Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (17 page)

I was. But I politely declined.

“Pour me a drink?” Rachel said. She stubbed out the cigarette.

I poured some scotch over cracked ice and topped it off with a little soda and passed it to her.

Blanchard continued to stare out the window. I heard the cop in the other room talking on a cell phone.

“We had been married forty years,” she said. “Holy Christ.”

“Has anyone been able to figure out why Rick left in the middle of the night?”

“The police said no one called the room,” she said.

“And his cell?”

“Was lost with him,” Rachel said. She took a healthy swallow. The ice rattled in her glass. Her throat moved as she drank more. “Did you hear they found his body?”

I nodded.

“He was a good man, Mr. Spenser,” she said. “He was not perfect, but he was very good.”

I nodded. “That accounts for a lot.”

“Did you know I married the son of a bitch twice?” she said. “We met in college. Got married as kids and divorced after twenty years. We remarried two years later after he had a fling with a cocktail waitress. He bought me a Cadillac that Frank Sinatra had owned as a wedding gift. He was crazy and wonderful.”

She began to cry. I was quiet for a long while. She stood up quickly and went to the bathroom, where I heard gagging and the toilet flush. She came back as if nothing had happened. She brushed at her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Cops said they couldn’t find him on hotel security cameras,” she said. “How is that even possible?”

Blanchard walked back toward us. He poured himself coffee and sat down. He rubbed his bristled chin in thought. “Anything on Jemma?”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask Rose?”

“He said they had not been in touch for some time.”

He nodded in thought. “Maybe that’s true,” he said. “Maybe not.”

“Did Rick ever mention problems with organized crime here?” I said.

“The Mob?” Blanchard laughed and shook his head. “He said most of the Italians were in prison or dead.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I’m being told those who remained resented you guys opening up gambling in the Commonwealth.”

“If they did,” Blanchard said, “they did not make themselves known to us.”

“When you came to Boston,” I said, “where did Rick reach out for local support?”

Blanchard again consulted with Rachel. Rachel had her bare feet tucked up under her. She nursed the scotch. As she swallowed, she rolled her index finger, telling Blanchard to get on with it.

“We bought up most of the land through anonymous buyers,” Blanchard said. “That last condo was the sticking point. It was a pain in the ass because people still lived there. They were old and difficult. The other parcels, the goddamn dog track and all the other spots, were empty. We had been working that deal for five years.”

“So all his meetings were about land,” I said.

“Most,” Blanchard said. He sipped some coffee. “Politicians, too. You know the drill, got to grease the wheel.”

“Was there one wheel that needed more grease than others?”

Blanchard’s face remained impassive. “I can’t discuss that,” he said. “That’s one thing Rick would want to keep private.”

I looked to Rachel Weinberg. Her eyes roamed over mine. She closed her eyes and took another sip.

“If I’m to help you,” I said, “I need to know all of Rick’s business. Not just what you put on the books. Or what you think I should know.”

“This could get ugly,” Rachel said. “Rick would not want it.”

“It’s not pretty right now, Mrs. Weinberg.”

“We have obligations,” she said. “Promises.”

“Some people don’t know I have a middle name,” I said. “But it’s actually Discreet.”

“This was one area that Rick dealt with personally,” she said. “He insisted on it. I don’t even know all the details.”

I looked to Blanchard. He just drank more coffee.

“Handing out gold only makes friends,” Rachel said. “It doesn’t make enemies.”

“‘Nothing gold can stay.’”

“What?” Blanchard said.

“Just thinking out loud.”

“Confidential matters have to remain confidential,” Rachel said. “Nothing has changed. Business continues. We have to keep Rick’s wishes.”

“I need to know who got the payoffs,” I said.

Neither answered.

“I know this whole thing is ugly and horrific, Mrs. Weinberg. If it were me, I might not have the energy to get out of bed. You asked me to help, and I am trying. But I can’t get you answers if you treat me like the hired help.”

“That’s enough, Spenser.” Blanchard stood up.

I asked again. Blanchard pointed to the door.

I shrugged. Begging would only demean my stature as a professional investigator. I said my good-byes, walked past the cop, and let myself out.

