Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (26 page)

“Nope.”

“But you subpoenaed the provider,” I said. “The provider would have to turn over what they had.”

“Takes more time than you think.”

“Phone is lost at sea,” I said. “But any texts or voice mails would still exist.”

“Remember the days when we just dealt with Ma Bell,” Healy said. “Jesus, it was much easier.”

“I used to send a box of chocolates and flowers every Valentine’s Day to my favorite operator.”

“Let me see where we stand,” Healy said. “You know something?”

“Did you guys happen to find Jemma Fraser?” I said.

“You don’t know where she is, either.”

“You looking for her?” I said.

“We are.”

“May I ask why?”

“Off the record?”

“Yep.”

Healy took a deep breath. “She is what we call a ‘person of interest.’”

“That would make Rachel Weinberg a very happy woman,” I said.

“Yep,” Lundquist said. “She is of interest on a great many things. We have her arriving yesterday in Boston, and then she’s fucking Houdini.”

“Registered at a hotel?”

“Nope,” Healy said.

“Talked to any business associates?”

“She’s missed two important meetings,” Lundquist said. “Nobody in the company can find their new CEO. That’s a little strange.”

He slowed the car. We had made it to Kendall Square right by the Longfellow Bridge. “You want us to put you out where we found you?” Healy said.

“This works,” I said.

“You’ll find your way back?” Lundquist said.

“Does it matter?” I reached for Pearl’s leash. “I’m still looking for a place to start.”

I tried calling Z again. No answer.

62

AFTER A SHOWER
and change of clothes, I was still flummoxed. So flummoxed, I drove back to my office and uncorked a bottle of Black Bush.

A blank yellow legal pad sat on my desk. I had yet to hear from Z or hear from Healy or make any sense of what was going on in Wonderland. I thought maybe it had something to do with me not turning on my office lights. So I did. My door was slightly ajar. Rain blew in from the Atlantic. It was nearly night, and for an odd reason, I didn’t care about eating. Instead, I checked the time, and realizing it was three hours earlier in Vegas, called up Bernie Fortunato. Bernie, being one of those guys who kept a cell screwed into his ear, answered after one ring.

“It’s a comfort knowing you’re there for me.”

“Where’s my fucking check?”

“In the mail.”

“I don’t usually go about business that way,” he said. “That’s like a broad telling you that you’re her first.”

“Jaded.”

“What do you need?”

“More snooping services are required.”

“You’re lucky this is a slow time for me.”

“You’d make time,” I said.

“You say.”

“I need you to get to the Clark County clerk’s office before they close.”

“Sure.”

“And search for anything of note filed on Rick Weinberg, Rachel Weinberg, or Jemma Fraser in the last few months.”

“Sure,” he said. “You want to tell me what the fuck I’m looking for?”

“Legal issues,” I said.

“A hint?”

“Maybe a lawsuit brewing between Rachel Weinberg and Jemma Fraser. Or maybe something within the company.”

“Sure, sure.”

He hung up. I hung up. I poured a nip of Black Bush into my coffee cup. I leaned back into my chair, propped my feet on the edge of my desk, and listened to the steady rain and the traffic sounds out on Berkeley. The whiskey tasted more warm and welcoming on a wet day. So welcoming, I drank some more.

After a time, I dropped my feet to the floor, picked up the phone, and called Susan, who also answered after one ring.

“You and Bernie.”

“Me and Bernie what?”

“Loyal pals.”

“So what’s the news from Berkeley and Boylston?”

“How’d you know I was in my office?”

“There is a new thing called caller ID,” she said.

“Ah.”

“Have you spoken to Z?”

“Nope.”

“Found out who killed Rick Weinberg?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s ‘sort of’?”

“I know who committed the act but not who made the call.”

I explained.

“And how is Z?”

“Z has disappeared, and so has Jemma Fraser.”

“Perhaps a romantic getaway?”

I stayed silent. I told her about Healy and the state police looking for her, too. I told her the abbreviated version of Joseph G. Perotti and his magical bank account. She was not shocked.

“And what will Gino Fish do if his dirty laundry makes it into the
Globe
?”

“Be further annoyed.”

“‘Annoyed’ is an underwhelming word.”

