“I’m sorry, I need to check with someone,” she said. “We don’t have many visitors. Can you come back in an hour?”

“Let me consult with my personal assistant,” I said. “See what I can do. Sure hate to disappoint old Harv.”

She studied my face and my shoes some more. Women often study the shoes. I offered a smile fit for People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. She smiled, unconcerned by my steel-toed boots, as I stepped away and checked my voice mail. Besides Wayne Cosgrove calling thirteen times, a former client called and wanted to dispute expenses. Apparently, some of my lunches had been excessive. I spoke to the machine for a few seconds, nodding back to Mrs. Rose until well satisfied.

“We’re in luck,” I said. “I can stay. Would you recommend a good local lunch spot while I wait?”

“I’m sorry, this is just very unusual,” she said. “Given current events, I’m a little jumpy.”

“I don’t blame you for being cautious.”

“It’s just awful,” she said. “God-awful. May I ask why a private investigator wants to talk to my husband?”

“I work for the Weinberg family.”

She nodded. “There is that place on Massachusetts Avenue,” she said. “Right across from the park and down from the movie theater. It’s a decent enough deli.”

I drove back downtown and found the deli, and ordered the Paul Revere, roast beef with barbecue sauce, cheddar, lettuce, and tomato on an onion roll, with a scoop of potato salad. While I ate, I read a discarded copy of the Lexington Minuteman. Apparently, blueberry bushes were being replanted in historic Oak Knoll Farm, there had been a rash of streetlamp outages in the last week, and several accounts of BB guns shooting at windows and empty cars had been reported. The police lieutenant stated that most of the time these things turn out to be youths involved in random foolishness. I wondered if I could add that line to my business cards.

I read the Minuteman cover to cover and ordered a thin slice of cheesecake. I tried to think about anything but what I had seen in that trunk. If anything would qualify as pure horror, Weinberg’s head was it.

Nearly two hours later, I drove back to Harvey Rose’s newish Colonial and wound into the curve of the brick driveway. A large silver Mercedes SUV had been parked by the path to the front door. Two very unfriendly-looking men in sharply tailored suits stood on the steps. If they had been dogs, they would have most certainly been Dobermans. One had shaved his head nearly bald so that the stubble on his face was the same length. He was in his late twenties, medium-sized and hard-looking. The other was beefy, with thick brown hair and smallish eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. I bet my life somewhere he had a tattoo that read MOM.

I got out of my car and met them halfway up the path.

“You Spenser?” said the bald guy.

“Yep.”

“You come here to see Mr. Rose?”

“Yep.”

The beefy guy eyed me. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to his partner. His mouth twitched a bit. The bald guy just stared straight at me, not appraising as much as telegraphing unpleasantness. “Mr. Rose doesn’t know who the fuck you are,” Beefy said.

“I take it you are paraphrasing.”

“What?”

“Well, surely a former Harvard professor would never say ‘fuck.’”

“What the fuck do you want?” said the bald guy. His hands hung loose by the edge of his suit jacket. I detected the bulge of a gun on his right hip.

“I have a few questions about Rick Weinberg,” I said.

“You a cop?” Beefy said.

“I work for the Weinbergs.”

“If you don’t get the fuck out of here,” the bald guy said, “we’ll call the cops.”

“The family would appreciate some cooperation from Mr. Rose,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”

They stared at me for a long time. No one made a move. I finally shrugged and said, “Look, guys, I know I’m pretty handsome. But give it a rest.”

Baldy shifted his weight to his right leg, peeling back the edge of his jacket, showing off the butt of an automatic. It looked very expensive and shiny.

I complimented him on his gun. He closed his jacket.

I shrugged. I mimed a phone with my thumb and pinkie. “Call me,” I mouthed, and walked back to my car.

So much for honor among thieves.

31

I NEVER FIGURED the Fenway HoJo for the kind of place Jemma Fraser would have chosen to meet the sluggers. I figured the sluggers had probably chosen a place they felt comfortable. So Z and I drove back to the Hong Kong Café that afternoon, Z finding the same spot where he’d sat the other night. I shook the water from my coat and ball cap and took a seat on the stool next to him.

There was a different bartender pouring drinks, a young Asian woman with her hair styled like a forties pinup. Her eyebrows were artfully drawn and dramatically arched. She wore a white tank top, a red hibiscus inked on her upper arm. The flower twisted and grew as she poured out a beer for Z and another for me.

I smiled pleasantly at the bartender.

“Nice tattoo,” I said.

She smiled at me.

“Met a guy in here the other night had one I really admired,” I said. “Had it drawn on his neck. Very classy.”

She smiled some more.

“Really short hair. Balding, but with a mustache and goatee.”

“You a cop?”

I shook my head.

“Just tattoo enthusiasts,” Z said.

“Yeah, right,” the bartender said.

“I was talking business with this guy,” I said. “He seemed like a real straight shooter. I misplaced his phone number. We were going to take in a movie sometime.”

“You guys suck for cops,” the girl said.

“Do I look like a cop?” Z said.

“No,” the bartender said. “But he looks cop enough for both of you.”

I gave a modest shrug.

“We just need to speak to him,” Z said.

“No drugs here,” she said. “No way.”

“He told me his life was the seminary,” I said.

The bartender scrunched her mouth into a knot and shook her head. “You two are the worst cops I ever seen. You look like you should be pro wrestlers. Grow a mustache and you could be Pancho Villa.”

“Not Mexican,” Z said. “Cree Indian.”

“Prove it,” the bartender said. She crossed her arms across her smallish chest and raised her artful eyebrows. Her face had been dusted with a lot of makeup. She looked sort of like a Kewpie doll.

“You want to test my DNA?” Z said.

“Say something in your language,” she said.

He shrugged and said something in what I assumed was perfect Cree.

“What the hell does that mean?” she said.

“I asked, ‘What is your name?’”

“Kym with a y.”

“Kym with a y,” Z said. He smiled. She smiled back. I let my apprentice take the lead. No reason to double-team her with charisma and charm. “We just need to talk to this man.”

“About drugs.”

“No,” I said. “A woman he knows is missing. We need to find her.”

“So you are cops.”

“We are private investigators,” Z said. He smiled. I could tell he liked saying it.

“C’mon.” The bartender laughed and walked away. “That is so corny. C’mon.”

“It’s the best we got,” Z said.

I drank some more Tsingtao. Rain hammered on the big bank of windows facing Fenway. Insignificant trees bent and shook in the wind. The day had grown dark, and no light shone from the stadium. I ordered a couple of spring rolls and glanced up at the television. More news about Weinberg’s death on Fox 25. The room smelled of Asian spices and cigarettes.

“You want another beer?” Z said.

“I’m good.”

“What if I ordered another?”