“Just as he snatched it up, I asked if the room was under my name or my boss’s.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me the name of the hotel guest.”
“Smart.”
“How do you think the Cree won the Battle of Cut Knife?”
“That exact thought had just crossed my mind.”
“J. Fraser.”
“J. Fraser.” I placed my Red Wings up on the edge of my desk and noted a few new scuff marks on the edge. My A-2 bomber jacket and Dodgers cap hung neatly on a hook beside Z’s jacket. I scratched Pearl’s ears. She shook herself, and her collar jingled on her neck. I looked down at my yellow legal pad and tapped my pen in contemplation.
“Okay,” I said. “So we’re one step up the food chain.”
“Nice to know who J. Fraser is.”
“You write down her license plate?” I said.
“Looked like a rental,” Z said. “Didn’t figure it would matter.”
I reached an open palm across the desk as he handed over a scrawled paper from his pocket.
“Detective work,” I said. “Watch and learn.”
I picked up the phone.
7
I DON’T CARE for computers besides using them to type reports, calculate a sometimes depressing income, or as a makeshift jukebox. I do not e-mail, surf the Web, or use Facebook. An electronic message was an instant record, and in my business, it was best to discuss private matters in person or on the telephone. There were also times when a phone call was faster and more thorough than a computer. So by the time I finished my first cup of coffee, I had connected J. Fraser’s BMW to a Massachusetts corporation called Envolve Development. It took two calls.
“Aha,” I said.
“A clue?” Z said, sitting with Pearl on my office couch.
“Better than a clue,” I said. “A lead.”
“We know who is trying to force out Henry?”
“Sort of.”
“And what do we do now?” Z said.
“This requires additional contemplation.”
I stood up, reached for my jacket and baseball cap. I tossed Z his leather coat and grabbed Pearl’s leash. “When stalled, walk a dog.”
“What number crimestopper tip is this?” he asked.
“Let’s call it thirty-seven.”
We took Boylston up to Arlington and followed the sidewalk to the wrought-iron gates of the Public Garden. A lazy drizzle watered the bright orange and bloodred tulips. The wind swayed the loose branches on the willows while ducks floated aimlessly across the lagoon and under the bridge. I placed one hand in my jacket and pulled down the bill of my ball cap. Pearl strained at the leash, pawing hard toward a squirrel. The squirrel worked on a stray bit of popcorn, unconcerned.
“You ever let her off the leash?” Z said.
“Chaos might ensue.”
We walked the pathways, heading east, the Financial District looming far over the Common and Tremont Street. We passed over Charles and into the Common, the State House’s gold dome gleaming from atop Beacon Hill. City lights shone wetly across Boylston.
“Okay, J. Fraser works for a company called Envolve,” I said. “Now we need to learn more about Envolve and why they want that condo.”
“I am willing to conduct as much research as needed on Ms. Fraser.”
“Have we forgotten she sent three thugs to put a beat-down on sweet Henry Cimoli?”
“Nope,” Z said. “And since when is Henry sweet?”
“He was sweet one time in 1974,” I said. “Someone should have written a poem.”
“Do you want me to go look up some records?”
“Stick to Ms. Fraser; I’ll stay on the paper trail,” I said. “Divide and conquer.”
“What if she notices me following her?”
“You’re an Indian,” I said. “Be both silent and stealthy.”
Z nodded. “I will remind myself.”
“It would be good to know the company she keeps,” I said. “Don’t worry about Henry. The men they sent have been properly discouraged.”
“Until they send for better men.”
“Nobody is as good as us,” I said.
“What about Hawk and Vinnie?”
“Sure,” I said. “But we’re on the same team.”
“That’s comforting,” Z said. “I would hate to go against Hawk.”
“I did a long time ago,” I said. “It wasn’t much fun.”
“Once we find out why this company wants Henry’s building, what’s next?”
“We ask Henry,” I said. “The next move is up to him. But I don’t think he wants to sell. Just be left alone.”
“We can create a buffer.”
“Yep.”
“You think him not selling has to do with the woman he lived with?”
“I do.”
“He never mentioned her to me,” Z said.
I nodded. Pearl panted heavily, nails scratching at the pavement, crouching and moving toward a group of pigeons. I gave her some extra lead, and after a few steps, she broke into a perfect point. I smiled with pride at Z.
“Some dog,” I said, and made a gun with my thumb and forefinger. I carefully aimed for Pearl’s benefit. “Pow.”
8
TWO MORE CUPS of coffee and one tuna sub later, I had pretty much learned all the Internet knew about Envolve Development. They owned a lot of commercial real estate in the city, a shopping mall in Worcester, a hotel in Lexington, and a couple of condos in Revere. They were mentioned in passing in stories about corporate philanthropy, a brief item here and there about new construction or the purchase of a new property. A recent story in the Globe blamed them for the massive gaping hole by the now-defunct Filene’s Basement in the Financial District. No names were given, but there were some stern words from the Boston City Council and stiff fines levied.
I called Envolve’s corporate office and asked for a J. Fraser. The peppy woman who answered told me there was no such employee. I asked if she was sure. Still peppy, she assured me there was not. Being an ace investigator, I ran the name of J. Fraser with that of Envolve Development through Google. Nothing. I read back through the news stories for something that might help.
On the second read, I recognized the byline of a pal I had not seen in some time. I dialed up Wayne Cosgrove and invited him for a drink. Wayne seldom turned down a drink.
“You still hanging out in the Ritz?” he said, a slight hint of Virginia in his voice.
“I can drive down to Dorchester.”
“Nope,” Wayne said. “I’d rather come to you. The Ritz sounds nice after a rainy day.”
An hour later, Wayne walked into the old Ritz bar and joined me at a small table facing the Public Garden. I liked the bar because it offered the best nut sampler in the city. And it was just around the corner from my apartment. I stood and shook Wayne’s hand. Since the last time I’d seen him, he had grown a beard and let his hair get long. Both had some touches of gray that went well with his threadbare brown corduroy coat and plaid button-down. His shoes were wingtips, well worn and careless without socks. He looked like he should be teaching a sociology class at Harvard.
“Glad you haven’t been laid off.”
“Back on the beat,” Wayne said. “After a lot of time on the desk.”
“What did you like better?”
“I can’t say I miss afternoon meetings.”
“Which allow you to file stories and meet old pals for cocktails.”
“So where have you been, Spenser?” Wayne said. “I take it you want something, because you always call when you want something.”
“I am deeply offended.”
“Cut the shit,” Wayne said. “I’m cheap. Get me a bourbon.”
“You and William Faulkner,” I said.
“‘A man shouldn’t fool with booze until he’s fifty, and then he’s a damn fool if he doesn’t.’”