Wonderland Page 10

“Would you mind if I put on pants first?” I said.

  Ten minutes later, I sat in the back of a state cruiser that headed east on Storrow and then turned north into the tunnel. The intermittent false light scattered over the windshield, down deep under the earth, and then up into the gaping mouth on the other side.

  “I can think of a better route to the DA’s office,” I said.

  “Headed to Revere,” said the driver. Neither trooper had introduced himself. “Healy is there now.”

  “So someone is dead,” I said.

  The driver was silent and kept on heading north on 1A.

  “Does this have anything to do with Mr. Cimoli?”

  “Don’t know the name,” the other trooper said.

  I sat back and watched both sides of the highway wedged by the docks along the Chelsea River and the low hills facing the ocean. The crisp, artificial lights along the hills glinted in the black night. When we turned off 1A onto Veterans, the flashing red-and-blue lights led us the rest of the way, on into the wide expanse of the old dog track parking lot. Dozens of state police and locals from Revere crowded the lot. There was an endless ribbon of yellow crime scene tape from the main entrance stretching all the way across the lot. Two crime scene tech vans were parked nearby, with television news camera crews shooting their every step.

  One of the troopers opened the back door. He pointed across the hoods of the hundreds of parked cars I had seen the other day.

  A gathering of Revere cops were the gatekeepers of the tape. I pointed to the troopers. A skinny woman wearing a Revere PD badge let me through without a trace of excitement. I guessed she had not been notified of my appearance.

  “Wherever I go,” Healy said from down a long row of parked sedans.

  “There I am,” I said.

  “Lucky me,” Healy said.

  I followed Healy down the line of tightly parked cars waiting to be trucked off to parts unknown. We had to turn sideways to make our way through. Warm, sluggish salt air blew in from the sound.

  “When I heard your name,” Healy said, “I kind of had to laugh. You have a knack for this kind of thing. You know?”

  Healy was a skinny, medium-sized guy with clear blue eyes. He wore an off-the-rack blue suit with a red tie. His silver hair was buzzed into a crew cut.

  “So,” I said. “Who’s dead?”

  I continued to trail him down the length of parked cars and then turned left down another long aisle, where the techs were photographing and tweezing and doing whatever it is that techs do. Healy stood back from a car, not much of one, just a dark green Chevy Malibu. Only one of about five billion made. It looked innocuous enough. No bullet holes that I could see. No blood smears or satanic symbols. I walked behind Healy until he stopped and then held me back with the flat of his hand.

  “When’s the last time you’ve been speechless?” he said.

  “Been a while.”

  “Just how did you get mixed up in the action with all this gambling shit?”

  “Hired by a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Listen, Healy. I’m fine with showing mine if you show yours. But I’ll have to explain to Pearl why you woke her master up early.”

  “You got a strong stomach?”

  “I eat the sausage at Fenway.”

  Healy shrugged in agreement and led the way with a flourish of his hand. The techs backed away, and two bright lights shone into the open mouth of the Chevy’s trunk.

  I did not say a word. I was speechless.

  “Guy who watches the lot at night called it in,” Healy said. “Ex-cop, and so is the dog. The dog went bullshit.”

  “I bet.”

  “You ever see anything like this?” Healy asked.

  “Nope.”

  My breathing felt constricted. I could not take my eyes off the trunk.

  “But you do know who that is?” Healy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Car is a rental,” he said. “Rented it himself, in his name.”

  I nodded.

  “A fucking mess.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Speechless,” Healy said. “What did I tell you?”

  He exchanged grins with the other cop.

  “You tell his wife?” I asked.

  “She’s on the way,” Healy said. “Flying in from Vegas. Bodyguard told us about you.”

  I nodded. “Does she have to ID the body?”

  “Don’t have the body,” said the young guy who brought coffee. “Just Weinberg’s fucking head.”

  28

  I WATCHED DAWN SPREAD across the Public Garden through the big windows of the Four Seasons. Lewis Blanchard, Rachel Weinberg, Healy, and a state cop I knew named Lundquist sat huddled in a small group. The cops and I drank coffee. Blanchard and Rachel drank whiskey. After a while Healy nodded to the waitress and she brought him two fingers of Bushmills with his next cup of coffee. A housekeeper vacuumed back toward the bar, the only noise in the early morning. The air was silver and pale on the rolling green hills across Boylston.

  “So no one saw Rick leave his room?” Rachel said.

  Blanchard shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and soft. He looked as if he’d aged several years.

  “He never takes a piss without Lewis,” Rachel said. “He was obsessive about it.”

  Blanchard looked down at his hands. He rubbed them together.

  Rachel Weinberg wore a pink Chanel tracksuit and very large black sunglasses. She may still have been crying, but with the sunglasses I could not tell. She looked much paler than she had the other night, washed of all color and makeup. Her bleached hair was knotted into a bun. Her hands rested on the gold handle of her oversized black bag. She answered all of Healy’s questions while downing a large glass of fifty-year-old Macallan as if it were water. I drank my coffee black and listened. There was little I could say.

  “We’re pulling all the surveillance video from hotel security,” Healy said. “There will be a record.”

