Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (24 page)

I clutched the flash drive in my hand and tried it out in my computer. My computer spoke to the flash drive, and in a couple seconds, a fifty-eight-page Excel document opened, filled with rows and columns of neatly aligned numbers and figures. At the top of several columns were names of many area banks. Running along the side of the document were dates of transfers. Gadzooks.

Being a trained detective, I noted this might mean something. Being someone who did not have a degree from Harvard Business School, I knew I needed a bit of help. I reached for the phone and called Wayne Cosgrove as I copied the Excel file to my hard drive. He did not graduate from HBS but would know someone who could translate.

“Hold for subscriptions,” Wayne said.

“I just received this neato electronic thingy in the mail,” I said. “It appears to highlight many banks’ wire transfers and payments over the course of the last six months.”

“Good for you.”

“Many payments of note go to a deluxe slush fund for Joseph G. Perotti.”

“And how did you come by this information?”

“On this neat thingy,” I said. “Sent in the mail.”

“Just showed up in your mail?”

“I do believe someone has been searching for it,” I said. “My office was torn apart a few days ago. Someone believed I had something of value.”

“Maybe you had other stuff they wanted.”

“They left the coffeepot, a .357, and my Vermeer prints.”

“Ah.” The buzzing phones and tapping keyboard sounds of the city newsroom came from the other end of the line. “When can I see it?”

“It says Perotti, but who knows if it’s genuine or who sent the funds.”

“You may be a trained investigator,” Wayne said, “but I am a trained muckraker. I know people who could read that thing if it was encrypted from the original Mandarin Chinese.”

“Good to know those people,” I said.

“You bet.”

I hung up and whistled for Pearl. But Pearl was already at the door, waiting for me to slip the choker over her neck. She must have heard the conversation and known.

“The game is afoot.”

Pearl stared and tilted her head.

“Tally ho,” I said.

Pearl was not impressed until I rolled down the passenger window on our way to the
Globe
newsroom in Dorchester. I placed the drive into an envelope and handed it over to Wayne at security. For what seemed like ten hours but was more likely two, Pearl and I took in the sights around Dorchester. I let her off the leash at an empty Joe Moakley Park and we strolled along the beach.

I finally met Wayne at a reporter gathering spot called the Harp and Bard and left Pearl in my car with the windows cracked. The bar was a newish pub with dozens of new televisions hanging from metal beams in the ceiling, along with old Bruins and Celtics flags. Wayne sat in a dark corner of the bar, studying an open folder.

A sign advertised a karaoke contest every Thursday at five p.m. Prizes awarded.

“We stick around long enough and we can enter,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” Wayne said. “What would you sing?”

“‘The Girl from Ipanema.’”

“Glad to know you’re keeping up with the times,” Wayne said.

I ordered the club with a Bud Light, and Wayne ordered a burger with a side of Jameson. After the bartender walked away, he shuffled his papers and looked at me.

“This appears to be some pretty damning stuff,” he said. “It shows direct payoffs going right to Perotti. Some of it is legal, but most of it isn’t.”

“Terrific.”

“But proving is another matter,” Wayne said. “I know what this says. But we don’t know if it’s bullshit.”

“And how can we find out?”

“A court order.”

“Or go through the cops.”

Wayne nodded. The bartender reappeared with my Bud Light and Wayne’s whiskey.

“Jesus, Spenser,” Wayne said. “Bud Light?”

“It’s not even noon,” I said. “Same as water.”

“But Bud Light,” he said. “I thought more of you.”

I shrugged. Wayne shook his head and rattled his whiskey around the ice. He looked down at his notes and then up at me. “You do understand what you are meant to see here?”

“Enlighten me.”

Wayne Cosgrove’s face morphed into a very serious expression. He tapped at the sheets of paper littering the inside of the file. “Two of these companies making the payoffs belong to Gino Fish,” he said.

I drank some beer and nodded.

“Who do you think sent it?” Wayne said.

“I have a few ideas,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

“You think Fish believes you have it?” Wayne said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “I know that Harvey Rose had a break-in recently. They stole several computers.”

“Wow.” Wayne tossed back some of his drink. “If this can be verified, I would have a hell of a story.”