After we hung up, I leaned back in the office chair and watched the odd patterns of light along Berkeley and the comings and goings of cars along Boylston.

I looked at my watch. I called Henry. Still no Z.

“Any more ideas?” I said.

“Aren’t you the fucking detective?”

“Yeah, but sometimes I need a reminder.”

I hung up, grabbed my raincoat and ball cap, and locked the door behind me.

63

I TRIED ALL
the spots Z was known to frequent, and some that were just wild guesses. I did not have a picture of him to pass around. The description of a big Indian seemed to be enough. After the happy-hour rush, I found myself sitting at J. J. Donovan’s at Faneuil Hall. Z and I often came here for a beer after working out. I ate a cheeseburger and fries and drank some Sam Adams on tap. J. J. Donovan’s was a solid bar despite being located in the hub of tourist central.

The Sox game was on, and I watched while I waited for Henry to close up. I had already asked the bartender about Z. She said she had never seen a real-life Indian except in movies. I asked which movies, and she said
The Searchers
. We talked about
The Searchers
for a while.

I drank the beer very slowly. A handful of patrons hustled in and out, their jackets and hats soaked from the rain. The Sox were dry in Toronto, down in the bottom of the eighth.

The waitress smiled brightly and removed my empty plate. She brought me a new Sam Adams without being asked.

I had a few sips and my cell buzzed. Unable to hear much in crowded spots, I took the call outside on the pedestrian mall. The rain swept across the old brick street, but it was quiet.

“Okay,” Fortunato said. “I made it to the clerk’s office and stuck around till they closed. This’ll all be on the bill. But it takes time, this stuff.”

“Of course.”

“And now I’m on the other side of town,” Fortunato said. “And I had to grab a sandwich. If I had been by my office, I wouldn’t need to go and get a fucking sandwich.”

“Naturally.”

“Okay,” Fortunato said. “You ready, or you want me to call back?”

“I am all ears.”

“So I went looking for any civil suits,” Fortunato said. “I cross-referenced anything with Rachel and Rick Weinberg or that broad you mentioned.”

“Jemma Fraser.”

“Right,” he said. “Her. I also had a list of all the known corporations Weinberg operated in Nevada.”

“And.”

“And I didn’t get jack,” he said. “There was some bullshit from a knucklehead who’d run up two hundred grand at Weinberg’s casino and now claims he was Weinberg’s guest. Basically he stiffed the joint and wants Weinberg to pay him or some crap.”

“So,” I said. “No lawsuits from Rachel Weinberg. No recent suits against the board of directors or against Jemma Fraser. I’m looking for something with these women trying to get more from the will.”

“I didn’t see nothin’ like that. I went back six months before they turned off the lights on me. You want me to head back tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

There was an old-fashioned iron street clock in front of the bar. If the old clock was right, it was nearly nine o’clock. Henry would be back soon.

“The only thing I saw with both the Weinbergs was motions filed in their divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rick Weinberg filed two weeks ago.”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”

“I thought you were working for her?”

“I was.”

“And she hadn’t told you?”

“Nope. You said Rick filed it?”

“I wouldn’t want to cross the daughter of old man Polizzi,” Fortunato said. “Do you know who her old man was?”

“A noted Las Vegas philanthropist?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fortunato said. “Christ, Spenser. I would have charged you double if I’d known Weinberg’s wife was a fucking Polizzi.”

“I guess she didn’t advertise.”

“You want me to fax it to your office?” he said. “I made copies of this and of the other thing with the deadbeat.”

I thought about what I’d learned from Healy about the dead men in Chelsea. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”

“You said that already, chief.”

“I feel like saying it again.”

“The sandwich wasn’t much,” he said. “But don’t go nuts when you see it was eighteen bucks.”

“Go get yourself a steak dinner and a bottle of red,” I said. “On me.”

I spotted Henry coming down Clinton Street, flags American and otherwise popping in the wind. He was still dressed in white workout clothes but had on a ball cap. I told Fortunato I’d call him back.

“Anything?” Henry said.

“Nothing on Z,” I said. “Go inside and get a beer. I’ll be right behind you.”

Henry shrugged and walked inside. I called Healy on his cell.

