Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (21 page)

Rachel Weinberg leaned her head back. She took in a deep breath. “Bullshit,” she said. “You want to sit around with your dicks in your hands until you see who’s going to take charge for the widow. Or are you fishing for more money?”

I enjoyed the company of Rachel Weinberg.

“This has been a bad shock to all of us,” Coffone said.

“I’m sorry my husband’s brutal murder has been so hard on you,” Rachel said.

Buddy looked up from his menu. He signaled the waitress and asked for a western omelet with french fries. He continued to work at whatever was in his tooth with his little finger.

“If the picture cleared up,” I said, “would that make a difference?”

“Like if whoever did this was locked up?” Buddy said.

“Exactly, Buddy,” Henry said.

Coffone shrugged. Buddy followed.

Blanchard drank coffee. He turned his head very slightly, studying Z, who was outside, leaning against my SUV. Z had his arms across his chest, watching traffic zip by on 1A. No judge had ever been as sober.

“I can legally hold you to the agreement,” Rachel Weinberg said.

“Lot has happened.” Coffone gave a smile befitting a condo board president. “People have been killed. Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we have consulted with a new attorney.”

Henry looked at me. He had not been notified.

“Has anyone at the Ocean View been approached in the last few days?” I said.

“Since Big Chief got his ass handed to him?” Buddy said.

I just stared at Buddy. I waited. Buddy craned his head to the kitchen, looking for his western omelet. There was great clamoring in the kitchen. The cook rang a bell.

“Nobody,” Coffone said. “But we’re all scared to death. Nobody even wants to go to the store or get their dry cleaning. We just kind of want to be left alone now.”

“Holdouts,” Rachel said under her breath.

Coffone nodded. “What would you do? This is the only thing we got left. What we get from this deal is how our children and grandchildren remember us.”

Rachel Weinberg rolled her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stood. Blanchard pushed his chair back and waited. “This is the last goddamn thing Rick wanted to see through,” she said. “Think about that legacy.”

Coffone opened his mouth.

Rachel Weinberg held up a finger to silence him.

“Excuse me, but I’ll be gone for two days,” she said. “Now that my husband has been reassembled, I have a funeral to plan and attend. I hope your nerves settle by the time I get back.”

Rachel Weinberg walked out. Blanchard widened his eyes and followed.

Henry and I sat there with Coffone and Buddy. Everyone stayed quiet while we ate.

“Should have ordered the hash,” I said.

49

“ARE YOU BUSY?”
Wayne Cosgrove said.

“Extremely,” I said, phone cradled against my ear.

I had spent the afternoon cleaning my office, refiling files, and looking in catalogs for a new sofa for Pearl. The Vermeer prints now hung razor straight.

“So I guess you don’t have time to find out what I found out about Weinberg’s political donations?”

I put down the dustpan, and sat at my chair with the phone. Z looked up at me from the cushionless sofa, reading a copy of
The Ring
. The blues and purples on his face had faded to a yellowish hue.

“On the official contribution list, I found pretty much the expected,” Wayne said. “He greased the palms of everyone he should. Right and left. He gave a few thousand here and there. Senators, congressmen. Council folks in Revere. Usual suspects.”

“Okay.”

“But being the true muckraker I am, I also looked into contributions given to super-PACs in the Commonwealth,” he said.

“Which I understand is legal.”

“A candidate can take as much money as he or she wants from a super-PAC, but the Supreme Court says all donors must be made public. And late last year, through his front Envolve Development, it looks like Weinberg gave nearly a half mil to a super-PAC run by the brother of Joseph G. Perotti.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost.”

“And you might ask what Perotti has to do with casino licenses?”

“Mr. Cosgrove, just what does Joseph Perotti have to do with casino licenses?”

“As speaker of the house?”

“Yep.”

“Everything.”

“Aha.”

“Damn right.”

“What’s your bar tab running now?”

“You’ve gone from a bottle of Blanton’s up to a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.”

“The seventeen or the twenty-three?”

“I like my bourbon ancient.”

“Done.”

“Just wait,” Wayne said. “I followed up. Dug deeper. Quarterly reports were just filed for Perotti’s super-PAC. I did not see Weinberg’s name or anyone related to Envolve.”

