Wonderland

by Ace Atkins

“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?”

  “I think she may have been with him,” I said. “Or maybe she’s scared and hiding.”

  “Jemma is a smart woman,” he said. “She’s not one prone to hysterics.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Although a beheading might rattle her a little.”

  “Did the Weinbergs tell you their daughter had once been kidnapped?”

  I nodded.

  “I would want to know more about that situation.”

  “What do you know about that situation?”

  “Only that it was a rough time for them.”

  I nodded. Rose put hand to chin and nodded back. He folded his hands again across his chest and waited for me to speak. What the hell. I took the bait.

  “I heard you may withdraw your bid,” I said. “Close up shop.”

  “We have had plenty of threats,” he said.

  “From whom?”

  “We don’t know,” he said. “Anonymous e-mails. Calls from disposable phones.”

  “Cranks?”

  “We’re not sure.” Rose straightened his wrinkled tie. Two buttons on his dress shirt were open, exposing his soft, hairless stomach. “But I have spent the last ten years prepping to open a casino in Boston. I have done countless studies and compiled all the data that will make sure it happens according to our plans.”

  “Even without the needed land?”

  “We have our own properties,” Rose said. “Our casino isn’t as grand, but it will complement the East Boston lifestyle.”

  “Beer and clam buckets.”

  Harvey Rose stood and offered his hand. “Whatever it takes, Mr. Spenser.”

  36

  OUTSIDE, AN UNMARKED state cop car sat idling next to my Explorer. Healy and Lundquist climbed out. Lundquist nodded to me and walked around the car to the driver’s side. Healy walked over to where I stood and said, “Where’s Z?”

  “On assignment.”

  Healy shrugged. “Let’s take a ride.”

  “Get me home before curfew?”

  “Drive,” Healy said.

  I unlocked my SUV and Healy got in on the passenger side. Lundquist backed out and drove off. I followed him to the pike and toward downtown. Healy was quiet until we got in the flow of traffic.

  “We found the rest of Weinberg,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Floated up by the Tea Party Museum,” he said. “A bunch of schoolkids saw it. They’ll be in therapy until they’re fifty.”

  “You want some coffee?” I said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  I put on my blinker and passed Lundquist. He followed me and did the same. We got off by BU and found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Buick Street. I parked in front of a hydrant.

  “Lawbreaker,” Healy said.

  “I prefer rebel.”

  Lundquist sat in the car on his cell phone. I followed Healy inside and we ordered a couple of coffees. The endless varieties of donuts called to me like sirens. I resisted.

  We took the coffees to one of those little ledges where you can stand and eat. We watched the college kids shuffle past us on Buick, backpacks heavy on their shoulders.

  “What did Rose say?” Healy said.

  “Not much,” I said. “The man has no sense of humor.”

  “The problem is that you think you’re funny, Spenser,” Healy said. “A guy who taught at Harvard would find you juvenile.”

  I shrugged.

  Healy drank some coffee. A Boston PD car pulled behind my Explorer with its lights on. Lundquist got out and reasoned with him. The prowlie took off.

  “Perks,” I said.

  “Did Rose give you any suspects?”

  “He thinks it’s related to organized crime.”

  “Gee,” Healy said. “Wish we’d thought of that.”

  “So that narrows it down to some key players.”

  “Ukrainians, Irish, Italians, Vietnamese, or some new crew we never heard of.”

  “My associate and I spoke to an upstanding member of Boston society yesterday,” I said. “He hinted it was the Mob. But he didn’t say if it was hometown or imported.”

  “Yeah,” Healy said. “But you and I are thinking the same thing.”

  “Chocolate glazed?”

  “Gino Fish.”

  “Does a beheading sound like Gino to you?” I said.

  “Doesn’t sound like the Girl Scouts.”

  “Who else?”

  “Maybe something the Ukrainians would do,” Healy said.

  “True.”

  “You’ve dealt with those creeps.”

  “Yep.”

  “Not nice folks.”

  “Nope.”

  “We don’t have jack,” Healy said. “I’d like to talk to Gino anyway. If he isn’t involved, he will sure as hell know. He can throw a rock from his front porch to Wonderland.”

  I nodded.

  “And you being such good buddies with him and Vinnie Morris,” Healy said. “Might have a better chance with an unofficial visit.” He sipped his coffee and stared out the big plate-glass window.