38

MY PHONE BUZZED
in my jacket pocket while I was cutting through the Public Garden on the way back to my apartment. “Where are you?” Jemma Fraser said. She sounded out of breath, as if maybe she was walking.

“Standing on a bridge and watching tourists feed ducks.”

“I need you.”

“My significant other may disapprove.”

“I’m being followed,” she said. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

“That would put a damper on an evening.”

“I’m fucking serious,” she said. “I need help.”

“Where have you been, and who is trying to kill you?”

“I’m at Copley Place,” she said. “And I have no idea. This man has been following me for the last hour. The mall is closing and I’m afraid to leave.”

“Talk to a security guard.”

“And then what?” she said. Still walking. Still out of breath. “I don’t want to end up like Rick.”

“So you’ve been hiding?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Ducks paddled under the stone bridge. An older black man hoisted a little girl up into his arms. She tossed some broken crackers into the water. She smiled. The old man smiled. He let her back down on the bridge and they walked on hand in hand.

“Why me?” I said. “Why not call Blanchard?”

“Blanchard hates me.”

“He thought you might be dead,” I said. “Rachel Weinberg did, too.”

“For an ace detective, there is a lot you don’t know,” she said. “Will you come or not? All the shops are closing. My credit cards have been frozen. I have no money. Nowhere to go.”

“I must have the word ‘sucker’ removed from my forehead.”

“I can help you.”

“Do you know who killed Weinberg?”

“Please.”

“Were you with him before he died?”

“I am on the second level,” she said. “God, there are two of them now.”

“Go to the bar at Legal,” I said. “They’ll be open late. Nobody will make a move there.”

“Please hurry.”

The phone went dead. I wished Hawk was back in town. I wished Z was full strength and Vinnie and I were on the same team. But before them there was just me. And self-reliance was a hell of a thing.

39

INSIDE COPLEY PLACE,
I passed the J.Crew, Kenneth Cole, Calvin Klein, and Armani Exchange. I walked alone, listening to a Muzak version of “April in Paris.” But I was well armed and well dressed. Only a fool would try to shoot a man in his best sport coat. I spotted no ruffians lurking about. I heard no mysterious clacking on the marble floors. Harry Lime, where were you?

As promised, Legal did not let me down. The restaurant had a smattering of patrons. Most of them at the bar. Jemma sat at the far-left corner near the kitchen. A gray-haired man in a black suit with a loosely buttoned black shirt leaned over her with a sharp leer. As I walked up, he turned to eye me. He turned back to Jemma and said, “I bike, kayak in season, do a lot of outdoors training.”

The bartender placed a martini in front of her.

“Hello,” I said.

The guy in the black suit gave me a steely stare. He sipped a glass of white wine and continued to talk as if I were a figment of his imagination. “You have great legs.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I do a lot of squats.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, buddy,” he said. He took a dramatic sip of his wine. He turned his steely gaze back to Jemma. He was a bit wobbly on his feet, closing time his specialty. I stood close to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He took his white wine and left.

“God,” Jemma said. “What did you say to him?”

“It would only make you think less of me.”

“Profane?”

“Extremely.”

She reached for the fresh martini on the bar. Legal, like all the Legals I have dined in, was a lot of dark wood and brass. They had a nifty neon sign shaped like a cod. I ordered a Sam Adams to keep with the program. Jemma’s hand shook enough that she needed them both to steady the glass.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “When I walked in here, they didn’t follow me.”

“I know all the best late-night spots.”

“I am scared shitless.”

“Why do things like that sound better with an accent?”

“They were waiting for me,” she said. “They were the men who came for Rick.”

“How do you know?”

She sipped the martini. It was served dirty, with extra olives. The bartender brought me my beer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “How would I know?”

“You said you saw Weinberg before he was abducted.”

“I did,” she said. “But I don’t know where he went or when he left the hotel.”

“What time did you see him and where?”

“He came to my room,” she said. “He was drunk.”

“Time?”

“Early,” she said. “Right after dinner. Maybe nine?”

“Where was Blanchard?”

“Obviously not with him,” she said. “Of course.”

“But of course.”

I drank some beer. “Are you hungry?”

“God, no,” she said. “I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“There is a feast in the King Suite at the Four Seasons,” I said. “Maybe we should stop back by.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. She drank a sizable portion of the martini. She looked at me for a moment and then at the neatly aligned bottles of vodka. When she finished the drink, I signaled the bartender.

