I tossed the kale into the wok and started stirring fast. Two beautiful heirloom tomatoes from the Fresh Market sat on the ledge over my sink. I reached for some plates. I found a couple more beers. Maybe bourbon for dessert.
“Did he sound scared?” I said.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“‘Maybe everybody in the whole damn world’s scared of each other.’”
Wayne smiled and shook his head. “Never trust a detective who reads.”
I grinned and added the chicken and greens to his plate. I sliced up the purple tomato on the side. “Food for thought.”
35
IF HARVEY ROSE was trying to make shareholders feel money wasn’t being wasted on office space, he had succeeded. The following morning, I found his Boston headquarters were housed in a run-down three-story in Newton that hadn’t seen a renovation since the Nixon administration. It was built of brick-and-beige panels with rusted air conditioners jutting from aluminum windows. From where I parked in a back lot, there was a great view of the Mass Pike and a U-Haul dealer. I walked to a back door and found an intercom and security camera. I punched the speaker button and waved to the camera. The deadbolt slipped open.
Inside were a bunch of office types trapped in no-frills cubicles. Phones buzzed, keyboards clicked, and worker bees did whatever they did for Harvey Rose. I walked down a narrow hallway until I was greeted by the bald guy I had met at Rose’s house. Today he wore a blue pin-striped suit and a lot of cologne.
I sniffed. “Wood smoke?”
Rose’s guard did not respond. He just motioned with his bald head to a stairwell we followed to the second floor and a large open room with drafting boards and blueprints tacked on corkboards. On a long table that sat twenty, there were open laptop computers, countless boxes of files, and legal notepads. The beefy guy I had also met in Lexington followed us, glanced at me, and joined his pal at a folding table. He leaned back in his chair, suit jacket open and holster purposefully exposed, and eyed me with a slow indifference.
The bald guy picked up a hand of cards and tossed some chips into the pot.
“I could order a couple pizzas, pick up some beer,” I said.
They did not answer. The fat guy tossed down some cards. Somewhere in a back room, a toilet flushed and out walked Harvey Rose. He was several inches below six feet, chunky, and wore black dress pants with a wrinkled white dress shirt with French cuffs. A blazing red designer tie hung loose and careless around his neck. Remnants of lunch or breakfast spotted the shirt. He had not shaved, and his eyes were dark-rimmed and bloodshot.
“Mr. Spenser?”
I nodded. He studied me as we shook hands, before slumping into an office chair. He leaned back against a headrest. His eyes darted around the room.
“Wayne Cosgrove is a good reporter,” he said. “He’s always been fair with us.”
“And me as well.”
“It’s been a tough twenty-four hours.” Rose pulled a pair of half-glasses from his breast pocket and glanced down at a cell phone. “First, we learn of what happened with Rick, and then someone broke into our offices. They stole several files and fifteen computers.”
“Anything else?”
“Whoever broke in knew what they wanted.”
I nodded. “And you believe this had something to do with Rick Weinberg’s murder.”
Rose shook his head, placed the cell on the table, and stared up at the ceiling. He folded his hands over his chest and took in a great deal of air. He nodded as if agreeing with the direction of his thoughts and looked over the glasses. I felt the sudden urge to reach for a pen and notebook.
“There’s been illegal gambling here since the Pilgrims got off the Mayflower,” Rose said. “But the emergence of the gaming industry in Massachusetts signals the death knell to the underworld. We have numerous studies from the FBI that point to no less than fifteen criminal enterprises working in greater Boston.”
I whistled. “Just fifteen.”
“As you know, there are plenty more,” he said. “They hate us. We are changing everything they know. They can’t compete with modern business. Bartenders still keep leather ledgers under the register, for God’s sake.”
“Did you and Rick ever discuss possible threats of doing business in Boston?”
“Rick and I haven’t spoken in years,” Rose said. “The nature of competition. But we were businessmen, not gangsters. What happened is sickening and barbaric.”
“A long way from Harvard Business School.”
Rose nodded. He may have straightened up in his chair by an inch.
“How does one go from Cambridge to Vegas?”
“Money,” he said. “Opportunities for my family not afforded in academia.”
“Not to mention free tickets for Wayne Newton.”
Not amused, Rose laced his hands in his lap and waited for me to finish speaking. A technique he had no doubt perfected on grad students.
“So you think the same people who burgled you last night killed Weinberg?”
“I don’t like coincidences.”
“But Weinberg’s death would also open opportunities for others wanting the Commonwealth’s golden ticket.”
“Excuse me?”
“One of three casino licenses,” I said. “Or, as someone duly noted, a license to print money.”
“Wayne Cosgrove said you needed some basic background,” Rose said. “But if you think I had something to do with Rick’s death, I need to call a lawyer.”
“You’re not the only casino group in the running.”
“We prefer the term ‘gaming corporation.’”
“Ah.”
Rose rocked back and forth in the chair.
“Did you happen to know an employee of Rick Weinberg’s named Jemma Fraser?”
“Of course,” he said. “She used to work for me. She went for more money with Rick. Something I did not hold against her. How could I? I had done the same thing.”
I leaned back in my office chair. He leaned back in his. A warm breeze blew through an open window and ruffled papers. We continued to duel in swivel chairs. “And what exactly did she do for you, Mr. Rose?”
“You can probably tell I’m not a gregarious man.”
I was quiet.
“She did for me as she did for Rick.” Rose paused. “Jemma was the face of the company. In short, her job was to dazzle clients. I crunched numbers while she did dinners and presentations. I did math. She made impressions.”
“That she did.”
“Don’t let her looks fool you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “She is one of the sharpest, toughest women I’ve come across. She has brokered deals for casinos across the country. Frankly, I didn’t think we stood a chance working against her.”
“Even on your own turf.”
He nodded. “They came in late,” he said. “It was a surprise.”
“How did you feel about Weinberg challenging you for the license in your home state?”
“Rick and I were not peddling the same product,” Rose said. He stopped rotating the chair. “He was a dreamer.”
“And you?”
“A realist.”
“‘The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be.’”
“Rick Weinberg wanted to build marble palaces and museums. I just want to open a clean, smoke-free place where an old couple can play slots and blackjack and get a discount buffet. Good parking.”
“Rick Weinberg said experience is everything.”
“Rick did not understand his consumer,” Rose said. “He projected himself on his customer. He sold what he himself wanted. I have computers tell me who is buying my product. The high roller from Tokyo is a myth. I want the retired schoolteacher from Haverhill. I want a parking deck and shuttles to run from retirement homes.”
“If you ruin bingo night, you might piss off some nuns.”
“Another unfortunate reality of the gaming industry.” He shifted in the chair again. He took a deep breath and met eyes with the beefy bodyguard across the room. I imagined my fifteen minutes were coming to a close. “Why, may I ask, did you want to know about Jemma Fraser? Do you think she’s involved?”