“Lawbreaker,” Healy said.

“I prefer rebel.”

Lundquist sat in the car on his cell phone. I followed Healy inside and we ordered a couple of coffees. The endless varieties of donuts called to me like sirens. I resisted.

We took the coffees to one of those little ledges where you can stand and eat. We watched the college kids shuffle past us on Buick, backpacks heavy on their shoulders.

“What did Rose say?” Healy said.

“Not much,” I said. “The man has no sense of humor.”

“The problem is that you think you’re funny, Spenser,” Healy said. “A guy who taught at Harvard would find you juvenile.”

I shrugged.

Healy drank some coffee. A Boston PD car pulled behind my Explorer with its lights on. Lundquist got out and reasoned with him. The prowlie took off.

“Perks,” I said.

“Did Rose give you any suspects?”

“He thinks it’s related to organized crime.”

“Gee,” Healy said. “Wish we’d thought of that.”

“So that narrows it down to some key players.”

“Ukrainians, Irish, Italians, Vietnamese, or some new crew we never heard of.”

“My associate and I spoke to an upstanding member of Boston society yesterday,” I said. “He hinted it was the Mob. But he didn’t say if it was hometown or imported.”

“Yeah,” Healy said. “But you and I are thinking the same thing.”

“Chocolate glazed?”

“Gino Fish.”

“Does a beheading sound like Gino to you?” I said.

“Doesn’t sound like the Girl Scouts.”

“Who else?”

“Maybe something the Ukrainians would do,” Healy said.

“True.”

“You’ve dealt with those creeps.”

“Yep.”

“Not nice folks.”

“Nope.”

“We don’t have jack,” Healy said. “I’d like to talk to Gino anyway. If he isn’t involved, he will sure as hell know. He can throw a rock from his front porch to Wonderland.”

I nodded.

“And you being such good buddies with him and Vinnie Morris,” Healy said. “Might have a better chance with an unofficial visit.” He sipped his coffee and stared out the big plate-glass window.

“I am judicious about using my in with Gino.”

“This would be the time.”

I nodded. A man in a hairnet walked through a swinging door with a loaded rack of fresh glazed.

“You call us when you find out?”

I nodded.

“Christ, don’t be the Ukrainians.”

“You told Rachel Weinberg about the body?” I said.

“Headed that way,” he said.

“Bad choice of words.”

“Hell, she already knows. The news crews beat us there.”

“You think a glazed might brighten my day?”

“Go for it, big guy,” Healy said. He slapped my back as he left. I watched from the other side of the glass as he and Lundquist drove off. My SUV looked very exposed out by the meter.

37

THE KING SUITE HAD an impressive sitting area with comfortable plush chairs and a big green-and-gold sofa. There was a built-in bookshelf filled with leather-bound books, framed botanical prints, gilded knickknacks on the coffee table, and a mantel over what I presumed to be a working fireplace. A baby grand piano sat by a bank of windows with a sweeping view of the Public Garden. Flowers, sympathy cards, and a fruit basket sat on the baby grand, covered in red cellophane. No one spoke. Rachel Weinberg and Blanchard sat across from each other. Rachel smoked. Who was going to tell her it was against the rules?

I took a seat. Rachel was dressed in another velvety jogging suit. Blanchard sat remote and cross-legged in a plush chair. He wore dark green dress pants and a white dress shirt with no tie. He leaned forward, hands laced in front of him, staring intently at the ground. A uniformed cop sat in the master bedroom, drinking coffee.

“What did Harvey say?” Rachel said. Her voice was rough, as if it was the first time she’d spoken in hours.

“He said he was very sorry,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“You doubt his sincerity?”

“He’s not normal,” Rachel said. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s a very, very intelligent man. But he’s missing something. It’s like he was born without a personality.”

“That would account for him not thinking I’m funny.”

Blanchard looked up from his hands. He lifted his eyebrows and then looked back down.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Spenser?” she said.

I shook my head. “Do you mind me asking about your daughter’s kidnapping?” I said. “I know it was a few years ago, but could it be related?”

Blanchard shook his head. He looked to Rachel, and Rachel nodded back to him. She looked much older and paler without any makeup.

“That has nothing to do with what happened,” he said. “That’s an unrelated matter.”

“Business rivals?”

“No,” Blanchard said. “Opportunists. A few jailbirds who thought they’d been touched with inspiration while in the can.”

“You seem confident they’re no longer a threat,” I said.

Blanchard and Rachel again exchanged glances. Rachel frowned. She let out a long, disinterested stream of smoke. Blanchard said, “They’ve been removed from the grid.”

I lifted my eyebrows and nodded. “Harvey Rose said he’s had recent threats,” I said. “Same here?”

“We have had a few,” Blanchard said. “But nothing we took seriously.”

“What about now?” I said.

“Nope.”

“How were they received?”

“Crank calls,” Blanchard said. “Threatening e-mails. But we figured it was some local yokels. If there had been a serious threat, I would have been all over it with the cops.”

“Rose took them seriously.”

“Because it makes him feel important,” Rachel said. Her cigarette was spent. She started a new one. The cigarettes were very thin and very long. Her lighter elegant and gold. “Rick had to deal with all kinds his whole life. Whoever killed him was a coward. Rick grew up in Philly. He would have responded personally to a real attack.”

I nodded.

“Was Rick’s relationship with Rose contentious?” I said. “Did he think Rose could end up with the license?”

Rachel shook her head. Cars cut between the Garden and Common on Charles. The white lights coming and red taillights going looked pretty in the night.

“Because he controlled Wonderland,” I said.

She nodded.

“Harvey Rose said he had other properties in East Boston.”

“Not on the beach,” she said. “If he said so, he’s lying. The beach was all Rick’s idea.”

The door in the other room opened and closed. The cop, a short and stocky black man, walked into the sitting area. A small man in a Four Seasons uniform wheeled in a cart and set up dinner. I spotted some pasta and scrambled eggs. A fruit plate and shrimp cocktail. There was a large bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a pot of black coffee. Blanchard continued to stare at the ground. He finally stood and walked to the large bank of windows and looked out onto the Common. No one approached the food. The waiter poured out a cup of coffee and added ice to two glasses. He lit a few candles, set a carnation into a vase, and left the room. The cop led him out.

“You two eat,” Rachel said. “I don’t know who sent this up.”

“You did,” Blanchard said. He smiled weakly. “You said you were hungry.”

“I did?” Rachel said. “Not anymore. Are you hungry, Spenser?”

I was. But I politely declined.

“Pour me a drink?” Rachel said. She stubbed out the cigarette.

I poured some scotch over cracked ice and topped it off with a little soda and passed it to her.

Blanchard continued to stare out the window. I heard the cop in the other room talking on a cell phone.

“We had been married forty years,” she said. “Holy Christ.”

“Has anyone been able to figure out why Rick left in the middle of the night?”