“Why did Weinberg come to see you?” I said.

“Why do you suppose?”

“To further his discussion on talking rabbits and disappearing cats?”

“He wanted to get into my knickers.”

“I guess that would hold more interest,” I said. I judiciously took another sip.

“Were you and he . . . ?” I said.

“Can’t you say it?”

“I don’t want to be indiscreet.”

“Were we fucking?”

I inhaled and held my words.

“Rick and I enjoyed each other’s company,” she said.

“But that night?”

“No,” she said. “No. Not that night.”

“And why would he make a pass after firing you?” I said.

“He said he was sorry,” she said. “He wanted to explain his decision to me.”

The martini was served. I sipped my beer and studied the scene. I saw no one sauntering out in the mall carrying Thompsons.

“What did these men look like?”

“Swarthy,” she said. “Young.”

“Sounds like the title of a Mexican soap opera,” I said. “Had you seen them before?”

“I said no.”

I took another small sip. I put down the glass and lightly tapped the bar top with my fingers. “So, going back,” I said. “When you thwarted Rick’s advances, how did he react?”

“He put on his pants and left.”

“Did he arrive pantsless?” I said.

“He took them off when he walked in.”

“Quite an entrance.”

“He was very drunk,” she said.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“You said there is a lot I don’t know,” I said. “Like what? Besides Weinberg needed tips on seduction.”

“I promise to tell you,” she said. “But by all means, please get me out of here.”

I studied the room again. Silver Hair had paid his tab and was escorting a new friend from the room. A man eating a lobster roll finished and dabbed his greasy lips with a napkin. He turned his attention to key lime pie and coffee. I did not see a single individual who was young, swarthy, or menacing. The waiter announced that the kitchen was closed and it would be last call.

My night was going well.

“So where to?”

“I have no money.”

“I will pay.”

“I have nowhere to stay.”

“Will you help me?” I said.

“Yes,” Jemma Fraser said. Her eyes were big and brown and pleading. She had freckles across her cheeks, giving her a kidlike quality up close. I signed the check and she grabbed for her purse.

“If you come with me,” I said, “I can promise to keep my pants on.”

40

MARLBOROUGH WAS VERY QUIET
and pocketed in shadows and squares of light from the red-brick buildings and brownstones. The orange-white light of the streetlamps glowed intermittently from Arlington onward, toward Dartmouth and beyond.

I looked east to west and did not hear a sound. A black sedan of some type passed and continued down the one-way street. I watched as the taillight glowed and the car hung a right on Berkeley. I took a breath and opened the passenger-side door. Jemma was silent and a bit wobbly on her tall heels as she got out of the Explorer. Cars lined nearly every inch of the street.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can you walk on your own?”

Nod. I helped her anyway.

There was a light click of a door opening. And then another. I nearly did not hear it. I reached for Jemma’s hand and hustled her across the street as two men approached us. They were both young and swarthy and blocked the steps to my apartment. They both wore dark suits with dark dress shirts and no ties. The word “eek” came to mind but did not feel appropriate. I could ask them if they would let us through or comment on the nice spring night. Or we could turn tail and run. Unfortunately, I did not think Jemma could get far in six-inch heels and full of three vodka martinis.

No one said anything.

One of the men walked down two steps and shoved me with the heel of his right hand. He was thick and muscular, like a competitive weight lifter. But I had expected it and widened my stance. The other reached for Jemma and grabbed her by the elbow, dragging her to the open door of a sedan. I reached for her wrist with my left hand and clocked the young man with an overhand right. He wavered. Jemma screamed. His pal jumped on my back and started to pound my head using the bottom of his fist as a hammer. I spun him toward the glass door and rammed him against it. The glass shattered and he fell halfway into the vestibule. The other man had reached out for Jemma again, pulling her into the car by a handful of hair. He threw her inside and slammed the door shut. He was halfway around the hood of his car when I slipped a forearm around his throat and pounded his head with my left hand. He fell to the ground and I got a knee in the base of his skull, pushing his face flush to the street. I grabbed a handful of his hair and knocked his head against the bumper of the sedan.