I waited. Z had set aside his boxing magazine and listened.

“But I did see a more-than-generous contribution from someone else,” Wayne said.

“Harvey Rose?” I said.

“Which means our illustrious speaker has jumped ship.”

“Did the donation confirm that?”

“What do you think?” Wayne said.

I thanked Wayne and hung up. I looked to Z. He sat up straight and set his cowboy boots on the floor. Pearl looked from me to him, waiting for a word. I wondered if Pearl knew much about super-PACs.

“Seems like we now know the missing link.”

Z nodded. “Who?”

“A politician,” I said. “Shocked?”

“Cree takes everyone on faith. Especially white politicians. Why would they lie?”

“This one sold out Rick Weinberg before he got killed,” I said. “Be good to know why.”

Z stood up. “Why don’t we go ask?”

I smiled. “Let’s.”

50

Z AND I SPENT
the afternoon on Beacon Hill.

I showed him the Hall of Flags, Doric Hall, and the murals opposite the main staircase. The State House was indeed grand in marble, mahogany, and brass. I took interest in murals of the Civil War and our war with Spain. Z studied the rotunda mural of John Eliot preaching to the Indians and the giant stained window of an Indian in a grass skirt. It read “Come and Help Us.” Z was not impressed.

At about four o’clock, the House broke for the day and I found a spot to rest my elbows on a filigreed iron banister.

Forty minutes later, Joseph G. Perotti, house speaker, emerged from his office. He made his way down the marble hallway with official clicking of his official shoes. He was discussing a matter of great importance to a flustered young woman in a navy pantsuit. She held many files in both arms. Perotti was empty-handed.

“Speaker,” I said.

He smiled. He offered his hand. Politicians often do goofy things like that to strangers.

“I am one of your proud constituents,” I said. “Duke Snider.”

“Glad to meet you, Duke,” he said. He shook my hand with both of his. Z continued to watch with detached interest down from the third-floor railing. An imposing statue of Roger Wolcott had his back.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

“I’m already late,” he said. “My secretary sets my appointments.”

“Is that how you met both Mr. Rose and Mr. Weinberg?”

Perotti stopped his happy skip down the marble steps. He turned to me. Perotti was a rotund little man with thinning gray hair and a brushy gray mustache. He wore rimless glasses in gold frames. I waited and he told his aide to meet him at the bottom of the steps. Perotti leaned in. “You fucking people from the
Globe
,” he said. “I just got through answering questions for that son of a bitch Wayne Cosgrove, and now you brace me on my way out.”

“Bracing?” I said. “Nope. Only asking. I’m not with the
Globe
, but I’m sure Mr. Cosgrove will appreciate your comments.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Just a constituent interested in the fate of some land in Revere.”

“What do you want?”

“When did you tell Rick Weinberg you switched teams?”

Perotti shook his head. His face grew red as he peered down the marble staircase to his young aide. He nodded very quickly. She trotted off. Time was short. Perotti began to move again, holding on to the rail, trying his best to escape me.

Z watched from above.

“Were you brokering a deal with Gino Fish,” I said, “or on your own?”

“I don’t know any such person.”

“Everybody with an office in the building is aware of Mr. Fish.”

“Not me.”

“But you were to broker a deal,” I said. “Pave some roads.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “Bullshit.”

Perotti rested for a moment at a landing near the bottom of the stairs. He wiped his brow with the flat of his hand. He was potbellied and winded. The aide had returned with a couple of house security guards. They began to approach. I looked up; Z had disappeared.

“All I want to know is why Rick Weinberg was killed. I leave you out of it.”

“I never met the man,” he said. He grasped the railing again and continued his descent.

I followed.

“What else did Harvey Rose offer?”

“You are insane,” he said, just as we hit the last step. Each security guard grabbed one of my arms. They asked what I had done. I looked to Perotti, and he blanched. I ripped free of one of the guards and raised my fist high in the air. “Free the Sacred Cod.”

“Sir,” a guard said.

“Insane,” Perotti repeated.

He and his aide clacked off. The guards escorted me out of the building. Z was waiting for me on the steps where Beacon meets Park. He had found a comfortable spot on a bench. “Why’d they let you go?”

