Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (13 page)

Rachel Weinberg took in a very long breath. Her face was impassive behind the sunglasses. “So much to do,” she said. “All this shit. I could just kill Rick for this.”

“We would like to make a list,” Lundquist said. It was the first time he’d spoken in the last thirty minutes. He was tall and big, with light hair and apple-red cheeks, like he’d just stepped off some Midwestern farm. “Names of people who might want to harm your husband.”

“Easier to start with the Las Vegas phonebook,” she said. Rachel took a healthy sip of scotch. “My husband was a fair man. A direct man. But he was never what I’d call a loved man.”

“I apologize for asking,” Healy said. He looked down at the notebook in his hand. “But we have to cover everything if we want to help. I don’t want to offend you, Mrs. Weinberg.”

“You want to know, did he screw around?” Rachel said. “His personal habits?”

Healy nodded.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “Rick has always loved the ladies. We had an understanding.”

Blanchard looked up quickly from where he’d been staring at the notebook. She looked to him and nodded.

“Lewis knows,” she said. “I knew. Everyone knew. I loved Rick, but I am not a fool. My husband was a real cock hound.”

The housekeeper stopped vacuuming, underscoring the ugly word, letting it hang there in the crisp silence. The light in the Public Garden was infused with color, gold springtime tones on the greenery. Silver light lengthened into shadows that would soon disappear.

“I knew most of the women,” she said. “Lew knew more. But hell, they wouldn’t cut off his head. Jesus. Would someone get me another drink? These pills aren’t working on their own. My God.”

“We can take you to a doctor,” Healy said. “Finish this up later.”

“If I’m going to be doped up, better do it myself.”

“There was a final message?” I said.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “I played it for these men here.”

“What’s it say?” I said.

“Rick said, ‘Fucking bastard,’ and then hung up. Don’t ask who he meant because I don’t know.”

“What time did the call come in?” I said.

“Ten-thirty Eastern.”

“Did he have close friends in Boston?” I said. “Someone who may have seen him after he left his room. Or was forced?”

Rachel removed her sunglasses, her eyes naked and red. The waitress laid down a fresh scotch and took the old one away. Rachel looked to Blanchard. “Tell him, Lew. Tell them. What the hell does it matter? They need to know.” Blanchard nodded. He leaned in with elbows on knees and hands laced before him. He looked a little unsteady. White scruff showed along his jawline.

“He was seeing Jemma Fraser.”

I leaned back. I tried to seem shocked.

“And where is she now?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Blanchard said. “She can’t be reached.”

Healy nodded to Lundquist. Lundquist jumped up to make a call. If she was still alive, the staties would find her. Of course, they had yet to find the rest of Weinberg’s body, but I’m sure the recovery remained high on their list.

“Did you know your husband fired her?” I said.

“That’s not true,” Rachel said. “He would have definitely told me. Where did you hear that?”

“From Jemma Fraser.”

“Lying little bitch.”

“She brought over contracts for the condo board,” I said. “She told me it was her last act of business for Rick.”

“She didn’t give a shit about him,” Rachel said. “She knew what she had and worked every inch. Men are such goddamn fools and don’t know the reason.”

“No argument, Mrs. Weinberg,” I said.

“I can’t stand it,” she said. “I can’t stand it. Rick and I have been together for forty years. My God.”

Healy looked to Blanchard. Blanchard nodded back and stood and held out a hand for Rachel Weinberg. She took it, shaky as she stood, and walked a few paces before turning back to face me. She wavered on her feet. An old boxer, busted but unbowed. He helped her to the bedroom, returned, and sat down across from me.

“You will help us, Spenser?” Blanchard said.

I looked to Healy. I looked to Lundquist.

“Name your rate,” Blanchard said.

I thought of a million reasons to say no. Mostly because I had been working for her husband’s opposition. But that was old business, or maybe it was the same business. But I could not say anything else to him but “Yes.”

29

WHEN I GOT BACK
to my apartment, I showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee. I walked Pearl and filled her food and water bowls. Freshly caffeinated and smelling of bay rum, I drove over to the Paramount diner. Z was waiting for me outside. We walked inside, ordered breakfast, and sat at a high table near the rear of the narrow restaurant. I ordered huevos rancheros. Z drank black coffee.

