Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (25 page)

“Who the hell else would do it?” Blanchard said from the front seat. He did not turn around; the Town Car dipped down into the Sumner Tunnel. The sound of the engine roared, muffled in the enclosure.

“Were you aware that Jemma had studied under Harvey Rose?” I said.

“We knew she worked for him and we knew she went to Harvard Business School,” Rachel said. “Hell, she wouldn’t let us forget. But when she came over to us it wasn’t like Harvey Rose was gonna write a recommendation letter. He was pissed. That was the start of some bad blood between him and Rick.”

“She never told you that they had been close,” I said. “Or that she had been his intern while in Boston.”

“No.”

“Why do you think she’d keep that a secret?” I said.

“Because she’s a lying piece of trash,” Rachel said. “She has blindsided me about every order of business since Rick’s death.” Rachel pounded the armrest with the bottom side of her fist.

“Did you know she would be his successor?”

“Of course,” she said. “I had to vote on it. Rick wanted it so damn badly. But Jesus, I didn’t imagine what would happen. Or that she would try to fuck me over with the board. I just got back from a meeting in Vegas where they offered me a buyout. They want me off the board and to take a fucking check. Who do you think broached that simple subject?”

“What did you say?”

“You ever see that scene in
Mommie Dearest
when Faye Dunaway stands up and tells the board at Pepsi-Cola, ‘Don’t fuck with me, fellas’?”

“Yep.”

“That’s the G-rated version of my little speech.”

“And Jemma was there?”

“Of course.”

“Was a young man with her,” I said. “A big Native American guy.”

“No,” she said. “But why the hell not? I bet she’s fucked her way around the world. Twice.”

We emerged from the tunnel, the river appearing to the right. We passed under the Longfellow Bridge and by the boathouse. I assumed we were headed back to the Four Seasons, though Blanchard had not said. I did not speak until we turned left at Arlington and the Public Garden, nearly at the Four Seasons’ front door. “You heard about those two dead sluggers from Vegas,” I said. “Ever hear of them?”

“You think they worked for Jemma?”

“Or against her,” I said. “They weren’t local talent, and therefore not in my personal Rolodex.”

“Who were they, then?” Rachel said.

“Jimmy Aspirins and a guy they called the Angel of Mercy.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I would not shit you, Mrs. Weinberg.”

“Lew?” Rachel said. “Sound like anyone we know?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I would recommend taking extra precautions,” I said.

“A turf war between Jemma and Harvey Rose?” Rachel Weinberg said. “Christ. Just what we need. A whore and a dolt.”

Blanchard turned onto Boylston and quickly under the porte cochere. The valet, in his crisp green uniform, approached the rear door. Blanchard looked back, right arm resting on the passenger seat. He waited. Rachel looked at me with pursed lips, crushing the cigarette into the tray.

“Rose doesn’t have the stomach,” Rachel said. Her jaw was clenched very tight, and she repeatedly shook her head in frustration.

“And Jemma?”

Rachel Weinberg nodded in thought. “Goddamn bitch.”

Lewis Blanchard half turned, drumming his fingers on the back of the headrest. The windows dripped with rainwater, the windshield wipers still going.

“You have enough people?” I said.

He nodded, lost somewhere in thought. “That’s all been covered.”

“If you don’t,” I said. I made an offhand gesture.

Blanchard nodded. The valet opened Rachel Weinberg’s door and she stepped outside without a word. If someone was going to harm Rachel, under the porte cochere of the Four Seasons would have been impolite as well as ill conceived. Blanchard drummed his fingers some more, looking off.

“Listen, Spenser,” Blanchard said. “We got this thing now. But we appreciate what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done much.”

“You’ll be paid.”

“Never doubted it.”

“But for now . . .”

“Kind of hard to leave mid-stride.”

“I may have overreacted, hiring you.”

“How’s that?”

“You got to understand, I report to a whole fucking committee,” he said. “If it was just you and me, it would be simpler.”

“I don’t need money.”

“You got to get paid.” He paused. “You stay on it, it’ll be my ass. Legal issues.”

“Wish to elaborate?”

“Nope.”

Rachel stood close to the Town Car and lit yet another cigarette by the hotel entrance. Four valets waited nearby for the smallest word from their guest. Blanchard turned off the ignition and stepped outside the car. I followed. He offered his hand, and I shook it.