  “I am judicious about using my in with Gino.”

  “This would be the time.”

  I nodded. A man in a hairnet wal
ked through a swinging door with a loaded rack of fresh glazed.

  “You call us when you find out?”

  I nodded.

  “Christ, don’t be the Ukrainians.”

  “You told Rachel Weinberg about the body?” I said.

  “Headed that way,” he said.

  “Bad choice of words.”

  “Hell, she already knows. The news crews beat us there.”

  “You think a glazed might brighten my day?”

  “Go for it, big guy,” Healy said. He slapped my back as he left. I watched from the other side of the glass as he and Lundquist drove off. My SUV looked very exposed out by the meter.

  37

  THE KING SUITE HAD an impressive sitting area with comfortable plush chairs and a big green-and-gold sofa. There was a built-in bookshelf filled with leather-bound books, framed botanical prints, gilded knickknacks on the coffee table, and a mantel over what I presumed to be a working fireplace. A baby grand piano sat by a bank of windows with a sweeping view of the Public Garden. Flowers, sympathy cards, and a fruit basket sat on the baby grand, covered in red cellophane. No one spoke. Rachel Weinberg and Blanchard sat across from each other. Rachel smoked. Who was going to tell her it was against the rules?

  I took a seat. Rachel was dressed in another velvety jogging suit. Blanchard sat remote and cross-legged in a plush chair. He wore dark green dress pants and a white dress shirt with no tie. He leaned forward, hands laced in front of him, staring intently at the ground. A uniformed cop sat in the master bedroom, drinking coffee.

  “What did Harvey say?” Rachel said. Her voice was rough, as if it was the first time she’d spoken in hours.

  “He said he was very sorry,” I said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “You doubt his sincerity?”

  “He’s not normal,” Rachel said. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s a very, very intelligent man. But he’s missing something. It’s like he was born without a personality.”

  “That would account for him not thinking I’m funny.”

  Blanchard looked up from his hands. He lifted his eyebrows and then looked back down.

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Spenser?” she said.

  I shook my head. “Do you mind me asking about your daughter’s kidnapping?” I said. “I know it was a few years ago, but could it be related?”

  Blanchard shook his head. He looked to Rachel, and Rachel nodded back to him. She looked much older and paler without any makeup.

  “That has nothing to do with what happened,” he said. “That’s an unrelated matter.”

  “Business rivals?”

  “No,” Blanchard said. “Opportunists. A few jailbirds who thought they’d been touched with inspiration while in the can.”

  “You seem confident they’re no longer a threat,” I said.

  Blanchard and Rachel again exchanged glances. Rachel frowned. She let out a long, disinterested stream of smoke. Blanchard said, “They’ve been removed from the grid.”

  I lifted my eyebrows and nodded. “Harvey Rose said he’s had recent threats,” I said. “Same here?”

  “We have had a few,” Blanchard said. “But nothing we took seriously.”

  “What about now?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “How were they received?”

  “Crank calls,” Blanchard said. “Threatening e-mails. But we figured it was some local yokels. If there had been a serious threat, I would have been all over it with the cops.”

  “Rose took them seriously.”

  “Because it makes him feel important,” Rachel said. Her cigarette was spent. She started a new one. The cigarettes were very thin and very long. Her lighter elegant and gold. “Rick had to deal with all kinds his whole life. Whoever killed him was a coward. Rick grew up in Philly. He would have responded personally to a real attack.”

  I nodded.

  “Was Rick’s relationship with Rose contentious?” I said. “Did he think Rose could end up with the license?”

  Rachel shook her head. Cars cut between the Garden and Common on Charles. The white lights coming and red taillights going looked pretty in the night.

  “Because he controlled Wonderland,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Harvey Rose said he had other properties in East Boston.”

  “Not on the beach,” she said. “If he said so, he’s lying. The beach was all Rick’s idea.”

  The door in the other room opened and closed. The cop, a short and stocky black man, walked into the sitting area. A small man in a Four Seasons uniform wheeled in a cart and set up dinner. I spotted some pasta and scrambled eggs. A fruit plate and shrimp cocktail. There was a large bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a pot of black coffee. Blanchard continued to stare at the ground. He finally stood and walked to the large bank of windows and looked out onto the Common. No one approached the food. The waiter poured out a cup of coffee and added ice to two glasses. He lit a few candles, set a carnation into a vase, and left the room. The cop led him out.

