salmonella.”

“The whole thing did start a little dicey,” I said. Henry nodded.

“That was unfortunate,” Rachel said.

“Perhaps we should call Jemma Fraser?” I said.

Rachel’s face colored. “Why?”

“Since she’s now running Rick’s company.”

Rachel looked me over and then nodded. “Unfortunately,” she said.

“Would have been nice to know,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”

“Her current position is tenuous,” she said. “These people trusted Rick, and they will trust me.”

“It would have been nice to know,” I said.

“Her position will be short-lived.”

I nodded and decided on two eggs with rye toast. Henry eyed me as I ordered. He smiled at my selection. Rachel and Blanchard ordered only coffee.

Coffone and Buddy walked in a few minutes later. Coffone wore a yellow polo shirt again embroidered with the Ocean View logo and the word
President
. His white hair had been swept back boldly, face pink with a fresh shave. Buddy was hunch-shouldered and unsmiling in a gray tracksuit and thick white tennis shoes. Schlubby and potbellied, in shoes fastened with Velcro.

“Mrs. Weinberg wanted to hear the board’s concerns,” Henry said. “I thought it best to do it in person.”

Coffone nodded gravely. Buddy studied the menu and fingered at a tooth.

“It’s kind of gotten complicated,” Coffone said. “We don’t want to make any major changes until we find out what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that someone killed my husband for trying to do business in Boston.”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Weinberg,” Coffone said. “But that contract can be contested. We liked your husband a lot. And we liked his plans for the Ocean View. But now, I mean, hell. It’s all very different. He’s no longer a part of this. A person doesn’t know what to think.”