“Effective immediately?”

“We got this thing,” Blanchard said. He grinned. “We got it.”

60

NOW GAINFULLY UNEMPLOYED,
I returned to the Harbor Health Club to see Henry and perhaps beg for a free protein shake or even a smoothie. Alas, Henry had other things on his mind and took me to the apartment he’d loaned Z. After knocking a few times, he reached into his sweatpants pocket for a key, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. I followed.

The apartment consisted of a wide-open room with an open kitchen, one bedroom and one bath. The walls were bare Sheetrock, the furniture basic and impersonal. The view was nice. Three picture windows looking out onto the harbor. Henry looked into the bedroom and returned, shaking his head.

Z was gone. He had stripped the bed and left drawers empty. A pile of twisted sheets and towels lay in a heap by the bathroom. Z had always traveled light; most everything in the apartment belonged to Henry. It might have taken him five minutes to pack.

“Didn’t know he left,” Henry said. “Saw him yesterday. He came in to work out and that was that. He was alone. I didn’t see the broad.”

“The broad had gone back to Las Vegas,” I said. “She had important business.”

“Hell of a body,” Henry said. “Getting pretty good with her hook.”

“All in the hips,” I said.

“Isn’t everything?” Henry said.

Rain came in droves, the clouds black and endless out on the harbor. There seemed to be a battle with the dregs of winter and the arrival of spring. Neither one wanted to cede to the other. I took a seat on a couch facing a big-screen television. On a large wooden coffee table stood the last remnants of Z’s tenure at Henry’s gym, an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Henry and I saw it at the same time.

Henry picked up the bottle, twirled it in his fingers, inspecting the label. He nodded and sat across from me. The rain pinged pleasantly on the glass. I wished Z had left us a couple drops of the whiskey.

“Didn’t see this coming,” Henry said.

“All may not be what it seems.”

“Looks like he’s hitting the hooch.”

“He’s working for me.”

“Did he tell you he’d left?”

“Nope.”

“What does that say?”

“It says he’ll shout when he needs it.”

“That’s nuts.”

“Got to trust him.”

“How long since you heard from him?”

“Two days.”

“Two days,” Henry said. “Christ.”

Henry placed the bottle back on the coffee table. Wind kicked up from the harbor, rain hammered the glass, and the masts of boats bobbed up and down and side to side.

“He’s in trouble,” Henry said.

“He wants to do this alone.”

“Now you’re talking like a shrink.”

“It’s how he’ll finish the business,” I said. “He needs me, he’ll let me know.”

“I say he needs help,” Henry said. “Hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have met the Weinbergs.”

“Hadn’t been for you, I might be dead.”

Henry shrugged. “That’s an oversimplification of my role in your life.”

“Discipline and self-reliance.”

Henry leaned into the chair. We both sat, watching the storm crack to life across the waterfront. Thunder rattled the picture windows. Lightning zipped in crooked patterns. The harbor churned and seemed to turn black. Quite a show.

“How come we never thought about training anyone else?”

“Never saw anyone with as much potential,” I said.

“You coulda let him go like Hawk.”

“If he were so inclined.”

“But he’s not.”

“Up to him.”

“And you like passing on your skills to the next guy who does what you do.”

I shrugged. “Something like that.”

“’Cause we can’t go on forever,” Henry said.

“Speak for yourself, John Alden.”

We watched the rain for a long time. He picked up the empty whiskey bottle again and cornered the last drop of booze. “How was it for you that time you were shot?” Henry said.

“Which time?”

“The really bad time.”

“They are all bad times when you are shot.”

“But the one that nearly killed you.”

“The Gray Man.”

“You remember?”

“Hard to forget.”

“You think about quitting?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“The alternative was not attractive.”

Henry stood up and walked to the door. He shut off the lights, intensifying the effects of the storm outside, making the grays and blacks more stark. “That woman is a pro,” Henry said. “I don’t think Z is prepared for where she’ll take him.”

“I think he got busted up,” I said. “He learned being cracked doesn’t make you broken. He’s ready.”

“How’d you get so wise?”

“I’m Irish,” I said. “I listen to the wisdom of the little people.”