“And what would I have?”

“If we could connect Harvey Rose and Gino Fish to Perotti, the shit would hit the fan.”

“Still doesn’t get me any closer to finding out who killed Rick Weinberg.”

“Not my job.” Wayne drank a bit more, settled into his booth, and sighed. “I sure would like to know who laid this in your lap. And who the hell wants to screw Harvey Rose so bad they break into his office and steal those files.”

“That list is growing shorter by the minute.”

“You want me to hold on to the drive?” Wayne said.

“I assume you made copies.”

Wayne handed me the drive, and I placed it in my jacket pocket.

“If something happens to me—” I said.

“I will write a glowing obit about a man who refused to conform to the times.”

“And maybe turn over this information to the state police.”

Wayne smiled and signaled the bartender for another round. “Oh, and that, too.”

58

GINO FISH DID BUSINESS
out of a brownstone on Tremont Street, in the South End. A plate-glass window next to the door read
DEVELOPMENT ASSOCIATES OF BOSTON
. You had to walk down a few steps to get to the door and enter a room walled in red brick. A handsome young man in his twenties greeted me at a small desk. The room was the same; the young man was new.

“What happened to Stan?” I said.

“He retired.”

“Put out to pasture?”

The young man smiled. He looked like a J.Crew model in a slim-fitting navy suit worn without socks. A large diamond sparkled in his left ear.

“Tell Mr. Fish Spenser is here.”

“Does he know you, Mr. Spenser?”

“We’re old pals.”

That may have been stretching it a bit. But the young man kept smiling as he disappeared behind a purple velvet curtain. After a few moments, Vinnie Morris appeared. He didn’t say anything, only looked me up and down.

“What do you have going on back there, a puppet show?” I said.

“Yeah,” Vinnie said.
“Punch and Judy.”

There was a larger room behind the purple curtain and more exposed brick, with worn floors that probably were made from the
Mayflower
. The light was dim and colored by Tiffany lamps. Tasteful antiques filled the room, including Gino Fish. Who was more antique these days than tasteful.

“To what do I owe the honor,” Gino said.

“Would you believe I’m in the market for a Chippendale desk?”

“No,” he said. “I would not.”

Gino stood from behind an old, well-polished desk and nodded me toward a chair in front of him. He took a seat back at the desk and spread his hands very wide. “Vinnie, please have Michael bring us some coffee. A little cream and sugar for our guest.”

I nodded.

“For an Italian crime boss, you often sound a lot like Alistair Cooke.”

“My father made sure his children were given the best educations.”

Fish smiled. The smile was uncomfortable but controlled. Gino’s newest young man appeared with a small tray filled with a French press, a sugar bowl, and a creamer.

Vinnie took a seat on a brown leather couch. He leaned forward in the dim light and made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to every word. I tossed him the flash drive to see his quick hands in action. Vinnie, being Vinnie, caught it in his left hand like a trapped fly.

“Got this in the mail, Gino,” I said. “It’s a pretty well-detailed account of payments from your various companies to the esteemed Joseph G. Perotti.”

Vinnie leaned back into the couch. Gino placed his hands flat on his knees. His skin had become more paper-thin, and the number of liver spots on his hands had grown. His eyes were hooded, and his lips were thin and purplish. He smelled like a basket of potpourri.

“So?” Gino said.

“Thought you might want it back,” I said.

“Very generous of you.”

Gino and Vinnie exchanged looks. Gino turned to me and slowly lifted his chin. He swallowed and then turned his attention to the coffee. Michael stepped forward and poured a cup for Gino and then for me. As he left, he pulled the curtain shut as if separating first class from coach.

“And what do you want in return?”

“Your undying gratitude?”

Gino looked to Vinnie. Vinnie shook his head and looked at the floor.

“And what else?”

“I want to know who killed Rick Weinberg and why.”

Gino leaned back in his seat. He left the coffee on the table, a wisp of steam curling up in the glow of the Tiffany shade. He pursed his purple lips. “And if I had him killed, I would lie to you.”

“Yes.”

“But you came anyway.”

“As a show of good faith.”

