“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.