“The police said no one called the room,” she said.

“And his cell?”

“Was lost with him,” Rachel said. She took a healthy swallow. The ice rattled in her glass. Her throat moved as she drank more. “Did you hear they found his body?”

I nodded.

“He was a good man, Mr. Spenser,” she said. “He was not perfect, but he was very good.”

I nodded. “That accounts for a lot.”

“Did you know I married the son of a bitch twice?” she said. “We met in college. Got married as kids and divorced after twenty years. We remarried two years later after he had a fling with a cocktail waitress. He bought me a Cadillac that Frank Sinatra had owned as a wedding gift. He was crazy and wonderful.”

She began to cry. I was quiet for a long while. She stood up quickly and went to the bathroom, where I heard gagging and the toilet flush. She came back as if nothing had happened. She brushed at her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Cops said they couldn’t find him on hotel security cameras,” she said. “How is that even possible?”

Blanchard walked back toward us. He poured himself coffee and sat down. He rubbed his bristled chin in thought. “Anything on Jemma?”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask Rose?”

“He said they had not been in touch for some time.”

He nodded in thought. “Maybe that’s true,” he said. “Maybe not.”

“Did Rick ever mention problems with organized crime here?” I said.

“The Mob?” Blanchard laughed and shook his head. “He said most of the Italians were in prison or dead.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I’m being told those who remained resented you guys opening up gambling in the Commonwealth.”

“If they did,” Blanchard said, “they did not make themselves known to us.”

“When you came to Boston,” I said, “where did Rick reach out for local support?”

Blanchard again consulted with Rachel. Rachel had her bare feet tucked up under her. She nursed the scotch. As she swallowed, she rolled her index finger, telling Blanchard to get on with it.

“We bought up most of the land through anonymous buyers,” Blanchard said. “That last condo was the sticking point. It was a pain in the ass because people still lived there. They were old and difficult. The other parcels, the goddamn dog track and all the other spots, were empty. We had been working that deal for five years.”

“So all his meetings were about land,” I said.

“Most,” Blanchard said. He sipped some coffee. “Politicians, too. You know the drill, got to grease the wheel.”

“Was there one wheel that needed more grease than others?”

Blanchard’s face remained impassive. “I can’t discuss that,” he said. “That’s one thing Rick would want to keep private.”

I looked to Rachel Weinberg. Her eyes roamed over mine. She closed her eyes and took another sip.

“If I’m to help you,” I said, “I need to know all of Rick’s business. Not just what you put on the books. Or what you think I should know.”

“This could get ugly,” Rachel said. “Rick would not want it.”

“It’s not pretty right now, Mrs. Weinberg.”

“We have obligations,” she said. “Promises.”

“Some people don’t know I have a middle name,” I said. “But it’s actually Discreet.”

“This was one area that Rick dealt with personally,” she said. “He insisted on it. I don’t even know all the details.”

I looked to Blanchard. He just drank more coffee.

“Handing out gold only makes friends,” Rachel said. “It doesn’t make enemies.”

“‘Nothing gold can stay.’”

“What?” Blanchard said.

“Just thinking out loud.”

“Confidential matters have to remain confidential,” Rachel said. “Nothing has changed. Business continues. We have to keep Rick’s wishes.”

“I need to know who got the payoffs,” I said.

Neither answered.

“I know this whole thing is ugly and horrific, Mrs. Weinberg. If it were me, I might not have the energy to get out of bed. You asked me to help, and I am trying. But I can’t get you answers if you treat me like the hired help.”

“That’s enough, Spenser.” Blanchard stood up.

I asked again. Blanchard pointed to the door.

I shrugged. Begging would only demean my stature as a professional investigator. I said my good-byes, walked past the cop, and let myself out.

38

MY PHONE BUZZED in my jacket pocket while I was cutting through the Public Garden on the way back to my apartment. “Where are you?” Jemma Fraser said. She sounded out of breath, as if maybe she was walking.

“Standing on a bridge and watching tourists feed ducks.”

“I need you.”

“My significant other may disapprove.”

“I’m being followed,” she said. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

“That would put a damper on an evening.”

“I’m fucking serious,” she said. “I need help.”

“Where have you been, and who is trying to kill you?”

“I’m at Copley Place,” she said. “And I have no idea. This man has been following me for the last hour. The mall is closing and I’m afraid to leave.”

“Talk to a security guard.”

“And then what?” she said. Still walking. Still out of breath. “I don’t want to end up like Rick.”

“So you’ve been hiding?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Ducks paddled under the stone bridge. An older black man hoisted a little girl up into his arms. She tossed some broken crackers into the water. She smiled. The old man smiled. He let her back down on the bridge and they walked on hand in hand.

“Why me?” I said. “Why not call Blanchard?”

“Blanchard hates me.”

“He thought you might be dead,” I said. “Rachel Weinberg did, too.”

“For an ace detective, there is a lot you don’t know,” she said. “Will you come or not? All the shops are closing. My credit cards have been frozen. I have no money. Nowhere to go.”

“I must have the word ‘sucker’ removed from my forehead.”

“I can help you.”

“Do you know who killed Weinberg?”

“Please.”

“Were you with him before he died?”

“I am on the second level,” she said. “God, there are two of them now.”

“Go to the bar at Legal,” I said. “They’ll be open late. Nobody will make a move there.”

“Please hurry.”

The phone went dead. I wished Hawk was back in town. I wished Z was full strength and Vinnie and I were on the same team. But before them there was just me. And self-reliance was a hell of a thing.

39

INSIDE COPLEY PLACE, I passed the J.Crew, Kenneth Cole, Calvin Klein, and Armani Exchange. I walked alone, listening to a Muzak version of “April in Paris.” But I was well armed and well dressed. Only a fool would try to shoot a man in his best sport coat. I spotted no ruffians lurking about. I heard no mysterious clacking on the marble floors. Harry Lime, where were you?

As promised, Legal did not let me down. The restaurant had a smattering of patrons. Most of them at the bar. Jemma sat at the far-left corner near the kitchen. A gray-haired man in a black suit with a loosely buttoned black shirt leaned over her with a sharp leer. As I walked up, he turned to eye me. He turned back to Jemma and said, “I bike, kayak in season, do a lot of outdoors training.”

The bartender placed a martini in front of her.

“Hello,” I said.

The guy in the black suit gave me a steely stare. He sipped a glass of white wine and continued to talk as if I were a figment of his imagination. “You have great legs.”