“Perotti told them I was just an ordinary nut.”

“Which means he has something to hide.”

“Yep.”

“And he will jostle the source.”

“One can hope.”

Z pushed himself off the iron bench. I could tell he was still in some considerable pain. He walked down Beacon and back toward my office. The day had warmed, and we removed our leather jackets as we strolled. It was hard to be dignified when you had just proclaimed to worship a fish.

51

I MET LEWIS BLANCHARD
that night at the Bristol Lounge. Happy hour was over and the bar had thinned of patrons. We found a small table only a few steps from the taps and drank cold Sierra Nevadas as we discussed details of Rick Weinberg’s funeral.

“She wanted me to stay here,” he said. He toasted me with his second beer.

“Punishment?”

“Didn’t say that,” Blanchard said. “She said she trusted me to continue working in her absence. I should have been there. I should have gone.”

I nodded. “A lot riding on Wonderland.”

“And now with the white-hairs spooked, holy crap,” he said. “You think they’re holding out?”

I shrugged. “I think they may be genuinely scared shitless. And a bit greedy.”

“Gaming commission will want detailed plans in a few months,” he said. “In a couple weeks we got to pony up a half mil for the registration fee.”

“Nonrefundable,” I said.

“If we can’t get this parcel, how are we supposed to get all of Revere behind us?” Blanchard said. “I want this for Mr. Weinberg. I really do. I mean, Christ, he used to come here as a kid. His dream was to bring back Wonderland. So much work to go to waste. Who wants that putz Rose to get the license?”

I nodded. I drank some more beer. I got to it. “Lewis, do you know who Joe Perotti is?”

“Holy Christ.”

“Nope,” I said. “He’s the house speaker of this great commonwealth.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Mr. Weinberg left a trail of very large bread crumbs.”

“Rachel is going to be pissed.”

“You don’t owe him,” I said.

Lewis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his jaw, nodding. “We need him,” he said. “Who else knows?”

“He’d promised to push Wonderland through.”

“Yes,” Blanchard said. “The reason why Rachel didn’t want him involved in your investigation. Holy crap.”

“Did you know he accepted twice the amount of Rick’s donation from Harvey Rose?”

Blanchard’s mouth opened and hung there for a few seconds.

“You really didn’t know.”

“Perotti had been elusive lately,” Blanchard said. “He was the main reason Mr. Weinberg was in Boston. He was trying to nail down Perotti on terms.”

“Percentages?”

“I don’t know the details,” Blanchard said. “Like we said, Mr. Weinberg preferred those terms to be worked out direct.”

“Did Rick ever say where this money would be funneled?”

“Nope.”

“Mention the name Gino Fish?”

“I know who he is,” Blanchard said. “I know he was the one person who had to get behind all this if it were to happen.”

“Did he?”

Blanchard shrugged. “Was yet to be determined.”

I leaned back. I drank some more beer. A man in a tuxedo and a woman in a sparkly dress sidled up to the bar. The woman was giggling. The man had a smug look as he patted her backside. If I patted Susan’s backside in public, I’d meet her left hook.

“What can you tell me about Jemma Fraser?”

Blanchard grinned. He leaned forward. He had recently cut his receding silver hair. The cuffs of his blue oxford had been rolled back to the elbows, showing off thick forearms. He looked like he’d broken his knuckles plenty of times. “What do you want to know?”

“Is she to be trusted?”

Blanchard grinned some more. “Hell, no.”

“You find her recent replacement as CEO a bit shady.”

“You don’t?”

“I find some of the family dynamics tricky.”

“You mean that Mr. Weinberg was shagging her while he got the board to approve the contingency clause.”

“That’s the one.”

Blanchard tilted his head. He crossed his legs. Two men having a nice business drink after a day making sales. The waitress returned and asked if we’d like another round. We did.

“Let me say I don’t think Jemma had Rick killed,” Blanchard said. “I think she had more to gain with Mr. Weinberg doing what he was doing.”

“What was that?”

“Taking care of Jemma.”

“And what if Harvey Rose is now taking care of Speaker Perotti?” I said.

“We’re fucked.”

“Officially speaking.”