I nodded. He studied me as we shook hands, before slumping into an office chair. He leaned back against a headrest. His eyes darted around the room.

“Wayne Cosgrove is a good reporter,” he said. “He’s always been fair with us.”

“And me as well.”

“It’s been a tough twenty-four hours.” Rose pulled a pair of half-glasses from his breast pocket and glanced down at a cell phone. “First, we learn of what happened with Rick, and then someone broke into our offices. They stole several files and fifteen computers.”

“Anything else?”

“Whoever broke in knew what they wanted.”

I nodded. “And you believe this had something to do with Rick Weinberg’s murder.”

Rose shook his head, placed the cell on the table, and stared up at the ceiling. He folded his hands over his chest and took in a great deal of air. He nodded as if agreeing with the direction of his thoughts and looked over the glasses. I felt the sudden urge to reach for a pen and notebook.

“There’s been illegal gambling here since the Pilgrims got off the Mayflower,” Rose said. “But the emergence of the gaming industry in Massachusetts signals the death knell to the underworld. We have numerous studies from the FBI that point to no less than fifteen criminal enterprises working in greater Boston.”

I whistled. “Just fifteen.”

“As you know, there are plenty more,” he said. “They hate us. We are changing everything they know. They can’t compete with modern business. Bartenders still keep leather ledgers under the register, for God’s sake.”

“Did you and Rick ever discuss possible threats of doing business in Boston?”

“Rick and I haven’t spoken in years,” Rose said. “The nature of competition. But we were businessmen, not gangsters. What happened is sickening and barbaric.”

“A long way from Harvard Business School.”

Rose nodded. He may have straightened up in his chair by an inch.

“How does one go from Cambridge to Vegas?”

“Money,” he said. “Opportunities for my family not afforded in academia.”

“Not to mention free tickets for Wayne Newton.”

Not amused, Rose laced his hands in his lap and waited for me to finish speaking. A technique he had no doubt perfected on grad students.

“So you think the same people who burgled you last night killed Weinberg?”

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“But Weinberg’s death would also open opportunities for others wanting the Commonwealth’s golden ticket.”

“Excuse me?”

“One of three casino licenses,” I said. “Or, as someone duly noted, a license to print money.”

“Wayne Cosgrove said you needed some basic background,” Rose said. “But if you think I had something to do with Rick’s death, I need to call a lawyer.”

“You’re not the only casino group in the running.”

“We prefer the term ‘gaming corporation.’”

“Ah.”

Rose rocked back and forth in the chair.

“Did you happen to know an employee of Rick Weinberg’s named Jemma Fraser?”

“Of course,” he said. “She used to work for me. She went for more money with Rick. Something I did not hold against her. How could I? I had done the same thing.”

I leaned back in my office chair. He leaned back in his. A warm breeze blew through an open window and ruffled papers. We continued to duel in swivel chairs. “And what exactly did she do for you, Mr. Rose?”

“You can probably tell I’m not a gregarious man.”

I was quiet.

“She did for me as she did for Rick.” Rose paused. “Jemma was the face of the company. In short, her job was to dazzle clients. I crunched numbers while she did dinners and presentations. I did math. She made impressions.”

“That she did.”

“Don’t let her looks fool you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “She is one of the sharpest, toughest women I’ve come across. She has brokered deals for casinos across the country. Frankly, I didn’t think we stood a chance working against her.”

“Even on your own turf.”

He nodded. “They came in late,” he said. “It was a surprise.”

“How did you feel about Weinberg challenging you for the license in your home state?”

“Rick and I were not peddling the same product,” Rose said. He stopped rotating the chair. “He was a dreamer.”

“And you?”

“A realist.”

“‘The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be.’”

“Rick Weinberg wanted to build marble palaces and museums. I just want to open a clean, smoke-free place where an old couple can play slots and blackjack and get a discount buffet. Good parking.”

“Rick Weinberg said experience is everything.”

“Rick did not understand his consumer,” Rose said. “He projected himself on his customer. He sold what he himself wanted. I have computers tell me who is buying my product. The high roller from Tokyo is a myth. I want the retired schoolteacher from Haverhill. I want a parking deck and shuttles to run from retirement homes.”

“If you ruin bingo night, you might piss off some nuns.”

“Another unfortunate reality of the gaming industry.” He shifted in the chair again. He took a deep breath and met eyes with the beefy bodyguard across the room. I imagined my fifteen minutes were coming to a close. “Why, may I ask, did you want to know about Jemma Fraser? Do you think she’s involved?”

“I think she may have been with him,” I said. “Or maybe she’s scared and hiding.”

“Jemma is a smart woman,” he said. “She’s not one prone to hysterics.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Although a beheading might rattle her a little.”

“Did the Weinbergs tell you their daughter had once been kidnapped?”

I nodded.

“I would want to know more about that situation.”

“What do you know about that situation?”

“Only that it was a rough time for them.”

I nodded. Rose put hand to chin and nodded back. He folded his hands again across his chest and waited for me to speak. What the hell. I took the bait.

“I heard you may withdraw your bid,” I said. “Close up shop.”

“We have had plenty of threats,” he said.

“From whom?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “Anonymous e-mails. Calls from disposable phones.”

“Cranks?”

“We’re not sure.” Rose straightened his wrinkled tie. Two buttons on his dress shirt were open, exposing his soft, hairless stomach. “But I have spent the last ten years prepping to open a casino in Boston. I have done countless studies and compiled all the data that will make sure it happens according to our plans.”

“Even without the needed land?”

“We have our own properties,” Rose said. “Our casino isn’t as grand, but it will complement the East Boston lifestyle.”

“Beer and clam buckets.”

Harvey Rose stood and offered his hand. “Whatever it takes, Mr. Spenser.”

36

OUTSIDE, AN UNMARKED state cop car sat idling next to my Explorer. Healy and Lundquist climbed out. Lundquist nodded to me and walked around the car to the driver’s side. Healy walked over to where I stood and said, “Where’s Z?”

“On assignment.”

Healy shrugged. “Let’s take a ride.”

“Get me home before curfew?”

“Drive,” Healy said.

I unlocked my SUV and Healy got in on the passenger side. Lundquist backed out and drove off. I followed him to the pike and toward downtown. Healy was quiet until we got in the flow of traffic.

“We found the rest of Weinberg,” he said.

“Where?”

“Floated up by the Tea Party Museum,” he said. “A bunch of schoolkids saw it. They’ll be in therapy until they’re fifty.”

“You want some coffee?” I said.

“Why the hell not?”

I put on my blinker and passed Lundquist. He followed me and did the same. We got off by BU and found a Dunkin’ Donuts on Buick Street. I parked in front of a hydrant.