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.”
“I’m sorry, I need to check with someone,” she said. “We don’t have many visitors. Can you come back in an hour?”
“Let me consult with my personal assistant,” I said. “See what I can do. Sure hate to disappoint old Harv.”
She studied my face and my shoes some more. Women often study the shoes. I offered a smile fit for People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. She smiled, unconcerned by my steel-toed boots, as I stepped away and checked my voice mail. Besides Wayne Cosgrove calling thirteen times, a former client called and wanted to dispute expenses. Apparently, some of my lunches had been excessive. I spoke to the machine for a few seconds, nodding back to Mrs. Rose until well satisfied.
“We’re in luck,” I said. “I can stay. Would you recommend a good local lunch spot while I wait?”
“I’m sorry, this is just very unusual,” she said. “Given current events, I’m a little jumpy.”
“I don’t blame you for being cautious.”
“It’s just awful,” she said. “God-awful. May I ask why a private investigator wants to talk to my husband?”
“I work for the Weinberg family.”
She nodded. “There is that place on Massachusetts Avenue,” she said. “Right across from the park and down from the movie theater. It’s a decent enough deli.”
I drove back downtown and found the deli, and ordered the Paul Revere, roast beef with barbecue sauce, cheddar, lettuce, and tomato on an onion roll, with a scoop of potato salad. While I ate, I read a discarded copy of the Lexington Minuteman. Apparently, blueberry bushes were being replanted in historic Oak Knoll Farm, there had been a rash of streetlamp outages in the last week, and several accounts of BB guns shooting at windows and empty cars had been reported. The police lieutenant stated that most of the time these things turn out to be youths involved in random foolishness. I wondered if I could add that line to my business cards.
I read the Minuteman cover to cover and ordered a thin slice of cheesecake. I tried to think about anything but what I had seen in that trunk. If anything would qualify as pure horror, Weinberg’s head was it.
Nearly two hours later, I drove back to Harvey Rose’s newish Colonial and wound into the curve of the brick driveway. A large silver Mercedes SUV had been parked by the path to the front door. Two very unfriendly-looking men in sharply tailored suits stood on the steps. If they had been dogs, they would have most certainly been Dobermans. One had shaved his head nearly bald so that the stubble on his face was the same length. He was in his late twenties, medium-sized and hard-looking. The other was beefy, with thick brown hair and smallish eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. I bet my life somewhere he had a tattoo that read MOM.
I got out of my car and met them halfway up the path.
“You Spenser?” said the bald guy.
“Yep.”
“You come here to see Mr. Rose?”
“Yep.”
The beefy guy eyed me. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to his partner. His mouth twitched a bit. The bald guy just stared straight at me, not appraising as much as telegraphing unpleasantness. “Mr. Rose doesn’t know who the fuck you are,” Beefy said.
“I take it you are paraphrasing.”
“What?”
“Well, surely a former Harvard professor would never say ‘fuck.’”
“What the fuck do you want?” said the bald guy. His hands hung loose by the edge of his suit jacket. I detected the bulge of a gun on his right hip.
“I have a few questions about Rick Weinberg,” I said.
“You a cop?” Beefy said.
“I work for the Weinbergs.”
“If you don’t get the fuck out of here,” the bald guy said, “we’ll call the cops.”
“The family would appreciate some cooperation from Mr. Rose,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”
They stared at me for a long time. No one made a move. I finally shrugged and said, “Look, guys, I know I’m pretty handsome. But give it a rest.”
Baldy shifted his weight to his right leg, peeling back the edge of his jacket, showing off the butt of an automatic. It looked very expensive and shiny.
I complimented him on his gun. He closed his jacket.
I shrugged. I mimed a phone with my thumb and pinkie. “Call me,” I mouthed, and walked back to my car.
So much for honor among thieves.
31
I NEVER FIGURED the Fenway HoJo for the kind of place Jemma Fraser would have chosen to meet the sluggers. I figured the sluggers had probably chosen a place they felt comfortable. So Z and I drove back to the Hong Kong Café that afternoon, Z finding the same spot where he’d sat the other night. I shook the water from my coat and ball cap and took a seat on the stool next to him.
There was a different bartender pouring drinks, a young Asian woman with her hair styled like a forties pinup. Her eyebrows were artfully drawn and dramatically arched. She wore a white tank top, a red hibiscus inked on her upper arm. The flower twisted and grew as she poured out a beer for Z and another for me.
I smiled pleasantly at the bartender.
“Nice tattoo,” I said.
She smiled at me.
“Met a guy in here the other night had one I really admired,” I said. “Had it drawn on his neck. Very classy.”
She smiled some more.
“Really short hair. Balding, but with a mustache and goatee.”
“You a cop?”
I shook my head.