“Did you know your husband fired her?” I said.

“That’s not true,” Rachel said. “He would have definitely told me. Where did you hear that?”

“From Jemma Fraser.”

“Lying little bitch.”

“She brought over contracts for the condo board,” I said. “She told me it was her last act of business for Rick.”

“She didn’t give a shit about him,” Rachel said. “She knew what she had and worked every inch. Men are such goddamn fools and don’t know the reason.”

“No argument, Mrs. Weinberg,” I said.

“I can’t stand it,” she said. “I can’t stand it. Rick and I have been together for forty years. My God.”

Healy looked to Blanchard. Blanchard nodded back and stood and held out a hand for Rachel Weinberg. She took it, shaky as she stood, and walked a few paces before turning back to face me. She wavered on her feet. An old boxer, busted but unbowed. He helped her to the bedroom, returned, and sat down across from me.

“You will help us, Spenser?” Blanchard said.

I looked to Healy. I looked to Lundquist.

“Name your rate,” Blanchard said.

I thought of a million reasons to say no. Mostly because I had been working for her husband’s opposition. But that was old business, or maybe it was the same business. But I could not say anything else to him but “Yes.”

29

WHEN I GOT BACK to my apartment, I showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee. I walked Pearl and filled her food and water bowls. Freshly caffeinated and smelling of bay rum, I drove over to the Paramount diner. Z was waiting for me outside. We walked inside, ordered breakfast, and sat at a high table near the rear of the narrow restaurant. I ordered huevos rancheros. Z drank black coffee.

“How’s his wife?” Z said.

“In shock,” I said. “But composed. In control. They asked me to help.”

“But we can’t,” Z said. “Because of working for Henry.”

“Those lines have been a bit blurred,” I said. “It’s all the same now.”

“Not the same to me,” he said. “These people are scum.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But they need help. And if we don’t help, Henry could lose the deal.”

“Since when do you care about money?”

“It’s nice when my agenda involves a paycheck,” I said. “I like to be able to keep the lights on.”

Z drank his coffee. I took a forkful of huevos rancheros.

“And you liked Weinberg,” Z said.

“Yes,” I said. “Despite himself.”

“You really think he was honest?”

“No,” I said. “But I think he was good to his word.”

“Which we value.”

“Without it, you’re like some kind of animal.”

“Hemingway?”

“Holden,” I said. “The Wild Bunch.”

“Haven’t seen it.”

“It’s a Western.”

“Westerns weren’t too popular on the rez,” Z said. “The good guys never win.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Only one right one, Kemosabe.” The Paramount was unusually slow for a morning. We did not feel rushed to give up our table.

“So is the deal off?” Z said. “Because Weinberg is dead.”

“His wife says it’s business as usual,” I said. “But the company is going to be in a lot of turmoil and they’ll need a swift resolution.”

Z nodded.

“The bodyguard said I could name my rate.”

“Naming your rate is a good incentive,” Z said. “So we’re back to Jemma.”

“Would you mind watching her some more?”

Z smiled slightly. “She’s a suspect?”

“I think cops call them a ‘person of interest’ these days.”

“What do you call her?” Z said.

“A suspect.”

Z nodded. A waitress came by and refilled our cups.

“Maybe they killed her, too,” Z said.

“Thought had crossed my mind.”

“But you like her for it.”

“Maybe she knows more about what’s going on,” I said. “What do you think of Blanchard?”

“Smart,” Z said. “Tough. But even when I was a drunk, I never lost my client. Even if I did not like what he was up to.”

“What if the boss tells the bodyguard to get lost?” I said.

“A good bodyguard stays with the client no matter what,” Z said. “It’s your reputation if something happens.”

“You speak from experience.”

Z nodded.

“How could Blanchard have lost someone as animated and loud as Rick Weinberg?” I said. “Weinberg couldn’t go to the toilet without making a Broadway production.”

I watched a banner scroll at the bottom of a local television station. Casino Mogul Slain. I checked my phone. Wayne Cosgrove had called me thirteen times that morning.

“When did Jemma Fraser check out of the hotel?” Z asked.

“Late yesterday.”

“Where is her car?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe the airport?” Z said.

“Police couldn’t find a record of her flying out,” I said. “I had my friend in Vegas check her home there. Nothing.”

“Credit cards?”

“Staties are on it.”

“Would they tell us if they found something?” Z said.

“Probably not.”

“So whatever we uncover, we do on our own.”

“They won’t prevent work, but they won’t help.”

Z nodded. He could see over my shoulder out the small window facing Charles Street and the Toscano restaurant. Without much enthusiasm, he said, “Looks like rain.”

“You must have danced last night.”

Z nodded. “Who would cut off a man’s head?” he said. “That’s some sick shit.”

I nodded.

“What now?” Z said.

“I can do this on my own.”

“If I can walk, I can work.”

“How’s your head?” I said.

“Thick,” Z said. He smiled. I smiled back.

“Henry says only one man knows you better than you know yourself.”

Z nodded. “Your competitor.”

30

EVERY TIME I FOUND myself in Lexington, I felt the need to invest in a tricorner hat. The Minuteman statue on the Battle Green, the crooked headstones for dead soldiers in the Old Burying Ground, and the many taverns where Washington might have set his wooden teeth for the night brought out the Colonial in me. Harvey Rose’s house was a Colonial Revival, probably built a hundred years ago, considered practically brand new on Munroe Hill. Brilliant white and red-shuttered, the house had a second-floor terrace that looked out onto a small pond with blooming lily pads. The front door was also painted a basic red. Simple and unassuming went for several million in Lexington.

I speculated that Harvey Rose might be of help since he was Rick Weinberg’s only serious rival on the casino bid.

A sprinkler lightly misted the flower beds despite the gray skies. I rang the bell, and soon after a Hispanic house woman in a gray uniform opened the door. I presented her with my business card and stated I had an appointment with Mr. Rose. She nodded and left me with the door slightly cracked. Somewhere deep inside I heard voices, and another woman came to greet me.

She was very thin yet attractive. The kind of woman who had forgone the Botox and hair dyes and felt comfortable in her age. Her graying brown hair was tied up in a silk handkerchief, and gold hoops hung in her ears. The front of her jeans and designer T-shirt were covered in flour. She wore leather sandals decorated with Navajo beads.

“Harvey isn’t here,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I had an appointment.” I lied, but it was a good one. He hadn’t been at his office.

“He never meets anyone at home,” she said. She hugged herself as she studied me.

“Don’t tell me I made a mistake,” I said. “Harvey told me to find him at home this morning. We were going to have lunch.”