  “You two eat,” Rachel said. “I don’t know who sent this up.”

  “You did,” Blanchard said. He smiled weakly. “You said you were hungry.”

  “I did?” Rachel said. “Not anymore. Are you hungry, Spenser?”

  I was. But I politely declined.

  “Pour me a drink?” Rachel said. She stubbed out the cigarette.

  I poured some scotch over cracked ice and topped it off with a little soda and passed it to her.

  Blanchard continued to stare out the window. I heard the cop in the other room talking on a cell phone.

  “We had been married forty years,” she said. “Holy Christ.”

  “Has anyone been able to figure out why Rick left in the middle of the night?”

  “The police said no one called the room,” she said.

  “And his cell?”

  “Was lost with him,” Rachel said. She took a healthy swallow. The ice rattled in her glass. Her throat moved as she drank more. “Did you hear they found his body?”

  I nodded.

  “He was a good man, Mr. Spenser,” she said. “He was not perfect, but he was very good.”

  I nodded. “That accounts for a lot.”

  “Did you know I married the son of a bitch twice?” she said. “We met in college. Got married as kids and divorced after twenty years. We remarried two years later after he had a fling with a cocktail waitress. He bought me a Cadillac that Frank Sinatra had owned as a wedding gift. He was crazy and wonderful.”

  She began to cry. I was quiet for a long while. She stood up quickly and went to the bathroom, where I heard gagging and the toilet flush. She came back as if nothing had happened. She brushed at her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Cops said they couldn’t find him on hotel security cameras,” she said. “How is that even possible?”

  Blanchard walked back toward us. He poured himself coffee and sat down. He rubbed his bristled chin in thought. “Anything on Jemma?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ask Rose?”

  “He said they had not been in touch for some time.”

  He nodded in thought. “Maybe that’s true,” he said. “Maybe not.”

  “Did Rick ever mention problems with organized crime here?” I said.

  “The Mob?” Blanchard laughed and shook his head. “He said most of the Italians were in prison or dead.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I’m being told those who remained resented you guys opening up gambling in the Commonwealth.”

  “If they did,” Blanchard said, “they did not make themselves known to us.”

  “When you came to Boston,” I said, “where did Rick reach out for local support?”

  Blanchard again consulted with Rachel. Rachel had her bare feet tucked up under h
er. She nursed the scotch. As she swallowed, she rolled her index finger, telling Blanchard to get on with it.

  “We bought up most of the land through anonymous buyers,” Blanchard said. “That last condo was the sticking point. It was a pain in the ass because people still lived there. They were old and difficult. The other parcels, the goddamn dog track and all the other spots, were empty. We had been working that deal for five years.”

  “So all his meetings were about land,” I said.

  “Most,” Blanchard said. He sipped some coffee. “Politicians, too. You know the drill, got to grease the wheel.”

  “Was there one wheel that needed more grease than others?”

  Blanchard’s face remained impassive. “I can’t discuss that,” he said. “That’s one thing Rick would want to keep private.”

  I looked to Rachel Weinberg. Her eyes roamed over mine. She closed her eyes and took another sip.

  “If I’m to help you,” I said, “I need to know all of Rick’s business. Not just what you put on the books. Or what you think I should know.”

  “This could get ugly,” Rachel said. “Rick would not want it.”

  “It’s not pretty right now, Mrs. Weinberg.”

  “We have obligations,” she said. “Promises.”

  “Some people don’t know I have a middle name,” I said. “But it’s actually Discreet.”

  “This was one area that Rick dealt with personally,” she said. “He insisted on it. I don’t even know all the details.”

  I looked to Blanchard. He just drank more coffee.

  “Handing out gold only makes friends,” Rachel said. “It doesn’t make enemies.”

  “‘Nothing gold can stay.’”

  “What?” Blanchard said.

  “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Confidential matters have to remain confidential,” Rachel said. “Nothing has changed. Business continues. We have to keep Rick’s wishes.”

  “I need to know who got the payoffs,” I said.

  Neither answered.

  “I know this whole thing is ugly and horrific, Mrs. Weinberg. If it were me, I might not have the energy to get out of bed. You asked me to help, and I am trying. But I can’t get you answers if you treat me like the hired help.”

  “That’s enough, Spenser.” Blanchard stood up.