“Wherever I go,” Healy said from down a long row of parked sedans.

“There I am,” I said.

“Lucky me,” Healy said.

I followed Healy down the line of tightly parked cars waiting to be trucked off to parts unknown. We had to turn sideways to make our way through. Warm, sluggish salt air blew in from the sound.

“When I heard your name,” Healy said, “I kind of had to laugh. You have a knack for this kind of thing. You know?”

Healy was a skinny, medium-sized guy with clear blue eyes. He wore an off-the-rack blue suit with a red tie. His silver hair was buzzed into a crew cut.

“So,” I said. “Who’s dead?”

I continued to trail him down the length of parked cars and then turned left down another long aisle, where the techs were photographing and tweezing and doing whatever it is that techs do. Healy stood back from a car, not much of one, just a dark green Chevy Malibu. Only one of about five billion made. It looked innocuous enough. No bullet holes that I could see. No blood smears or satanic symbols. I walked behind Healy until he stopped and then held me back with the flat of his hand.

“When’s the last time you’ve been speechless?” he said.

“Been a while.”

“Just how did you get mixed up in the action with all this gambling shit?”

“Hired by a friend.”

“Who?”

“Listen, Healy. I’m fine with showing mine if you show yours. But I’ll have to explain to Pearl why you woke her master up early.”

“You got a strong stomach?”

“I eat the sausage at Fenway.”

Healy shrugged in agreement and led the way with a flourish of his hand. The techs backed away, and two bright lights shone into the open mouth of the Chevy’s trunk.

I did not say a word. I was speechless.

“Guy who watches the lot at night called it in,” Healy said. “Ex-cop, and so is the dog. The dog went bullshit.”

“I bet.”

“You ever see anything like this?” Healy asked.

“Nope.”

My breathing felt constricted. I could not take my eyes off the trunk.

“But you do know who that is?” Healy said.

“Yeah.”

“Car is a rental,” he said. “Rented it himself, in his name.”

I nodded.

“A fucking mess.”

“Yeah.”

“Speechless,” Healy said. “What did I tell you?”

He exchanged grins with the other cop.

“You tell his wife?” I asked.

“She’s on the way,” Healy said. “Flying in from Vegas. Bodyguard told us about you.”

I nodded. “Does she have to ID the body?”

“Don’t have the body,” said the young guy who brought coffee. “Just Weinberg’s fucking head.”

28

I WATCHED DAWN SPREAD across the Public Garden through the big windows of the Four Seasons. Lewis Blanchard, Rachel Weinberg, Healy, and a state cop I knew named Lundquist sat huddled in a small group. The cops and I drank coffee. Blanchard and Rachel drank whiskey. After a while Healy nodded to the waitress and she brought him two fingers of Bushmills with his next cup of coffee. A housekeeper vacuumed back toward the bar, the only noise in the early morning. The air was silver and pale on the rolling green hills across Boylston.

“So no one saw Rick leave his room?” Rachel said.

Blanchard shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and soft. He looked as if he’d aged several years.

“He never takes a piss without Lewis,” Rachel said. “He was obsessive about it.”

Blanchard looked down at his hands. He rubbed them together.

Rachel Weinberg wore a pink Chanel tracksuit and very large black sunglasses. She may still have been crying, but with the sunglasses I could not tell. She looked much paler than she had the other night, washed of all color and makeup. Her bleached hair was knotted into a bun. Her hands rested on the gold handle of her oversized black bag. She answered all of Healy’s questions while downing a large glass of fifty-year-old Macallan as if it were water. I drank my coffee black and listened. There was little I could say.

“We’re pulling all the surveillance video from hotel security,” Healy said. “There will be a record.”

“Holy shit,” Rachel said. “Holy shit. My phone is buzzing like a goddamn vibrator. Investors wanting to know where we stand. If Rick did something on his own and got himself killed.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Lewis?” I said.

“Ten,” he said. “Ordered a vanilla ice cream from room service. I made sure everything was okay. Rick didn’t seem in the mood to talk. I told him good night, took off my shoes, and went to sleep in the adjoining room. Rachel is right, Mr. Weinberg did not take crazy chances. If he wanted to go down to the lobby for a stick of gum, I was paid to go with him.”

Rachel Weinberg took in a very long breath. Her face was impassive behind the sunglasses. “So much to do,” she said. “All this shit. I could just kill Rick for this.”

“We would like to make a list,” Lundquist said. It was the first time he’d spoken in the last thirty minutes. He was tall and big, with light hair and apple-red cheeks, like he’d just stepped off some Midwestern farm. “Names of people who might want to harm your husband.”

“Easier to start with the Las Vegas phonebook,” she said. Rachel took a healthy sip of scotch. “My husband was a fair man. A direct man. But he was never what I’d call a loved man.”

“I apologize for asking,” Healy said. He looked down at the notebook in his hand. “But we have to cover everything if we want to help. I don’t want to offend you, Mrs. Weinberg.”

“You want to know, did he screw around?” Rachel said. “His personal habits?”

Healy nodded.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “Rick has always loved the ladies. We had an understanding.”

Blanchard looked up quickly from where he’d been staring at the notebook. She looked to him and nodded.

“Lewis knows,” she said. “I knew. Everyone knew. I loved Rick, but I am not a fool. My husband was a real cock hound.”

The housekeeper stopped vacuuming, underscoring the ugly word, letting it hang there in the crisp silence. The light in the Public Garden was infused with color, gold springtime tones on the greenery. Silver light lengthened into shadows that would soon disappear.

“I knew most of the women,” she said. “Lew knew more. But hell, they wouldn’t cut off his head. Jesus. Would someone get me another drink? These pills aren’t working on their own. My God.”

“We can take you to a doctor,” Healy said. “Finish this up later.”

“If I’m going to be doped up, better do it myself.”

“There was a final message?” I said.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “I played it for these men here.”

“What’s it say?” I said.

“Rick said, ‘Fucking bastard,’ and then hung up. Don’t ask who he meant because I don’t know.”

“What time did the call come in?” I said.

“Ten-thirty Eastern.”

“Did he have close friends in Boston?” I said. “Someone who may have seen him after he left his room. Or was forced?”

Rachel removed her sunglasses, her eyes naked and red. The waitress laid down a fresh scotch and took the old one away. Rachel looked to Blanchard. “Tell him, Lew. Tell them. What the hell does it matter? They need to know.” Blanchard nodded. He leaned in with elbows on knees and hands laced before him. He looked a little unsteady. White scruff showed along his jawline.

“He was seeing Jemma Fraser.”

I leaned back. I tried to seem shocked.

“And where is she now?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Blanchard said. “She can’t be reached.”

Healy nodded to Lundquist. Lundquist jumped up to make a call. If she was still alive, the staties would find her. Of course, they had yet to find the rest of Weinberg’s body, but I’m sure the recovery remained high on their list.