by Ace Atkins
I shrugged. “Something like that.”
“’Cause we can’t go on forever,” Henry said.
“Speak for yourself, John Alden.”
We watched the rain for a long time. He picked up the empty whiskey bottle again and cornered the last drop of booze. “How was it for you that time you were shot?” Henry said.
“Which time?”
“The really bad time.”
“They are all bad times when you are shot.”
“But the one that nearly killed you.”
“The Gray Man.”
“You remember?”
“Hard to forget.”
“You think about quitting?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“The alternative was not attractive.”
Henry stood up and walked to the door. He shut off the lights, intensifying the effects of the storm outside, making the grays and blacks more stark. “That woman is a pro,” Henry said. “I don’t think Z is prepared for where she’ll take him.”
“I think he got busted up,” I said. “He learned being cracked doesn’t make you broken. He’s ready.”
“How’d you get so wise?”
“I’m Irish,” I said. “I listen to the wisdom of the little people.”
“Okay, then,” Henry said. “Let’s find the kid.”
61
HENRY AND I had spent eight hours looking for Z. And looking for Jemma. I learned she no longer frequented the Four Seasons. Or the Boston Harbor Hotel. Or the Legal at Copley Place. I had tried the storefront in Revere that Rick Weinberg had rented. I had tried some of Z’s favorite brewpubs. Nothing. The next morning I went for a run, with Pearl trotting at my side with great enthusiasm. I missed Z. He always pushed me harder than I pushed myself. He was younger, stronger, and faster, and in turn made me better. I kept my mind off dark thoughts.
The rain had been constant, the remnants of a storm off the Atlantic. It fell warm and salty, hitting my face as we ran east along the river. Pearl and I crossed the Weeks Footbridge, heading back toward the business school, while I considered what I knew about Jemma Fraser. Which was not considerable or specific. She was ambitious and ruthless. She had been a protégée of Harvey Rose’s but had chosen to keep that relationship private. She had sent some local sluggers to scare some old folks into selling their properties, possibly against her boss’s wishes. She had tried to seduce me and had failed. She had told Z that I forced the issue. Now I learned she had probably stolen incriminating evidence from her old mentor and then sent it to me to show that Harvey Rose was in cahoots with Gino Fish and sever their relationship.
But being ruthless and even highly unethical in business does not make you a killer. However, it doesn’t make you Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, either.
I kept heading east on the Boston side of the river. I followed the path to Soldiers Field Road to where it would become Storrow. Despite the rain, the rowers were out in force. I watched a four-woman crew aimlessly float and then slow in alignment before falling into a steady dip of oars and muscle. I kept jogging, Pearl’s collar jingling beside me. Her constant pant a comfort.
As I approached the Harvard Bridge and Mass Ave, a black car slowed to my pace along Storrow before turning onto Mass and illegally parking on the curb at the edge of the bridge. Healy and Lundquist got out. I stopped and caught my breath. Pearl looked back at me with annoyance.
“Admiring my form?” I said.
“Got a minute?” Lundquist said.
“Is there a statie policy against having a hound in your car?”
“Yeah,” Lundquist said. “Might make my commander bullshit.”
Healy shook his head and climbed back into the passenger side. Lundquist eased his large frame behind the wheel. I opened the back door, let Pearl in, got in behind her, and closed the door. Lundquist drove out onto Mass Ave and crossed back over the river.
“How’s it going out there?” Healy said.
“Rain slows me down a bit,” I said.
“I meant with the Weinbergs,” he said.
“I was told that my services were no longer needed.”
“So you got it all figured out?”
“Sure thing,” I said.
“Why’d they let you go?” Lundquist said. His red hair was cut razor short above his thick neck.
“It was implied they now have their own people.”
“Anything you want to let us know?” Lundquist said.
Pearl sat at attention in the leather seats, head on a swivel as we passed MIT and the many students bustling about in tight jeans, sloppy T’s, and backpacks.
“My apprentice is missing.”
“You’re getting some rotten luck, Spenser,” Healy said.
“I suppose you have something to cheer me up.”
“In fact, we do,” Healy said. “We know who killed Rick Weinberg.”
I raised my eyebrows. Even Pearl perked up. “That is swell news,” I said. “Made the arrest?”
“Might be tough,” Healy said. “It was those two shitbirds we found shot up in Chelsea.”
I waited. Pearl waited.
“Weinberg’s DNA is in the trunk,” Healy said. “We found a receipt to the cash purchase of a Stihl chain saw. Want me to draw you a picture?”
“Lovely,” I said. “You tell Mrs. Weinberg?”
“You’re the first to know,” Lundquist said. “We don’t want it getting out until we get further up the food chain.”
“Ideas on who hired them?”
“That’s why we came to you, ace.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“We’re looking into their phone records, and people out in Vegas are doing the same,” Healy said. “It will take some time. They have connections to what’s left of the Genovese and Polizzi families.”
