“But proving is another matter,” Wayne said. “I know what this says. But we don’t know if it’s bullshit.”
“And how can we find out?”
“A court order.”
“Or go through the cops.”
Wayne nodded. The bartender reappeared with my Bud Light and Wayne’s whiskey.
“Jesus, Spenser,” Wayne said. “Bud Light?”
“It’s not even noon,” I said. “Same as water.”
“But Bud Light,” he said. “I thought more of you.”
I shrugged. Wayne shook his head and rattled his whiskey around the ice. He looked down at his notes and then up at me. “You do understand what you are meant to see here?”
“Enlighten me.”
Wayne Cosgrove’s face morphed into a very serious expression. He tapped at the sheets of paper littering the inside of the file. “Two of these companies making the payoffs belong to Gino Fish,” he said.
I drank some beer and nodded.
“Who do you think sent it?” Wayne said.
“I have a few ideas,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure.”
“You think Fish believes you have it?” Wayne said.
“Perhaps,” I said. “I know that Harvey Rose had a break-in recently. They stole several computers.”
“Wow.” Wayne tossed back some of his drink. “If this can be verified, I would have a hell of a story.”
“And what would I have?”
“If we could connect Harvey Rose and Gino Fish to Perotti, the shit would hit the fan.”
“Still doesn’t get me any closer to finding out who killed Rick Weinberg.”
“Not my job.” Wayne drank a bit more, settled into his booth, and sighed. “I sure would like to know who laid this in your lap. And who the hell wants to screw Harvey Rose so bad they break into his office and steal those files.”
“That list is growing shorter by the minute.”
“You want me to hold on to the drive?” Wayne said.
“I assume you made copies.”
Wayne handed me the drive, and I placed it in my jacket pocket.
“If something happens to me—” I said.
“I will write a glowing obit about a man who refused to conform to the times.”
“And maybe turn over this information to the state police.”
Wayne smiled and signaled the bartender for another round. “Oh, and that, too.”
58
GINO FISH DID BUSINESS out of a brownstone on Tremont Street, in the South End. A plate-glass window next to the door read DEVELOPMENT ASSOCIATES OF BOSTON. You had to walk down a few steps to get to the door and enter a room walled in red brick. A handsome young man in his twenties greeted me at a small desk. The room was the same; the young man was new.
“What happened to Stan?” I said.
“He retired.”
“Put out to pasture?”
The young man smiled. He looked like a J.Crew model in a slim-fitting navy suit worn without socks. A large diamond sparkled in his left ear.
“Tell Mr. Fish Spenser is here.”
“Does he know you, Mr. Spenser?”
“We’re old pals.”
That may have been stretching it a bit. But the young man kept smiling as he disappeared behind a purple velvet curtain. After a few moments, Vinnie Morris appeared. He didn’t say anything, only looked me up and down.
“What do you have going on back there, a puppet show?” I said.
“Yeah,” Vinnie said. “Punch and Judy.”
There was a larger room behind the purple curtain and more exposed brick, with worn floors that probably were made from the Mayflower. The light was dim and colored by Tiffany lamps. Tasteful antiques filled the room, including Gino Fish. Who was more antique these days than tasteful.
“To what do I owe the honor,” Gino said.
“Would you believe I’m in the market for a Chippendale desk?”
“No,” he said. “I would not.”
Gino stood from behind an old, well-polished desk and nodded me toward a chair in front of him. He took a seat back at the desk and spread his hands very wide. “Vinnie, please have Michael bring us some coffee. A little cream and sugar for our guest.”
I nodded.
“For an Italian crime boss, you often sound a lot like Alistair Cooke.”
“My father made sure his children were given the best educations.”
Fish smiled. The smile was uncomfortable but controlled. Gino’s newest young man appeared with a small tray filled with a French press, a sugar bowl, and a creamer.
Vinnie took a seat on a brown leather couch. He leaned forward in the dim light and made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to every word. I tossed him the flash drive to see his quick hands in action. Vinnie, being Vinnie, caught it in his left hand like a trapped fly.
“Got this in the mail, Gino,” I said. “It’s a pretty well-detailed account of payments from your various companies to the esteemed Joseph G. Perotti.”
Vinnie leaned back into the couch. Gino placed his hands flat on his knees. His skin had become more paper-thin, and the number of liver spots on his hands had grown. His eyes were hooded, and his lips were thin and purplish. He smelled like a basket of potpourri.
“So?” Gino said.
“Thought you might want it back,” I said.
“Very generous of you.”
Gino and Vinnie exchanged looks. Gino turned to me and slowly lifted his chin. He swallowed and then turned his attention to the coffee. Michael stepped forward and poured a cup for Gino and then for me. As he left, he pulled the curtain shut as if separating first class from coach.
“And what do you want in return?”
“Your undying gratitude?”
Gino looked to Vinnie. Vinnie shook his head and looked at the floor.
“And what else?”
“I want to know who killed Rick Weinberg and why.”
Gino leaned back in his seat. He left the coffee on the table, a wisp of steam curling up in the glow of the Tiffany shade. He pursed his purple lips. “And if I had him killed, I would lie to you.”
“Yes.”
“But you came anyway.”
“As a show of good faith.”
Gino nodded. He tented his long fingers before him. I never was sure why people did that when they were thinking. I thought they often did that to telegraph contemplation. I usually just tapped at my temple to fire up my brain.
“I have no idea who killed Rick Weinberg.”
“You say that with such conviction.”
Gino nodded.
“Obviously, there are some who have benefited by Rick Weinberg’s death.”
Vinnie and Gino exchanged another look. Gino nodded to Vinnie.
“Mr. Fish and Mr. Weinberg had been business partners.”
“Till death do you part?”
“Yep,” Vinnie said.
“And now Mr. Fish does not care to work with Jemma Fraser?”
“She did not impress me,” Gino said.
“I figured you would be immune to her obvious charms.”
Gino took in a long breath. He leaned forward and added a lot of cream but no sugar to his coffee. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t owe Rick Weinberg or any of his people a thing. I’ve found it may be to my advantage to work with another party.”
“And that would mean Harvey Rose and his group in Eastie,” I said.
Gino sipped his coffee. He artfully crossed his legs, his ankle touching the edge of his knee. He just smiled with the thousand-yard stare.
“May I infer from your silence that I’m correct?”
Gino smiled and sipped again.
“You do know who sent you that fucking thing,” Vinnie said.
I shrugged.
“Do you really think we wanted to kill that broad?” Vinnie said. “Jeez. Mr. Fish only wanted to speak to her.”
“About taking something that didn’t belong to her.”
“Now you got it, Spenser,” Vinnie said. “Now you got it.”
“I will do you another favor,” Gino said. “There has been an ill wind blowing in from the west since Mr. Weinberg’s death. There are individuals who have arrived in Boston who have not been invited, nor do they have any business being here.”