  “Holy shit,” Rachel said. “Holy shit. My phone is buzzing like a goddamn vibrator. Investors wanting to know where we stand. If Rick did something on his own and got himself killed.”

  “When was the last time you saw him, Lewis?” I said.

  “Ten,” he said. “Ordered a vanilla ice cream from room service. I made sure everything was okay. Rick didn’t seem in the mood to talk. I told him good night, took off my shoes, and went to sleep in the adjoining room. Rachel is right, Mr. Weinberg did not take crazy chances. If he wanted to go down to the lobby for a stick of gum, I was paid to go with him.”

  Rachel Weinberg took in a very long breath. Her face was impassive behind the sunglasses. “So much to do,” she said. “All this shit. I could just kill Rick for this.”

  “We would like to make a list,” Lundquist said. It was the first time he’d spoken in the last thirty minutes. He was tall and big, with light hair and apple-red cheeks, like he’d just stepped off some Midwestern farm. “Names of people who might want to harm your husband.”

  “Easier to start with the Las Vegas phonebook,” she said. Rachel took a healthy sip of scotch. “My husband was a fair man. A direct man. But he was never what I’d call a loved man.”

  “I apologize for asking,” Healy said. He looked down at the notebook in his hand. “But we have to cover everything if we want to help. I don’t want to offend you, Mrs. Weinberg.”

  “You want to know, did he screw around?” Rachel said. “His personal habits?”

  Healy nodded.

  “Sure,” Rachel said. “Rick has always loved the ladies. We had an understanding.”

  Blanchard looked up quickly from where he’d been staring at the notebook. She looked to him and nodded.

  “Lewis knows,” she said. “I knew. Everyone knew. I loved Rick, but I am not a f
ool. My husband was a real cock hound.”

  The housekeeper stopped vacuuming, underscoring the ugly word, letting it hang there in the crisp silence. The light in the Public Garden was infused with color, gold springtime tones on the greenery. Silver light lengthened into shadows that would soon disappear.

  “I knew most of the women,” she said. “Lew knew more. But hell, they wouldn’t cut off his head. Jesus. Would someone get me another drink? These pills aren’t working on their own. My God.”

  “We can take you to a doctor,” Healy said. “Finish this up later.”

  “If I’m going to be doped up, better do it myself.”

  “There was a final message?” I said.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “I played it for these men here.”

  “What’s it say?” I said.

  “Rick said, ‘Fucking bastard,’ and then hung up. Don’t ask who he meant because I don’t know.”

  “What time did the call come in?” I said.

  “Ten-thirty Eastern.”

  “Did he have close friends in Boston?” I said. “Someone who may have seen him after he left his room. Or was forced?”

  Rachel removed her sunglasses, her eyes naked and red. The waitress laid down a fresh scotch and took the old one away. Rachel looked to Blanchard. “Tell him, Lew. Tell them. What the hell does it matter? They need to know.” Blanchard nodded. He leaned in with elbows on knees and hands laced before him. He looked a little unsteady. White scruff showed along his jawline.

  “He was seeing Jemma Fraser.”

  I leaned back. I tried to seem shocked.

  “And where is she now?” I said.

  “Don’t know,” Blanchard said. “She can’t be reached.”

  Healy nodded to Lundquist. Lundquist jumped up to make a call. If she was still alive, the staties would find her. Of course, they had yet to find the rest of Weinberg’s body, but I’m sure the recovery remained high on their list.

  “Did you know your husband fired her?” I said.

  “That’s not true,” Rachel said. “He would have definitely told me. Where did you hear that?”

  “From Jemma Fraser.”

  “Lying little bitch.”

  “She brought over contracts for the condo board,” I said. “She told me it was her last act of business for Rick.”

  “She didn’t give a shit about him,” Rachel said. “She knew what she had and worked every inch. Men are such goddamn fools and don’t know the reason.”

  “No argument, Mrs. Weinberg,” I said.

  “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I can’t stand it. Rick and I have been together for forty years. My God.”

  Healy looked to Blanchard. Blanchard nodded back and stood and held out a hand for Rachel Weinberg. She took it, shaky as she stood, and walked a few paces before turning back to face me. She wavered on her feet. An old boxer, busted but unbowed. He helped her to the bedroom, returned, and sat down across from me.

  “You will help us, Spenser?” Blanchard said.

  I looked to Healy. I looked to Lundquist.

  “Name your rate,” Blanchard said.

  I thought of a million reasons to say no. Mostly because I had been working for her husband’s opposition. But that was old business, or maybe it was the same business. But I could not say anything else to him but “Yes.”

  29

  WHEN I GOT BACK to my apartment, I showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee. I walked Pearl and filled her food and water bowls. Freshly caffeinated and smelling of bay rum, I drove over to the Paramount diner. Z was waiting for me outside. We walked inside, ordered breakfast, and sat at a high table near the rear of the narrow restaurant. I ordered huevos rancheros. Z drank black coffee.

  “How’s his wife?” Z said.

  “In shock,” I said. “But composed. In control. They asked me to help.”

  “But we can’t,” Z said. “Because of working for Henry.”

