“True.”

There was another long pause. Susan sounded lovely breathing way down south. “Not long,” she said.

“Every minute,” I said.

“Safe,” she said. “Please be safe.”

46

MANY BOATS FILLED the Boston Harbor that afternoon. Sailboats, speedboats, and water shuttles cut across the choppy, dark water. The day was bright, beautiful, and cloudless. There was a heavy wind as Henry and I stood outside the health club for a chat. The wind ruffled his white hair as he stood rock-solid in satin running pants and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. The shirt had the logo for Harbor Health Club on the pocket.

“Put me on the shirts,” I said, “and you’d sell more memberships.”

“You need to work your legs more,” Henry said. “Do more squats.”

“I had a tip that there may have been another offer on the Ocean View.”

Henry leaned against a piling. The air smelled heavily of salt and dead fish. No amount of posh condos and restaurants could eradicate the smell. But the wind was strong and cool, and felt good against my face.

“Yep,” he said. “Just heard myself. Five hundred grand more than the original.”

“They had a deal.”

“Tell that to Lou Coffone,” Henry said. “He’d screw a dog for a nickel.”

“Hard times.”

“They want to hire another lawyer to deep-six what we signed.”

“Will they?” I said.

“What do you think?”

I leaned against a separate piling, my back to the harbor and the wind. The day was warm enough to leave my jacket in the car. I wore a navy T-shirt with Levi’s and my dress running shoes. I held the edge of my T-shirt down with my right hand so as not to let the wind expose my .38.

“I need to tell Rachel Weinberg what’s going on.”

“I think her husband was stand-up,” Henry said. He chewed on his cheek and nodded. “Do it.”

I nodded.

“Z told me about what happened,” he said. “Fucking Gino Fish’s nephew?”

“I have it on good authority Gino wasn’t overly fond of him.”

“Does that matter?” Henry said. “Jesus, I’m sorry I pulled you into this crazy fucking mess. I just wanted to keep my place. I like it out in Revere.”

“Z seems to like it here.”

“And I want the kid to stay,” Henry said. “Part of his training is being able to live where he works out. We still got some work to do.”

I nodded. A bright, warm wind kicked off the harbor. We watched the Logan shuttle dock at the wharf and the bright-eyed tourists setting foot on land. A man dressed as Ben Franklin met them, ringing a handbell. Henry pushed off the piling as if doing a one-handed push-up.

Ben Franklin kept ringing the bell. “Didn’t you used to go to school with him?” I said.

“He was in the grade up,” Henry said. “We thought he was a pussy ’cause he wore them socks.”

“I’ll explain to Rachel what’s going on,” I said. “Try and set something up with the board.”

“Tell her something for me,” Henry said. “Okay? Tell her that I ain’t a part of this. I shook hands with her husband. It was a done deal. I don’t even know who the hell these people are who want to buy it now.”

“Guy named Harvey Rose.”

“Harvey who?”

“Rose.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Sometimes a raven is just like a writing desk.”

“You need to get some fucking sleep, Spenser,” Henry said. “Before you go nuts.”

“Too late,” I said.

47

IN THE SPIRIT OF true cooperation, I called Wayne Cosgrove as I drove back to my office. “How can we connect Rick Weinberg with any officials of our great Commonwealth?” I said.

“Now we’re a ‘we’?”

“Did I not share whiskey with you?”

“I had to stake out your place.”

“Can I help if I’m popular?”

Trees had started to leaf in the Common; red and yellow tulips waved in the light spring wind. My windows were down. I played some Gerry Mulligan. If there hadn’t been so much ugliness and Susan Silverman had been by my side, all would be right with the world.

“I read the report on the shooting,” Wayne said. “Jemma Fraser, formerly one of Weinberg’s inner circle, was with you.”

“Maybe not former.”

“What do you know?”

“Can you try and track down something on Weinberg and his philanthropic touch with local politicians?”

“I live to serve.”

“Ms. Fraser is now CEO of Weinberg’s company,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Advanced investigation techniques,” I said.

“She told you.”

“Yep.”

“And Mrs. Weinberg?”

“She may not like it,” I said. “But she voted on it. She’s stuck with Jemma.”

I passed the Angel of the Waters statue at the edge of the Public Garden. Traffic slowed at the light and I continued on west toward Clarendon. “You could search out some of Bill Brett’s party photos?” I said.

“Or I could look through donation records of some politicians I might suspect of shady dealings.”

“The reason I love you, Wayne.”

“How about a quote on the shooting last night?”

“Pow,” I said. And I hung up.

I parked in front of a Marshalls discount store and walked the rest of the way down Boylston. I was halfway down my hall when I spotted something not quite right. My door was wide open. Perhaps it was Z. Perhaps Hawk had come back early. Maybe it was Angelina Jolie, waiting to give me an early birthday surprise. Always the cynic, I pulled the .38 from my hip and kept it down by my right thigh.

I crept close to the door. I waited. I listened for the sound of paneled floors creaking, or the smell of smoke. After a couple minutes of feeling silly, I gave up and walked inside.

It was empty. But not as I’d left it.

My file cabinets hung wide open. Desk drawers had been removed, shaken of their contents, and dumped on the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open and thrown on the floor. Even my Vermeer prints had been pulled from their frames and carelessly flung about. At least I knew we were not dealing with a lover of the Low Country masters.

I checked my overturned right-hand drawer. I found my .357. I checked my top filing cabinet. I found my Bushmills. I sighed with relief.

I could call Frank Belson or Healy. They would both tell me to go cry in my soup. If someone was ratting around my office, they would have worn gloves. I knocked on the door to the design showroom across the hall. I asked two very tall, very attractive women if they had seen anything unusual.

They said no.

I asked if they knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men.

They stared blankly at each other.

I knocked on the door to a commercial real-estate firm and on the door of a two-person marketing team. Same answer without the second question.

I went back to my disheveled office. I picked up my Vermeer prints, set them back inside the frames, and hung them on the proper nails. I stood back in a pile of loose letters and files and noted the print on the left was crooked.

I closed the door behind me, opened a window, and poured some Black Bush into a coffee mug. The wind off Berkeley kicked up and stirred some papers and files. I set the phone back on the cradle. Stuffing exploded from the rips in the sofa. My printer lay cracked and useless in the corner. I lowered the blinds. I drank some more Bushmills while I studied Vermeer. A young woman caught while taking a music lesson. Holding sheet music, she seemed shocked by the interruption of the artist. Her tutor unaware.