“How’s his wife?” Z said.

“In shock,” I said. “But composed. In control. They asked me to help.”

“But we can’t,” Z said. “Because of working for Henry.”

“Those lines have been a bit blurred,” I said. “It’s all the same now.”

“Not the same to me,” he said. “These people are scum.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But they need help. And if we don’t help, Henry could lose the deal.”

“Since when do you care about money?”

“It’s nice when my agenda involves a paycheck,” I said. “I like to be able to keep the lights on.”

Z drank his coffee. I took a forkful of huevos rancheros.

“And you liked Weinberg,” Z said.

“Yes,” I said. “Despite himself.”

“You really think he was honest?”

“No,” I said. “But I think he was good to his word.”

“Which we value.”

“Without it, you’re like some kind of animal.”

“Hemingway?”

“Holden,” I said.
“The Wild Bunch.”

“Haven’t seen it.”

“It’s a Western.”

“Westerns weren’t too popular on the rez,” Z said. “The good guys never win.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Only one right one, Kemosabe.” The Paramount was unusually slow for a morning. We did not feel rushed to give up our table.

“So is the deal off?” Z said. “Because Weinberg is dead.”

“His wife says it’s business as usual,” I said. “But the company is going to be in a lot of turmoil and they’ll need a swift resolution.”

Z nodded.

“The bodyguard said I could name my rate.”

“Naming your rate is a good incentive,” Z said. “So we’re back to Jemma.”

“Would you mind watching her some more?”

Z smiled slightly. “She’s a suspect?”

“I think cops call them a ‘person of interest’ these days.”

“What do you call her?” Z said.

“A suspect.”

Z nodded. A waitress came by and refilled our cups.

“Maybe they killed her, too,” Z said.

“Thought had crossed my mind.”

“But you like her for it.”

“Maybe she knows more about what’s going on,” I said. “What do you think of Blanchard?”

“Smart,” Z said. “Tough. But even when I was a drunk, I never lost my client. Even if I did not like what he was up to.”

“What if the boss tells the bodyguard to get lost?” I said.

“A good bodyguard stays with the client no matter what,” Z said. “It’s your reputation if something happens.”

“You speak from experience.”

Z nodded.

“How could Blanchard have lost someone as animated and loud as Rick Weinberg?” I said. “Weinberg couldn’t go to the toilet without making a Broadway production.”

I watched a banner scroll at the bottom of a local television station.
Casino Mogul Slain.
I checked my phone. Wayne Cosgrove had called me thirteen times that morning.

“When did Jemma Fraser check out of the hotel?” Z asked.

“Late yesterday.”

“Where is her car?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe the airport?” Z said.

“Police couldn’t find a record of her flying out,” I said. “I had my friend in Vegas check her home there. Nothing.”

“Credit cards?”

“Staties are on it.”

“Would they tell us if they found something?” Z said.

“Probably not.”

“So whatever we uncover, we do on our own.”

“They won’t prevent work, but they won’t help.”

Z nodded. He could see over my shoulder out the small window facing Charles Street and the Toscano restaurant. Without much enthusiasm, he said, “Looks like rain.”

“You must have danced last night.”

Z nodded. “Who would cut off a man’s head?” he said. “That’s some sick shit.”

I nodded.

“What now?” Z said.

“I can do this on my own.”

“If I can walk, I can work.”

“How’s your head?” I said.

“Thick,” Z said. He smiled. I smiled back.

“Henry says only one man knows you better than you know yourself.”

Z nodded. “Your competitor.”

30

EVERY TIME I FOUND
myself in Lexington, I felt the need to invest in a tricorner hat. The Minuteman statue on the Battle Green, the crooked headstones for dead soldiers in the Old Burying Ground, and the many taverns where Washington might have set his wooden teeth for the night brought out the Colonial in me. Harvey Rose’s house was a Colonial Revival, probably built a hundred years ago, considered practically brand new on Munroe Hill. Brilliant white and red-shuttered, the house had a second-floor terrace that looked out onto a small pond with blooming lily pads. The front door was also painted a basic red. Simple and unassuming went for several million in Lexington.