Gino nodded. He tented his long fingers before him. I never was sure why people did that when they were thinking. I thought they often did that to telegraph contemplation. I usually just tapped at my temple to fire up my brain.

“I have no idea who killed Rick Weinberg.”

“You say that with such conviction.”

Gino nodded.

“Obviously, there are some who have benefited by Rick Weinberg’s death.”

Vinnie and Gino exchanged another look. Gino nodded to Vinnie.

“Mr. Fish and Mr. Weinberg had been business partners.”

“Till death do you part?”

“Yep,” Vinnie said.

“And now Mr. Fish does not care to work with Jemma Fraser?”

“She did not impress me,” Gino said.

“I figured you would be immune to her obvious charms.”

Gino took in a long breath. He leaned forward and added a lot of cream but no sugar to his coffee. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t owe Rick Weinberg or any of his people a thing. I’ve found it may be to my advantage to work with another party.”

“And that would mean Harvey Rose and his group in Eastie,” I said.

Gino sipped his coffee. He artfully crossed his legs, his ankle touching the edge of his knee. He just smiled with the thousand-yard stare.

“May I infer from your silence that I’m correct?”

Gino smiled and sipped again.

“You do know who sent you that fucking thing,” Vinnie said.

I shrugged.

“Do you really think we wanted to kill that broad?” Vinnie said. “Jeez. Mr. Fish only wanted to speak to her.”

“About taking something that didn’t belong to her.”

“Now you got it, Spenser,” Vinnie said. “Now you got it.”

“I will do you another favor,” Gino said. “There has been an ill wind blowing in from the west since Mr. Weinberg’s death. There are individuals who have arrived in Boston who have not been invited, nor do they have any business being here.”

“Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”

“Wouldn’t you like some sugar in your coffee?” Gino said.

I added a couple cubes and milk. I sat back and drank coffee. Say what you want about Gino Fish, but he was a solid host. If he had brought out tea biscuits, I might have been convinced to work for the other side.

“And who hired them?” I said.

Gino widened his eyes. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

“Did you have them killed?”

“No.”

He drank some coffee. He looked to Vinnie, who leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Vinnie popped a piece of gum into his mouth and waited.

“Anyone else ask you to make inroads on Beacon Hill?”

Gino touched the parchmentlike skin that hung from his neck. He took in a deep breath, eyelids slowly drooping back into place. “Those men you mentioned do not come cheap. They are well connected and well paid. And they got in my way.”

I nodded. I was not thrilled with the way this was headed.

“Vinnie knows a man named Zebulon Sixkill who has recently fallen under my tutelage,” I said. “If you find him caught in the crossfire, I would appreciate him remaining unharmed.”

Gino uncrossed his legs. He stretched his neck and rubbed his fingers across his jawline. “And I would like the same arrangement for Mr. Perotti. Can you see to this?”

“That may be more difficult,” I said. “Some other people know.”

“But can they prove it?”

I shrugged.

“Let’s keep it that way, Mr. Spenser.”

Vinnie looked at me, seeming odd in his tailored suit and neatly barbered hair, and blew a huge bubble. The bubble popped in the brick room like a gunshot.

59

“THAT LYING LITTLE BITCH
is making a goddamn mess out of everything,” Rachel Weinberg said.

“It certainly appears that way.”

We sat together in the back of the black Lincoln, with Lewis Blanchard at the wheel. I had been summoned to accompany Blanchard to Logan to pick up Rachel. I had dressed in jeans, a herringbone jacket, a blue button-down, and no tie. I did not want to appear overly eager. But I did come armed with news of the winds swirling in Boston, ill and otherwise.

“First she hires some local hooligans to scare people from a condo we need,” Rachel said. “And now she’s breaking into Harvey Rose’s offices to blackmail him. This is why she has no business running our company. Rick would have never acted like such an idiot. She has gone batshit crazy.”

Rachel smoked down one of her thin cigarettes. The windows were up because of the rain and fogged the car. The windshield wipers sliced water from the gray landscape of overpasses and on- and off-ramps.

“I don’t know if she broke into his office or if she had someone do it,” I said. “I am merely speculating.”