I scratched Pearl’s head. Her wet-dog smell and dog breath rapidly filled the car. I felt like I should share something with the staties, but wasn’t sure what. I could tell them what Gino Fish suspected about Jemma and perhaps mention the reason he sent his nephews to corral her. Instead, I thought for a moment. “Did your people ever find out what happened with Weinberg’s cell?”
“Nope.”
“But you subpoenaed the provider,” I said. “The provider would have to turn over what they had.”
“Takes more time than you think.”
“Phone is lost at sea,” I said. “But any texts or voice mails would still exist.”
“Remember the days when we just dealt with Ma Bell,” Healy said. “Jesus, it was much easier.”
“I used to send a box of chocolates and flowers every Valentine’s Day to my favorite operator.”
“Let me see where we stand,” Healy said. “You know something?”
“Did you guys happen to find Jemma Fraser?” I said.
“You don’t know where she is, either.”
“You looking for her?” I said.
“We are.”
“May I ask why?”
“Off the record?”
“Yep.”
Healy took a deep breath. “She is what we call a ‘person of interest.’”
“That would make Rachel Weinberg a very happy woman,” I said.
“Yep,” Lundquist said. “She is of interest on a great many things. We have her arriving yesterday in Boston, and then she’s fucking Houdini.”
“Registered at a hotel?”
“Nope,” Healy said.
“Talked to any business associates?”
“She’s missed two important meetings,” Lundquist said. “Nobody in the company can find their new CEO. That’s a little strange.”
He slowed the car. We had made it to Kendall Square right by the Longfellow Bridge. “You want us to put you out where we found you?
” Healy said.
“This works,” I said.
“You’ll find your way back?” Lundquist said.
“Does it matter?” I reached for Pearl’s leash. “I’m still looking for a place to start.”
I tried calling Z again. No answer.
62
AFTER A SHOWER and change of clothes, I was still flummoxed. So flummoxed, I drove back to my office and uncorked a bottle of Black Bush.
A blank yellow legal pad sat on my desk. I had yet to hear from Z or hear from Healy or make any sense of what was going on in Wonderland. I thought maybe it had something to do with me not turning on my office lights. So I did. My door was slightly ajar. Rain blew in from the Atlantic. It was nearly night, and for an odd reason, I didn’t care about eating. Instead, I checked the time, and realizing it was three hours earlier in Vegas, called up Bernie Fortunato. Bernie, being one of those guys who kept a cell screwed into his ear, answered after one ring.
“It’s a comfort knowing you’re there for me.”
“Where’s my fucking check?”
“In the mail.”
“I don’t usually go about business that way,” he said. “That’s like a broad telling you that you’re her first.”
“Jaded.”
“What do you need?”
“More snooping services are required.”
“You’re lucky this is a slow time for me.”
“You’d make time,” I said.
“You say.”
“I need you to get to the Clark County clerk’s office before they close.”
“Sure.”
“And search for anything of note filed on Rick Weinberg, Rachel Weinberg, or Jemma Fraser in the last few months.”
“Sure,” he said. “You want to tell me what the fuck I’m looking for?”
“Legal issues,” I said.
“A hint?”
“Maybe a lawsuit brewing between Rachel Weinberg and Jemma Fraser. Or maybe something within the company.”
“Sure, sure.”
He hung up. I hung up. I poured a nip of Black Bush into my coffee cup. I leaned back into my chair, propped my feet on the edge of my desk, and listened to the steady rain and the traffic sounds out on Berkeley. The whiskey tasted more warm and welcoming on a wet day. So welcoming, I drank some more.
After a time, I dropped my feet to the floor, picked up the phone, and called Susan, who also answered after one ring.
“You and Bernie.”
“Me and Bernie what?”
“Loyal pals.”
“So what’s the news from Berkeley and Boylston?”
“How’d you know I was in my office?”
“There is a new thing called caller ID,” she said.
“Ah.”
“Have you spoken to Z?”
“Nope.”
“Found out who killed Rick Weinberg?”
“Sort of.”
“What’s ‘sort of’?”
“I know who committed the act but not who made the call.”
I explained.
“And how is Z?”
“Z has disappeared, and so has Jemma Fraser.”
“Perhaps a romantic getaway?”
I stayed silent. I told her about Healy and the state police looking for her, too. I told her the abbreviated version of Joseph G. Perotti and his magical bank account. She was not shocked.
“And what will Gino Fish do if his dirty laundry makes it into the Globe?”
“Be further annoyed.”
“‘Annoyed’ is an underwhelming word.”
After we hung up, I leaned back in the office chair and watched the odd patterns of light along Berkeley and the comings and goings of cars along Boylston.
I looked at my watch. I called Henry. Still no Z.
“Any more ideas?” I said.
“Aren’t you the fucking detective?”
“Yeah, but sometimes I need a reminder.”
I hung up, grabbed my raincoat and ball cap, and locked the door behind me.
