Blanchard didn’t speak. More people passed over the lagoon bridge. Somewhere some ducks quacked. Perhaps making way for ducklings.
“If everything is being kept so private,” I said, “why did you hire me?”
“We thought you could help. But Rachel wants it with the cops now.”
I offered him Spenser’s look of doubt. The look was quite formidable.
“What? You sore about being let go?”
“Confused.”
“By legal issues.”
“By a lot of stuff,” I said. “Mainly why Rachel wanted me to find out who killed her husband if she was the one who called it.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” he said. “What? You want to blackmail her or something, get some cash or you’ll spin this shit to the newspapers?”
“Nope.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t think you knew.”
Blanchard looked at me with both disdain and pity, two emotions tough to convey at the same moment. “What?”
“Weinberg got by you that night because he was told to come alone.”
“Jesus.”
“Rachel was the one who drew him out,” I said. “She paid to have him killed.”
“You’re fucking nuts.”
I handed him the thick envelope. He looked at it like I’d presented a professionally wrapped turd. “Text messages between Rachel and Rick,” I said. “The instructions were very specific.”
I kept the eye contact. When bluffing, eye contact, no flinching, was key.
He opened the envelope and glanced through the first few pages. Blanchard stiffened. He looked straight ahead, watching traffic roll past on the wet asphalt of Boylston. “You making this up?”
“Rachel orchestrated all of this. The slight with Jemma was bad enough, but the divorce would cut her out of the company completely.”
“Complete bullshit.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter what you believe,” I said. “I’ll hand it over to Captain Healy.”
“Why tell me first?” he said.
I shrugged. “Professional courtesy?”
He turned to watch my face, his own jaw hanging open slightly. He glanced down at the envelope. “Where’d you get it?”
“I know some people.”
“And Healy doesn’t know.”
“Not yet,” I said. “But he will.”
Blanchard studied my face. I waited.
“If we keep staring at each other on this park bench, people may begin to talk.”
The automatic was in his hand sooner than I would have guessed. He had it out and pointing into my side. “Get up,” he said. “Now.”
“Now that the rain has stopped, it’s turned into a lovely night.”
“Shut up,” he said. “Just shut the fuck up.”
“Was it really Rachel’s family who helped Rick get started?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded tired and old.
“Hell of a slight.”
Blanchard did not answer. The lamps on the lagoon bridge shone in creamy globes of light, reflecting on the water. “Why protect her?” I said. “She killed your boss.”
“If you shut your fucking mouth,” he said, “it’ll make things easier.”
“You gonna just shoot me right here?” I said. “Right in the middle of the Public Garden?”
“Be quiet.”
I put my hands up in mock surrender and stood. Blanchard nodded at a footpath heading toward the Common. We walked, with Blanchard following a few paces behind me. I could not feel the gun but knew it was there.
“So who killed the sluggers from Vegas?” I said.
Blanchard didn’t answer.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m slow, but it’s making sense.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s loyal, Lew,” I said. “She kills your boss, but you still look out for her.”
I was throwing spitballs, but a great many of them were landing. We passed over Charles and into the Common, leaving the path into a sliver of darkness under a large tree. Blanchard told me to lie facedown.
“I’d rather not.”
“Shut the fuck up and lie down.”
I turned to him, hands still up, and smiled. “Slow and easy, or you’ll get a bullet to the spine,” I said.
He kind of laughed but half turned. Henry Cimoli stepped from the darkness, looking a little comical holding my .357. The gun nearly outweighed him. “Put down the piece, fucknuts, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”
“Say it like you mean it, Henry.”
Blanchard let out another long breath. I’d seen the look before in fighters when they were most certainly beat. Blanchard loosened his fingers and the automatic dropped to the wet ground. I kept my eyes on Blanchard as I knelt, picked up the gun, and tossed it toward the footpath.
“Where is Jemma?” I said.
He shook his head.
“And Sixkill?”
He shook his head. “You’ll never know.”
I couldn’t come up with a clever reply, so I shot an overhand right at his jaw. He stumbled a bit but remained on his feet. He wiped some blood from his mouth and nodded. I looked to Henry and waved him off. Henry remained still. Blanchard came at me in a fighter’s stance, sure-footed and dead-eyed. I still had the .38 on my hip but lifted my hands and stepped forward. Blanchard grunted as he lunged at me in a flurry of hard but uncalculated punches. One of them hit me hard in the temple and another in the kidney. But I had a reach on him, slightly shifting and knocking him with a left in the nose and a right uppercut under his chin that lifted and startled him a bit. I stepped back and circled. I watched his eyes. I was pretty sure he wanted to kill me. He ran for my legs, tackling me down to the soft earth and decomposing winter leaves. I rolled away and kicked loose, then kicked him hard in the stomach and face. A man who has nothing to lose is a terrible opponent. Blanchard kept coming. He lunged for me and I slipped him. He ran at me again and wrapped me in a bear hug, squeezing all the breath from me and picking me up. We were face-to-face, and he head-butted me several times, and I saw stars and heard Henry yell to me to get my head out of my ass. For a moment, I thought he might have been geographically correct.
I head-butted Blanchard back and knocked out my elbows, breaking free. I hit him hard, square in the face, and harder in the solar plexus. He made a sound not unlike “oof” and stumbled back just one step and dropped to a knee. He was winded and bloody. My hands were scraped and throbbing. I caught most of the breath he had squeezed from me.
Henry stepped up, large gun in hand. “That the best you got?” he said.
I shrugged.
“Where’s Jemma?” I said.
“Dead.”
“And Sixkill?”
“Dead, too.”
“Why?”
“You don’t understand Rachel,” Blanchard said. He wiped the blood from his lip and tried to stand. He fell back down to one knee. “It’s fucking over. It’s done.”
“You killed those men because you didn’t know Rachel had hired them. Not until after the fact.”
“You should check her family tree sometime, Spenser,” he said. “And ask yourself how her family had enough money to bankroll Rick.”
“Where did you take Jemma and Z?”
“I didn’t take them anywhere,” he said. “Those guys from Vegas didn’t come alone. There’s another guy. They call him the Executioner. He was going to take care of everything. He was going to take them out to the dog track, find out what they knew, and then bury them deep.”
I picked up his automatic from where it lay. I jacked the magazine from the butt and thumbed out the bullets into my palm. I placed the bullets in my coat pocket and tossed Blanchard the empty weapon. Then Henry and I jogged back to my car, leaving Blanchard in the dark.
65
“SO I GUESS I’m screwed on the condo deal,” Henry said.
“Afraid so.”
“I had already made plans to expand the gym,” he said. “Another room for Pilates or maybe some spin classes.”
“How about a larger boxing room?”