“Okay, then,” Henry said. “Let’s find the kid.”

61

HENRY AND I
had spent eight hours looking for Z. And looking for Jemma. I learned she no longer frequented the Four Seasons. Or the Boston Harbor Hotel. Or the Legal at Copley Place. I had tried the storefront in Revere that Rick Weinberg had rented. I had tried some of Z’s favorite brewpubs. Nothing. The next morning I went for a run, with Pearl trotting at my side with great enthusiasm. I missed Z. He always pushed me harder than I pushed myself. He was younger, stronger, and faster, and in turn made me better. I kept my mind off dark thoughts.

The rain had been constant, the remnants of a storm off the Atlantic. It fell warm and salty, hitting my face as we ran east along the river. Pearl and I crossed the Weeks Footbridge, heading back toward the business school, while I considered what I knew about Jemma Fraser. Which was not considerable or specific. She was ambitious and ruthless. She had been a protégée of Harvey Rose’s but had chosen to keep that relationship private. She had sent some local sluggers to scare some old folks into selling their properties, possibly against her boss’s wishes. She had tried to seduce me and had failed. She had told Z that I forced the issue. Now I learned she had probably stolen incriminating evidence from her old mentor and then sent it to me to show that Harvey Rose was in cahoots with Gino Fish and sever their relationship.

But being ruthless and even highly unethical in business does not make you a killer. However, it doesn’t make you Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, either.

I kept heading east on the Boston side of the river. I followed the path to Soldiers Field Road to where it would become Storrow. Despite the rain, the rowers were out in force. I watched a four-woman crew aimlessly float and then slow in alignment before falling into a steady dip of oars and muscle. I kept jogging, Pearl’s collar jingling beside me. Her constant pant a comfort.

As I approached the Harvard Bridge and Mass Ave, a black car slowed to my pace along Storrow before turning onto Mass and illegally parking on the curb at the edge of the bridge. Healy and Lundquist got out. I stopped and caught my breath. Pearl looked back at me with annoyance.

“Admiring my form?” I said.

“Got a minute?” Lundquist said.

“Is there a statie policy against having a hound in your car?”

“Yeah,” Lundquist said. “Might make my commander bullshit.”

Healy shook his head and climbed back into the passenger side. Lundquist eased his large frame behind the wheel. I opened the back door, let Pearl in, got in behind her, and closed the door. Lundquist drove out onto Mass Ave and crossed back over the river.

“How’s it going out there?” Healy said.

“Rain slows me down a bit,” I said.

“I meant with the Weinbergs,” he said.

“I was told that my services were no longer needed.”

“So you got it all figured out?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

“Why’d they let you go?” Lundquist said. His red hair was cut razor short above his thick neck.

“It was implied they now have their own people.”

“Anything you want to let us know?” Lundquist said.

Pearl sat at attention in the leather seats, head on a swivel as we passed MIT and the many students bustling about in tight jeans, sloppy T’s, and backpacks.

“My apprentice is missing.”

“You’re getting some rotten luck, Spenser,” Healy said.

“I suppose you have something to cheer me up.”

“In fact, we do,” Healy said. “We know who killed Rick Weinberg.”

I raised my eyebrows. Even Pearl perked up. “That is swell news,” I said. “Made the arrest?”

“Might be tough,” Healy said. “It was those two shitbirds we found shot up in Chelsea.”

I waited. Pearl waited.

“Weinberg’s DNA is in the trunk,” Healy said. “We found a receipt to the cash purchase of a Stihl chain saw. Want me to draw you a picture?”

“Lovely,” I said. “You tell Mrs. Weinberg?”

“You’re the first to know,” Lundquist said. “We don’t want it getting out until we get further up the food chain.”

“Ideas on who hired them?”

“That’s why we came to you, ace.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“We’re looking into their phone records, and people out in Vegas are doing the same,” Healy said. “It will take some time. They have connections to what’s left of the Genovese and Polizzi families.”

I scratched Pearl’s head. Her wet-dog smell and dog breath rapidly filled the car. I felt like I should share something with the staties, but wasn’t sure what. I could tell them what Gino Fish suspected about Jemma and perhaps mention the reason he sent his nephews to corral her. Instead, I thought for a moment. “Did your people ever find out what happened with Weinberg’s cell?”