“I’m sorry my husband’s brutal murder has been so hard on you,” Rachel said.
Buddy looked up from his menu. He signaled the waitress and asked for a western omelet with french fries. He continued to work at whatever was in his tooth with his little finger.
“If the picture cleared up,” I said, “would that make a difference?”
“Like if whoever did this was locked up?” Buddy said.
“Exactly, Buddy,” Henry said.
Coffone shrugged. Buddy followed.
Blanchard drank coffee. He turned his head very slightly, studying Z, who was outside, leaning against my SUV. Z had his arms across his chest, watching traffic zip by on 1A. No judge had ever been as sober.
“I can legally hold you to the agreement,” Rachel Weinberg said.
“Lot has happened.” Coffone gave a smile befitting a condo board president. “People have been killed. Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we have consulted with a new attorney.”
Henry looked at me. He had not been notified.
“Has anyone at the Ocean View been approached in the last few days?” I said.
“Since Big Chief got his ass handed to him?” Buddy said.
I just stared at Buddy. I waited. Buddy craned his head to the kitchen, looking for his western omelet. There was great clamoring in the kitchen. The cook rang a bell.
“Nobody,” Coffone said. “But we’re all scared to death. Nobody even wants to go to the store or get their dry cleaning. We just kind of want to be left alone now.”
“Holdouts,” Rachel said under her breath.
Coffone nodded. “What would you do? This is the only thing we got left. What we get from this deal is how our children and grandchildren remember us.”
Rachel Weinberg rolled her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stood. Blanchard pushed his chair back and waited. “This is the last goddamn thing Rick wanted to see through,” she said. “Think about that legacy.”
Coffone opened his mouth.
Rachel Weinberg held up a finger to silence him.
“Excuse me, but I’ll be gone for two days,” she said. “Now that my husband has been reassembled, I have a funeral to plan and attend. I hope your nerves settle by the time I get back.”
Rachel Weinberg walked out. Blanchard widened his eyes and followed.
Henry and I sat there with Coffone and Buddy. Everyone stayed quiet while we ate.
“Should have ordered the hash,” I said.
49
“ARE YOU BUSY?” Wayne Cosgrove said.
“Extremely,” I said, phone cradled against my ear.
I had spent the afternoon cleaning my office, refiling files, and looking in catalogs for a new sofa for Pearl. The Vermeer prints now hung razor straight.
“So I guess you don’t have time to find out what I found out about Weinberg’s political donations?”
I put down the dustpan, and sat at my chair with the phone. Z looked up at me from the cushionless sofa, reading a copy of The Ring. The blues and purples on his face had faded to a yellowish hue.
“On the official contribution list, I found pretty much the expected,” Wayne said. “He greased the palms of everyone he should. Right and left. He gave a few thousand here and there. Senators, congressmen. Council folks in Revere. Usual suspects.”
“Okay.”
“But being the true muckraker I am, I also looked into contributions given to super-PACs in the Commonwealth,” he said.
“Which I understand is legal.”
“A candidate can take as much money as he or she wants from a super-PAC, but the Supreme Court says all donors must be made public. And late last year, through his front Envolve Development, it looks like Weinberg gave nearly a half mil to a super-PAC run by the brother of Joseph G. Perotti.”
“Great Caesar’s ghost.”
“And you might ask what Perotti has to do with casino licenses?”
“Mr. Cosgrove, just what does Joseph Perotti have to do with casino licenses?”
“As speaker of the house?”
“Yep.”
“Everything.”
“Aha.”
“Damn right.”
“What’s your bar tab running now?”
“You’ve gone from a bottle of Blanton’s up to a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.”
“The seventeen or the twenty-three?”
“I like my bourbon ancient.”
“Done.”
“Just wait,” Wayne said. “I followed up. Dug deeper. Quarterly reports were just filed for Perotti’s super-PAC. I did not see Weinberg’s name or anyone related to Envolve.”
I waited. Z had set aside his boxing magazine and listened.
“But I did see a more-than-generous contribution from someone else,” Wayne said.
“Harvey Rose?” I said.
“Which means our illustrious speaker has jumped ship.”
“Did the donation confirm that?”
“What do you think?” Wayne said.
I thanked Wayne and hung up. I looked to Z. He sat up straight and set his cowboy boots on the floor. Pearl looked from me to him, waiting for a word. I wondered if Pearl knew much about super-PACs.
“Seems like we now know the missing link.”
Z nodded. “Who?”
“A politician,” I said. “Shocked?”
“Cree takes everyone on faith. Especially white politicians. Why would they lie?”
“This one sold out Rick Weinberg before he got killed,” I said. “Be good to know why.”
Z stood up. “Why don’t we go ask?”
I smiled. “Let’s.”
50
Z AND I SPENT the afternoon on Beacon Hill.
I showed him the Hall of Flags, Doric Hall, and the murals opposite the main staircase. The State House was indeed grand in marble, mahogany, and brass. I took interest in murals of the Civil War and our war with Spain. Z studied the rotunda mural of John Eliot preaching to the Indians and the giant stained window of an Indian in a grass skirt. It read “Come and Help Us.” Z was not impressed.
At about four o’clock, the House broke for the day and I found a spot to rest my elbows on a filigreed iron banister.
Forty minutes later, Joseph G. Perotti, house speaker, emerged from his office. He made his way down the marble hallway with official clicking of his official shoes. He was discussing a matter of great importance to a flustered young woman in a navy pantsuit. She held many files in both arms. Perotti was empty-handed.
“Speaker,” I said.
He smiled. He offered his hand. Politicians often do goofy things like that to strangers.
“I am one of your proud constituents,” I said. “Duke Snider.”
“Glad to meet you, Duke,” he said. He shook my hand with both of his. Z continued to watch with detached interest down from the third-floor railing. An imposing statue of Roger Wolcott had his back.
“May I have a moment of your time?”
“I’m already late,” he said. “My secretary sets my appointments.”
“Is that how you met both Mr. Rose and Mr. Weinberg?”
Perotti stopped his happy skip down the marble steps. He turned to me. Perotti was a rotund little man with thinning gray hair and a brushy gray mustache. He wore rimless glasses in gold frames. I waited and he told his aide to meet him at the bottom of the steps. Perotti leaned in. “You fucking people from the Globe,” he said. “I just got through answering questions for that son of a bitch Wayne Cosgrove, and now you brace me on my way out.”
“Bracing?” I said. “Nope. Only asking. I’m not with the Globe, but I’m sure Mr. Cosgrove will appreciate your comments.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Just a constituent interested in the fate of some land in Revere.”
“What do you want?”
“When did you tell Rick Weinberg you switched teams?”