I speculated that Harvey Rose might be of help since he was Rick Weinberg’s only serious rival on the casino bid.

A sprinkler lightly misted the flower beds despite the gray skies. I rang the bell, and soon after a Hispanic house woman in a gray uniform opened the door. I presented her with my business card and stated I had an appointment with Mr. Rose. She nodded and left me with the door slightly cracked. Somewhere deep inside I heard voices, and another woman came to greet me.

She was very thin yet attractive. The kind of woman who had forgone the Botox and hair dyes and felt comfortable in her age. Her graying brown hair was tied up in a silk handkerchief, and gold hoops hung in her ears. The front of her jeans and designer T-shirt were covered in flour. She wore leather sandals decorated with Navajo beads.

“Harvey isn’t here,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I had an appointment.” I lied, but it was a good one. He hadn’t been at his office.

“He never meets anyone at home,” she said. She hugged herself as she studied me.

“Don’t tell me I made a mistake,” I said. “Harvey told me to find him at home this morning. We were going to have lunch.”

“I’m sorry, I need to check with someone,” she said. “We don’t have many visitors. Can you come back in an hour?”

“Let me consult with my personal assistant,” I said. “See what I can do. Sure hate to disappoint old Harv.”

She studied my face and my shoes some more. Women often study the shoes. I offered a smile fit for
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. She smiled, unconcerned by my steel-toed boots, as I stepped away and checked my voice mail. Besides Wayne Cosgrove calling thirteen times, a former client called and wanted to dispute expenses. Apparently, some of my lunches had been excessive. I spoke to the machine for a few seconds, nodding back to Mrs. Rose until well satisfied.

“We’re in luck,” I said. “I can stay. Would you recommend a good local lunch spot while I wait?”

“I’m sorry, this is just very unusual,” she said. “Given current events, I’m a little jumpy.”

“I don’t blame you for being cautious.”

“It’s just awful,” she said. “God-awful. May I ask why a private investigator wants to talk to my husband?”

“I work for the Weinberg family.”

She nodded. “There is that place on Massachusetts Avenue,” she said. “Right across from the park and down from the movie theater. It’s a decent enough deli.”

I drove back downtown and found the deli, and ordered the Paul Revere, roast beef with barbecue sauce, cheddar, lettuce, and tomato on an onion roll, with a scoop of potato salad. While I ate, I read a discarded copy of the
Lexington Minuteman
. Apparently, blueberry bushes were being replanted in historic Oak Knoll Farm, there had been a rash of streetlamp outages in the last week, and several accounts of BB guns shooting at windows and empty cars had been reported. The police lieutenant stated that most of the time these things turn out to be youths involved in random foolishness. I wondered if I could add that line to my business cards.

I read the
Minuteman
cover to cover and ordered a thin slice of cheesecake. I tried to think about anything but what I had seen in that trunk. If anything would qualify as pure horror, Weinberg’s head was it.

Nearly two hours later, I drove back to Harvey Rose’s newish Colonial and wound into the curve of the brick driveway. A large silver Mercedes SUV had been parked by the path to the front door. Two very unfriendly-looking men in sharply tailored suits stood on the steps. If they had been dogs, they would have most certainly been Dobermans. One had shaved his head nearly bald so that the stubble on his face was the same length. He was in his late twenties, medium-sized and hard-looking. The other was beefy, with thick brown hair and smallish eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. I bet my life somewhere he had a tattoo that read
MOM
.

I got out of my car and met them halfway up the path.

“You Spenser?” said the bald guy.

“Yep.”

“You come here to see Mr. Rose?”

“Yep.”

The beefy guy eyed me. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to his partner. His mouth twitched a bit. The bald guy just stared straight at me, not appraising as much as telegraphing unpleasantness. “Mr. Rose doesn’t know who the fuck you are,” Beefy said.

“I take it you are paraphrasing.”

“What?”

“Well, surely a former Harvard professor would never say ‘fuck.’”

“What the fuck do you want?” said the bald guy. His hands hung loose by the edge of his suit jacket. I detected the bulge of a gun on his right hip.