63
I TRIED ALL the spots Z was known to frequent, and some that were just wild guesses. I did not have a picture of him to pass around. The description of a big Indian seemed to be enough. After the happy-hour rush, I found myself sitting at J. J. Donovan’s at Faneuil Hall. Z and I often came here for a beer after working out. I ate a cheeseburger and fries and drank some Sam Adams on tap. J. J. Donovan’s was a solid bar despite being located in the hub of tourist central.
The Sox game was on, and I watched while I waited for Henry to close up. I had already asked the bartender about Z. She said she had never seen a real-life Indian except in movies. I asked which movies, and she said The Searchers. We talked about The Searchers for a while.
I drank the beer very slowly. A handful of patrons hustled in and out, their jackets and hats soaked from the rain. The Sox were dry in Toronto, down in the bottom of the eighth.
The waitress smiled brightly and removed my empty plate. She brought me a new Sam Adams without being asked.
I had a few sips and my cell buzzed. Unable to hear much in crowded spots, I took the call outside on the pedestrian mall. The rain swept across the old brick street, but it was quiet.
“Okay,” Fortunato said. “I made it to the clerk’s office and stuck around till they closed. This’ll all be on the bill. But it takes time, this stuff.”
“Of course.”
“And now I’m on the other side of town,” Fortunato said. “And I had to grab a sandwich. If I had been by my office, I wouldn’t need to go and get a fucking sandwich.”
“Naturally.”
“Okay,” Fortunato said. “You ready, or you want me to call back?”
“I am all ears.”
“So I went looking for any civil suits,” Fortunato said. “I cross-referenced anything with Rachel and Rick Weinberg or that broad you mentioned.”
“Jemma Fraser.”
“Right,” he said. “Her. I also had a list of all the known corporations Weinberg operated in Nevada.”
“And.”
“And I didn’t get jack,” he said. “There was some bullshit from a knucklehead who’d run up two hundred grand at Weinberg’s casino and now claims he was Weinberg’s guest. Basically he stiffed the joint and wants Weinberg to pay him or some crap.”
“So,” I said. “No lawsuits from Rachel Weinberg. No recent suits against the board of directors or against Jemma Fraser. I’m looking for something with these women trying to get more from the will.”
“I didn’t see nothin’ like that. I went back six months before they turned off the lights on me. You want me to head back tomorrow?”
“Why not?”
There was an old-fashioned iron street clock in front of the bar. If the old clock was right, it was nearly nine o’clock. Henry would be back soon.
“The only thing I saw with both the Weinbergs was motions filed in their divorce.”
“Excuse me?”
“Rick Weinberg filed two weeks ago.”
“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”
“I thought you were working for her?”
“I was.”
“And she hadn’t told you?”
“Nope. You said Rick filed it?”
“I wouldn’t want to cross the daughter of old man Polizzi,” Fortunato said. “Do you know who her old man was?”
“A noted Las Vegas philanthropist?”
“Yeah, sure,” Fortunato said. “Christ, Spenser. I would have charged you double if I’d known Weinberg’s wife was a fucking Polizzi.”
“I guess she didn’t advertise.”
“You want me to fax it to your office?” he said. “I made copies of this and of the other thing with the deadbeat.”
I tho
ught about what I’d learned from Healy about the dead men in Chelsea. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”
“You said that already, chief.”
“I feel like saying it again.”
“The sandwich wasn’t much,” he said. “But don’t go nuts when you see it was eighteen bucks.”
“Go get yourself a steak dinner and a bottle of red,” I said. “On me.”
I spotted Henry coming down Clinton Street, flags American and otherwise popping in the wind. He was still dressed in white workout clothes but had on a ball cap. I told Fortunato I’d call him back.
“Anything?” Henry said.
“Nothing on Z,” I said. “Go inside and get a beer. I’ll be right behind you.”
Henry shrugged and walked inside. I called Healy on his cell.
“This better be worth it,” Healy said. “I don’t just hand out my personal cell for the hell of it.”
“Any luck with those phone records?”
“God’s smiling on you today. We got them at lunch and finished them up a few hours later. Lundquist and I both read them. Couldn’t see jack shit. Bunch of crazy texts. Nothing jumped out.”
“Can I see them tonight?”
“Jesus,” Healy said. “You do realize I have a life.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Okay, okay,” Healy said. “Christ. Meet you at 1010. So where’s the fire?”
“Rick Weinberg filed for divorce two weeks ago.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll bring you the filing,” I said.
Healy was quiet for a long while. “Christ.”
“Anything coming back to you about those texts now?”
“Rachel Weinberg uses a lot of colorful language.”
“Nothing else?”
“Like she threatened to cut off his fucking head?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Like that.”
“Not that I recall.”
“What about between Jemma Fraser and Weinberg?”
“Some dirty shit,” Healy said. “But nothing illegal in Massachusetts.”
“Ms. Fraser seems to have dropped off the face of the earth with my former apprentice,” I said.
“Maybe they took off to Tahiti and he’s drinking mai tais and getting laid.”
“Susan suggested the very thing.”