“I know who wants your condo,” I said. “But he’s worked very hard to keep himself hidden.”

“You know where to find him?”

“I do.”

“And if I know you, you’ll just harass the shit out of him until he turns.”

“I work in strange and mysterious ways.”

“My ass,” Henry said.

Henry looked to Z, sitting sullen and silent in the passenger seat of my SUV. He shook his head. “Worried about that one.”

“Yep.”

“These people need to pay for that, too.”

“Yep.”

“Damn shame,” Henry said. “He’s come so far.”

16

I LEFT HENRY SAFELY in Z’s hands. Or Z safely in Henry’s hands. Either way, I left them both at the Harbor Health Club so I might snoop, parking outside the Four Seasons for several hours. I counted cars, listened to the radio, and tried to keep up with spring fashions.

Several hours later, Jemma Fraser stepped under the portico, checked her watch, and waited for a car. A thick-necked man pulled around a black Lincoln Town Car and held open the door for her and an older man who seemed to be a doppelgänger for George Hamilton. Actually, the man was a few shades darker than George Hamilton, with thick leathery skin and highlighted brown hair. He grinned a blinding white smile at the doorman as I reached for a photograph of Rick Weinberg I had printed. Before I could be sure, he ducked inside the Lincoln and they drove off.

I followed. Traffic was sluggish, even for Boston, and the thick-necked driver took his time. He crossed over Tremont and took Washington away from Chinatown and up past Downtown Crossing and into the Financial District. I had the chance to listen to most of Weekend Edition on WGBH. Around Post Office Square, the driver executed a series of twists and turns and wound up at the entrance to the Boston Harbor Hotel. If there was any reason to leave the Four Seasons, the Boston Harbor Hotel would be it.

I found some street parking off Atlantic and dodged some cars on my way into the hotel. Ms. Fraser and the two men stood in the lobby talking, and I quickly turned to study an oil painting of yachts racing and some old nautical charts. The dark wood was well polished, and the brass gleamed. The hotel had embraced the aesthetic of the sea. I suddenly felt the need for a pipe or perhaps a can of spinach.

Ms. Fraser and company walked toward the large windows facing the harbor and all of Rowes Wharf. I wondered if they would mind if I joined them for breakfast. I thought about eggs Benedict and a mimosa over a quick discussion of threats and intimidation. I bet I could even work in racketeering over a bowl of fresh seasonal fruit.

Sadly, I was left alone to watch people come and go to a hotel brunch. I smiled and nodded. Past the maître d’, I could see Ms. Fraser and the Tan Man chatting away, plates coming and going. Three Asian men in very expensive suits joined them. A silver bucket of champagne was placed by the table, the coffee cups filled and refilled. I was starting to dislike these people even more.

I had not gotten close enough to the Tan Man to make sure it was Weinberg. But if he wasn’t Weinberg, he was pretty close. Part of the problem was that the only photo I could find was ancient. It seemed Weinberg had gone in for some recent tightening and tweaking, making something about his face and hairline seem a little off. I could just walk over and ask. Maybe get a thumbprint off his champagne glass like Nick Charles. Instead I sat back in the love seat and watched the double-tiered tourist boats sliding past the wharf. Jemma Fraser, the Tan Man, and the Asian businessmen continued to dine and drink.

“You got some kind of problem?” someone asked over my shoulder.

The driver moved into view. He took a seat on a love seat across from mine.

“Do you mean with the world as a whole?” I said. “Or just with you?”

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You were at the Four Seasons yesterday.”

I had been at the Four Seasons for a few hours, reading the newspaper, studying the ads next door at La Perla. “Probably.”

“And now you’re here.”

“You’re good,” I said. “Keen eye.”

He looked odd for the Boston Harbor Hotel. He would have looked more at home grazing on the Serengeti. He had an eighteen-inch neck that was strangled by a burgundy turtleneck under a gray blazer. His salt-and-pepper hair was close-cropped. As he turned to the side, I spotted a gun at his right hip. It was a big gun. If he’d gone with something more fashionable, perhaps a .38, it would not have shown.

“So you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?”

“I had been watching some very nice-looking people ready for a day of sailing,” I said. “I was contemplating buying a pair of Top-Siders and a nice polo shirt.”

“You know how many guys I know like you?” he said, leaning back in his seat and smiling. He found a comfortable spot for his elbows to rest on the back of the seat. His arms were the size of a holiday ham. Ears thick with broken cartilage.

I waited.

“You know?”

“Know what?” I said.

“How many guys I know like you?”

“You were just about to tell me.”

“See,” he said, shaking his head in private amusement. “It’s shit like that.”

“I thought we were talking about sailing.”

“And you were gonna tell me why you were snooping around Mr. Weinberg.”

“I actually wasn’t sure if it was Mr. Weinberg until you just told me,” I said. “So thanks. Looks like he’s been in the shop as of late.”

The man shook his head again. He lifted his chin and studied me. “Oh, well.” He reached out his hand. I looked at it, took a breath, and then shook his hand. “Lewis Blanchard.”

“Spenser.”

“Who you working for, Mr. Spenser?”

“A mysterious figure that is known only by the name Number Two.”

“Jesus H.”

“As a professional courtesy, just how did you know I was following you?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. I remember faces and especially that nose. How many times you bust it?”

“Several,” I said.

“And you’re following Mr. Weinberg?”

“I was actually following Ms. Fraser, and Mr. Weinberg entered the scene as a special guest.”

“You know who Mr. Weinberg is?”

“I do.”

“You know what he does?”

“He is a very important individual.”

“Guys like you, you know, who harass him, have a way of getting hurt.”

“Eek.”

“So do I have to say it?”

“If I were you, I would say something like ‘Shoo, fly, shoo.’”

“How about ‘Get lost’?”

“Not as catchy. But direct.”

“Okay,” Blanchard said, standing. “You got about a minute before I walk over to the hotel dick and tell him you’re giving some guests the hives. I don’t even break a sweat.”

“Can I ask you one thing first?”

Blanchard placed his right hand in his pocket. He smiled, waiting. “Sure.”

“How much money is riding on this parcel next to Wonderland?” I said. “Because the more trouble you guys make, the more the price goes up.”

His face reddened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Next time, send some better sluggers,” I said. “They hurt a friend of mine. He was alone and they whipped him pretty good. They won’t have the same luck with me.”

“You off your meds?”

“Nope. Maybe you and Ms. Fraser should have a talk about intimidation tactics.”

“That’s not Mr. Weinberg’s style.”

“Okay.” I stood. “Tell your employer that the price continues to rise by the hour.”

“Mr. Weinberg is a very busy man.”

“Don’t forget important.”

“I never do,” he said. We stood in the marble waiting area and smiled at each other for a while.