  “Those lines have been a bit blurred,” I said. “It’s all the same now.”

  “Not the same to me,” he said. “These people are scum.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But they need help. And if we don’t help, Henry could lose the deal.”

  “Since when do you care about money?”

  “It’s nice when my agenda involves a paycheck,” I said. “I like to be able to keep the lights on.”

  Z drank his coffee. I took a forkful of huevos rancheros.

  “And you liked Weinberg,” Z said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Despite himself.”

  “You really think he was honest?”

  “No,” I said. “But I think he was good to his word.”

  “Which we value.”

  “Without it, you’re like some kind of animal.”

  “Hemingway?”

  “Holden,” I said. “The Wild Bunch.”

  “Haven’t seen it.”

  “It’s a Western.”

  “Westerns weren’t too popular on the rez,” Z said. “The good guys never win.”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “Only one right one, Kemosabe.” The Paramount was unusually slow for a morning. We did not feel rushed to give up our table.

  “So is the deal off?” Z said. “Because Weinberg is dead.”

  “His wife says it’s business as usual,” I said. “But the company is going to be in a lot of turmoil and they’ll need a swift resolution.”

  Z nodded.

  “The bodyguard said I could name my rate.”

  “Naming your rate is a good incentive,” Z said. “So we’re back to Jemma.”

  “Would you mind watching her some more?”

  Z smiled slightly. “She’s a suspect?”

  “I think cops call them a ‘person of interest’ these days.”

  “What do you call her?” Z said.

  “A suspect.”

  Z nodded. A waitress came by and refilled our cups.

  “Maybe they killed her, too,” Z said.

  “Thought had crossed my mind.”

  “But you like her for it.”

  “Maybe she knows more about what’s going on,” I said. “What do you think of Blanchard?”

  “Smart,” Z said. “Tough. But even when I was a drunk, I never lost my client. Even if I did not like what he was up to.”

  “What if the boss tells the bodyguard to get lost?” I said.

  “A good bodyguard stays with the client no matter what,” Z said. “It’s your reputation if something happens.”

  “You speak from experience.”

  Z nodded.

  “How could Blanchard have lost someone as animated and loud as Rick Weinberg?” I said. “Weinberg couldn’t go to the toilet without making a Broadway production.”

  I watched a banner scroll at the bottom of a local television station. Casino Mogul Slain. I checked my phone. Wayne Cosgrove had called me thirteen times that morning.

  “When did Jemma Fraser check out of the hotel?” Z asked.

  “Late yesterday.”

  “Where is her car?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe the airport?” Z said.

  “Police couldn’t find a record of her flying out,” I said. “I had my friend in Vegas check her home there. Nothing.”

  “Credit cards?”

  “Staties are on it.”

  “Would they tell us if they found something?” Z said.

  “Probably not.”

  “So whatever we uncover, we do on our own.”

  “They won’t prevent work, but they won’t help.”

  Z nodded. He could see over my shoulder out the small window facing Charles Street and the Toscano restaurant. Without much enthusiasm, he said, “Looks like rain.”

&
nbsp; “You must have danced last night.”

  Z nodded. “Who would cut off a man’s head?” he said. “That’s some sick shit.”

  I nodded.

  “What now?” Z said.

  “I can do this on my own.”

  “If I can walk, I can work.”

  “How’s your head?” I said.

  “Thick,” Z said. He smiled. I smiled back.

  “Henry says only one man knows you better than you know yourself.”

  Z nodded. “Your competitor.”

  30

  EVERY TIME I FOUND myself in Lexington, I felt the need to invest in a tricorner hat. The Minuteman statue on the Battle Green, the crooked headstones for dead soldiers in the Old Burying Ground, and the many taverns where Washington might have set his wooden teeth for the night brought out the Colonial in me. Harvey Rose’s house was a Colonial Revival, probably built a hundred years ago, considered practically brand new on Munroe Hill. Brilliant white and red-shuttered, the house had a second-floor terrace that looked out onto a small pond with blooming lily pads. The front door was also painted a basic red. Simple and unassuming went for several million in Lexington.

  I speculated that Harvey Rose might be of help since he was Rick Weinberg’s only serious rival on the casino bid.

  A sprinkler lightly misted the flower beds despite the gray skies. I rang the bell, and soon after a Hispanic house woman in a gray uniform opened the door. I presented her with my business card and stated I had an appointment with Mr. Rose. She nodded and left me with the door slightly cracked. Somewhere deep inside I heard voices, and another woman came to greet me.

  She was very thin yet attractive. The kind of woman who had forgone the Botox and hair dyes and felt comfortable in her age. Her graying brown hair was tied up in a silk handkerchief, and gold hoops hung in her ears. The front of her jeans and designer T-shirt were covered in flour. She wore leather sandals decorated with Navajo beads.

  “Harvey isn’t here,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “I had an appointment.” I lied, but it was a good one. He hadn’t been at his office.

  “He never meets anyone at home,” she said. She hugged herself as she studied me.

  “Don’t tell me I made a mistake,” I said. “Harvey told me to find him at home this morning. We were going to have lunch.”