“Chet. Chester DeMarco, one of the guys killed.”
“How many people do you employ?” I said.
“You mean overall?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Whole company.”
“Two hundred eighty-seven,” he said. “Plus the home office staff of thirteen, myself included.”
“Who knew about the Tashtego operation?” I said.
“Home office, guys on Tashtego, I don’t know, some others, I’m sure. It wasn’t secret or anything.”
“You have files on all your employees?”
“Your guys got them already,” he said.
“My guys?”
“Couple Massachusetts detectives came in, borrowed all the records.”
“Okay,” I said. “They’ll do all the fact-crunching. Leaves me to do the genius stuff.”
Fonseca looked at me. He had shiny blue eyes that looked almost metallic.
“You do much of that?” he said.
“Genius stuff?” I said. “Hardly any.”
He nodded.
“They were okay guys,” Fonseca said. “You know? Guys like you play ball with, drink beer, talk about broads. Ordinary. They all had some experience. Cops, military. None of them had a record. All of them were trained… not one of them cleared his piece.”
“They were up against something unusual,” I said.
“Guy that pulled this off, what’s his name, Rugar?”
“That’s the one he was using when he pulled it off,” I said.
“You need anything from me to help catch him,” Fonseca said, “you got it.”
I nodded.
“If you need one,” Fonseca said, “I can put together a small army. Pretty good men. Some women, too. None of them happy about this.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.
“Cops told me no ransom demand yet.”
“That’s what they tell me, too,” I said.
“So what kind of kidnapping is this?” Fonseca said. “Why didn’t they just wait until after the honeymoon and grab her off the street on her way to the supermarket.”
“I doubt that she goes to the supermarket,” I said.
“Or the polo field? Wherever people like her fucking go,” Fonseca said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Anyone say anything to you about me being there?”
“At the wedding?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope,” he said.
“She didn’t ask you for a referral?”
“Nope.”
“You’d be the logical choice,” I said.
“If it was a security question,” Fonseca said. “Maybe it wasn’t.”
“Or maybe she thought you wouldn’t like her hiring somebody else.”
“Maybe,” Fonseca said.
“You know Jimmy Gabriel?”
Fonseca shrugged.
“Professionally,” Fonseca said. “He put us together with Ms. Bradshaw.”
“You like him?”
“He’s a freakin’ lawyer,” Fonseca said.
“That makes it hard,” I said.
“Don’t dislike him,” Fonseca said.
“Any thoughts on why she might have wanted me there?”
“Don’t know why she wanted you there,” Fonseca said.
“Me, either,” I said.
“Didn’t make much difference,” Fonseca said.
Through the big window in the wall behind Fonseca’s ornately carved cherrywood desk, I could see the Providence River where it passed through the downtown.
“No,” I said. “None at all.”
Fonseca took a business card from a small holder on his desk and slid it across to me.
“Offer holds,” Fonseca said. “Any help I can give you, finding that fucking Rugar, I’ll do it.”
I picked up the card and put it in my shirt pocket.
“You got a card?” Fonseca said.
I gave him one of mine.
“You ever do security work?” Fonseca said.
“Not really. Bodyguard now and then.”
“Well, you got the build for it,” Fonseca said. “Used to box, too, didn’t you.”
“Face give it away?” I said.
“Uh-huh. Around the eyes a little, and the nose.”
“You ever box?” I said to Fonseca.
“Not really,” he said. “We all do a little martial-arts training in the company, ’cept the secretaries, but I never did any boxing. I might need a guy like you sometime. I’ll give you a call.”
“Sure.”
“What you gonna do now?” Fonseca said.
“I’ve asked everybody else why Ms. Bradshaw hired me. I guess I may as well go ask her.”
“Good thinking,” Fonseca said.
19
Susan was busy trying to help the deranged, so she didn’t come with me to Tashtego again. Too bad. I was interested in seeing how her relationship with Heidi would develop. Susan did not like women who flirted with me in front of her, or, I assume, at other times, but at other times the issue didn’t come up. She was also far too classy to let it show, and I was always fascinated at the thoughtful solutions to that problem that she came up with. However, her location, in the heart of Cambridge, gave her a huge market for her skills, and in the fall, when Harvard was cranked up to its maximum silliness, Susan had very little free time.
The Tashtego patrol had obviously been augmented since the wedding. There was a security search on the dock in New Bedford before we went on the launch.
“Can’t go aboard with a weapon,” the security guy said. “We’ll hold it here for you.”
I didn’t argue. Gun hadn’t done a hell of a lot for me last time.
There were guards with shotguns on the launch. On the island, one man in each Jeep carried his shotgun on his lap. No antebellum carriage ride for me this time. I got in the front seat of one of the Jeeps. The guy with the shotgun sat behind me in the backseat.
“There’s cocktails in the atrium,” Maggie Lane said when I presented myself at the door. “Heidi has asked that you join us.”
Heidi was, apparently, not in seclusion. Maggie led me briskly down the hall. I hated briskly. When I wasn’t rushed, I liked to saunter. She paused at the atrium door to wait for me. She didn’t say anything, and her face didn’t show anything. But her shoulders looked impatient. I could hear the sound of a stringed instrument and the low sound of elegant conversation.
“Before I plunge into the social whirl,” I said, “how did you happen to get this job with Heidi?”
“We both went to Lydia Hall College,” Maggie said. “Though we weren’t there at the same time. But when Heidi was looking for an assistant she called the placement office, and they sent me out, and we…” Maggie spread her hands to imply that the rest was history.
“You know when she graduated?” I said.
“Oh, before my time. Nineteen eighty, maybe.”
“What was her maiden name?” I said.
Maggie looked slightly startled.
“Maiden name? Before she got married?” Maggie said. “Hell, I don’t know. When she hired me her name was Heidi Van Meer.”
“First husband?” I said.
“Second, I believe.”
“And Bradshaw?”
“Current husband,” Maggie said. “Estranged.”
Maggie opened the door and stepped aside, and I went in past her. The room was amazing. It was all glass, including the domed roof, and in all directions it offered a view of the Atlantic Ocean stretching empty into the distance, hinting of eternity. The men wore blazers in various tones of blue and brown, green and gray, striped and solid. Most of them wore white or pale tan slacks. The women were in little cocktail dresses, some black, some flowered, all showing a lot of suntanned arms, backs, shoulders, and chests. A woman in a long, roomy white dress was in an alcove against the wall of the main house, playing a large harp and using a lot of wrist flourish to do it. She had a flower in her hair.
There was a bar near the harpist, and a bartender in a white jacket and a black bow tie. There were two cocktail waitresses dressed in the short-skirted black dress, white apron getup that had been the staple of dirty French-maid postcards in my early youth. At the far window, with her hair piled high, and the sun shimmering on her jewelry, wearing a very minimal white cocktail dress and very high heels, Heidi Bradshaw was talking to a man with shoulder-length blond hair who looked like he might be the lead dancer for the Chippendales. He was stuffed into a wheat-colored unstructured linen jacket over a maroon polo shirt with the collar turned up. They were sipping something that from where I stood looked like mojitos.