“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.”
Rachel Weinberg leaned her head back. She took in a deep breath. “Bullshit,” she said. “You want to sit around with your dicks in your hands until you see who’s going to take charge for the widow. Or are you fishing for more money?”
I enjoyed the company of Rachel Weinberg.
“This has been a bad shock to all of us,” Coffone said.