“This better be worth it,” Healy said. “I don’t just hand out my personal cell for the hell of it.”

“Any luck with those phone records?”

“God’s smiling on you today. We got them at lunch and finished them up a few hours later. Lundquist and I both read them. Couldn’t see jack shit. Bunch of crazy texts. Nothing jumped out.”

“Can I see them tonight?”

“Jesus,” Healy said. “You do realize I have a life.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“Okay, okay,” Healy said. “Christ. Meet you at 1010. So where’s the fire?”

“Rick Weinberg filed for divorce two weeks ago.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll bring you the filing,” I said.

Healy was quiet for a long while. “Christ.”

“Anything coming back to you about those texts now?”

“Rachel Weinberg uses a lot of colorful language.”

“Nothing else?”

“Like she threatened to cut off his fucking head?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like that.”

“Not that I recall.”

“What about between Jemma Fraser and Weinberg?”

“Some dirty shit,” Healy said. “But nothing illegal in Massachusetts.”

“Ms. Fraser seems to have dropped off the face of the earth with my former apprentice,” I said.

“Maybe they took off to Tahiti and he’s drinking mai tais and getting laid.”

“Susan suggested the very thing.”

“He’s a big, tough guy, Spenser,” Healy said. “I bet he’s just trying to lay low with this woman till it’s safe. She’s got a dead boss, an attempted kidnapping with one of the guys dead. Not to mention the two sluggers who got whacked who may have been coming for her, too. I wouldn’t mind being locked up with her for a few days.”

“He would call.”

“This divorce thing doesn’t crystallize it.”

“Maybe not.”

“Did he say he’d be off the grid?” Healy said.

“Yep.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

I tucked the cell back into my pocket. The pedestrian mall had emptied. I stood alone in the rain. Everything oddly silent and hushed.

64

IT WAS PAST ELEVEN
when I called Lewis Blanchard and asked if he could meet me. He sounded sleepy but agreed. I waited for him on a park bench in the Public Garden, halfway between my apartment and the Four Seasons. The rain had stopped, but I brought an umbrella anyway, along with my .38 and the thick, unmarked envelope Healy had handed me in the parking lot of 1010 Commonwealth.

At night, the Garden was green and vibrant in the glow of the streetlamps. The tulips wavered in the soft wind, dappled with moisture, air smelling of fresh-cut grass and rich wet earth. The swan boats had been docked for the night, and in the near distance, a trickle of people walking home from bars and restaurants crossed over the lagoon bridge. Blanchard appeared, wearing a tan raincoat, unshaven and bleary-eyed.

“Couldn’t this wait?” he said.

I asked him to take a seat. Cordial. The bench was wet, but we both wore long coats and were tougher than the rain.

“Would’ve been nice to know about the divorce,” I said.

He rubbed his bristled jaw and leaned back. He actually slumped farther into the bench, letting out air like a deflated balloon. “Why?” he said. “It was nobody’s fucking business. And with Rick dead, it never happened.”

“It would’ve come out sooner or later.”

“Sure,” he said. “But why bring it out in the middle of this circus?”

“Of course,” I said.

Blanchard didn’t speak. More people passed over the lagoon bridge. Somewhere some ducks quacked. Perhaps making way for ducklings.

“If everything is being kept so private,” I said, “why did you hire me?”

“We thought you could help. But Rachel wants it with the cops now.”

I offered him Spenser’s look of doubt. The look was quite formidable.

“What? You sore about being let go?”

“Confused.”

“By legal issues.”

“By a lot of stuff,” I said. “Mainly why Rachel wanted me to find out who killed her husband if she was the one who called it.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said. “What? You want to blackmail her or something, get some cash or you’ll spin this shit to the newspapers?”

“Nope.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t think you knew.”

Blanchard looked at me with both disdain and pity, two emotions tough to convey at the same moment. “What?”

“Weinberg got by you that night because he was told to come alone.”

“Jesus.”

“Rachel was the one who drew him out,” I said. “She paid to have him killed.”

“You’re fucking nuts.”

I handed him the thick envelope. He looked at it like I’d presented a professionally wrapped turd. “Text messages between Rachel and Rick,” I said. “The instructions were very specific.”