“I need you.”
“My significant other may disapprove.”
“I’m being followed,” she said. “Someone is trying to kill me.”
“That would put a damper on an evening.”
“I’m fucking serious,” she said. “I need help.”
“Where have you been, and who is trying to kill you?”
“I’m at Copley Place,” she said. “And I have no idea. This man has been following me for the last hour. The mall is closing and I’m afraid to leave.”
“Talk to a security guard.”
“And then what?” she said. Still walking. Still out of breath. “I don’t want to end up like Rick.”
“So you’ve been hiding?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Ducks paddled under the stone bridge. An older black man hoisted a little girl up into his arms. She tossed some broken crackers into the water. She smiled. The old man smiled. He let her back down on the bridge and they walked on hand in hand.
“Why me?” I said. “Why not call Blanchard?”
“Blanchard hates me.”
“He thought you might be dead,” I said. “Rachel Weinberg did, too.”
“For an ace detective, there is a lot you don’t know,” she said. “Will you come or not? All the shops are closing. My credit cards have been frozen. I have no money. Nowhere to go.”
“I must have the word ‘sucker’ removed from my forehead.”
“I can help you.”
“Do you know who killed Weinberg?”
“Please.”
“Were you with him before he died?”
“I am on the second level,” she said. “God, there are two of them now.”
“Go to the bar at Legal,” I said. “They’ll be open late. Nobody will make a move there.”
“Please hurry.”
The phone went dead. I wished Hawk was back in town. I wished Z was full strength and Vinnie and I were on the same team. But before them there was just me. And self-reliance was a hell of a thing.
39
INSIDE COPLEY PLACE, I passed the J.Crew, Kenneth Cole, Calvin Klein, and Armani Exchange. I walked alone, listening to a Muzak version of “April in Paris.” But I was well armed and well dressed. Only a fool would try to shoot a man in his best sport coat. I spotted no ruffians lurking about. I heard no mysterious clacking on the marble floors. Harry Lime, where were you?
As promised, Legal did not let me down. The restaurant had a smattering of patrons. Most of them at the bar. Jemma sat at the far-left corner near the kitchen. A gray-haired man in a black suit with a loosely buttoned black shirt leaned over her with a sharp leer. As I walked up, he turned to eye me. He turned back to Jemma and said, “I bike, kayak in season, do a lot of outdoors training.”
The bartender placed a martini in front of her.
“Hello,” I said.
The guy in the black suit gave me a steely stare. He sipped a glass of white wine and continued to talk as if I were a figment of his imagination. “You have great legs.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I do a lot of squats.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, buddy,” he said. He took a dramatic sip of his wine. He turned his steely gaze back to Jemma. He was a bit wobbly on his feet, closing time his specialty. I stood close to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He took his white wine and left.
“God,” Jemma said. “What did you say to him?”
“It would only make you think less of me.”
“Profane?”
“Extremely.”
She reached for the fresh martini on the bar. Legal, like all the Legals I have dined in, was a lot of dark wood and brass. They had a nifty neon sign shaped like a cod. I ordered a Sam Adams to keep with the program. Jemma’s hand shook enough that she needed them both to steady the glass.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “When I walked in here, they didn’t follow me.”
“I know all the best late-night spots.”
“I am scared shitless.”
“Why do things like that sound better with an accent?”
“They were waiting for me,” she said. “They were the men who came for Rick.”
“How do you know?”
She sipped the martini. It was served dirty, with extra olives. The bartender brought me my beer.
“I don’t know,” she said. “How would I know?”
“You said you saw Weinberg before he was abducted.”
“I did,” she said. “But I don’t know where he went or when he left the hotel.”
“What time did you see him and where?”
“He came to my room,” she said. “He was drunk.”
“Time?”
“Early,” she said. “Right after dinner. Maybe nine?”
“Where was Blanchard?”
“Obviously not with him,” she said. “Of course.”
“But of course.”
I drank some beer. “Are you hungry?”
“God, no,” she said. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“There is a feast in the King Suite at the Four Seasons,” I said. “Maybe we should stop back by.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. She drank a sizable portion of the martini. She looked at me for a moment and then at the neatly aligned bottles of vodka. When she finished the drink, I signaled the bartender.
“Why did Weinberg come to see you?” I said.
“Why do you suppose?”
“To further his discussion on talking rabbits and disappearing cats?”
“He wanted to get into my knickers.”
“I guess that would hold more interest,” I said. I judiciously took another sip.
“Were you and he . . . ?” I said.
“Can’t you say it?”
“I don’t want to be indiscreet.”
“Were we fucking?”
I inhaled and held my words.
“Rick and I enjoyed each other’s company,” she said.
“But that night?”
“No,” she said. “No. Not that night.”
“And why would he make a pass after firing you?” I said.
“He said he was sorry,” she said. “He wanted to explain his decision to me.”
The martini was served. I sipped my beer and studied the scene. I saw no one sauntering out in the mall carrying Thompsons.
“What did these men look like?”
“Swarthy,” she said. “Young.”
“Sounds like the title of a Mexican soap opera,” I said. “Had you seen them before?”
“I said no.”
I took another small sip. I put down the glass and lightly tapped the bar top with my fingers. “So, going back,” I said. “When you thwarted Rick’s advances, how did he react?”
“He put on his pants and left.”
“Did he arrive pantsless?” I said.
“He took them off when he walked in.”
“Quite an entrance.”
“He was very drunk,” she said.
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“You said there is a lot I don’t know,” I said. “Like what? Besides Weinberg needed tips on seduction.”
“I promise to tell you,” she said. “But by all means, please get me out of here.”
I studied the room again. Silver Hair had paid his tab and was escorting a new friend from the room. A man eating a lobster roll finished and dabbed his greasy lips with a napkin. He turned his attention to key lime pie and coffee. I did not see a single individual who was young, swarthy, or menacing. The waiter announced that the kitchen was closed and it would be last call.
My night was going well.
“So where to?”
“I have no money.”
“I will pay.”
“I have nowhere to stay.”
“Will you help me?” I said.
“Yes,” Jemma Fraser said. Her eyes were big and brown and pleading. She had freckles across her cheeks, giving her a kidlike quality up close. I signed the check and she grabbed for her purse.
“If you come with me,” I said, “I can promise to keep my pants on.”