I threw back the whiskey, left the papers where they lay, and locked the door behind me.

48

HENRY AND I MET Rachel Weinberg and Blanchard the next day in Revere. Lou Coffone and his geriatric crew had chosen a one-story cracker box off 1A called the 3 Yolks. A place that proudly advertised eggs at both breakfast and lunch. Rachel was dressed in an ornate white blouse with lapels that spilled over a black jacket. Her pearl earrings must’ve choked the oyster. While we waited, she dabbed at the partially wet table with a folded napkin. The table was well-worn Formica and the booth padded in orange vinyl.

“Who needs the Four Seasons?” I said.

“Me,” she said.

Outside a row of plate-glass windows, I spotted Z standing next to my Explorer. He said he would rather keep watch while we talked. Keeping watch meant he did not have to listen to another speech by Coffone and Buddy.

“Why here?” Rachel said. “We could have met in town.” She crumpled up the wet napkin and left it for the waitress.

“Old and set in their ways,” Henry said. “They’re scared shitless because of what happened. This place is familiar and safe.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Unless you’re worried about salmonella.”

“The whole thing did start a little dicey,” I said. Henry nodded.

“That was unfortunate,” Rachel said.

“Perhaps we should call Jemma Fraser?” I said.

Rachel’s face colored. “Why?”

“Since she’s now running Rick’s company.”

Rachel looked me over and then nodded. “Unfortunately,” she said.

“Would have been nice to know,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”

“Her current position is tenuous,” she said. “These people trusted Rick, and they will trust me.”

“It would have been nice to know,” I said.

“Her position will be short-lived.”

I nodded and decided on two eggs with rye toast. Henry eyed me as I ordered. He smiled at my selection. Rachel and Blanchard ordered only coffee.

Coffone and Buddy walked in a few minutes later. Coffone wore a yellow polo shirt again embroidered with the Ocean View logo and the word President. His white hair had been swept back boldly, face pink with a fresh shave. Buddy was hunch-shouldered and unsmiling in a gray tracksuit and thick white tennis shoes. Schlubby and potbellied, in shoes fastened with Velcro.

“Mrs. Weinberg wanted to hear the board’s concerns,” Henry said. “I thought it best to do it in person.”

Coffone nodded gravely. Buddy studied the menu and fingered at a tooth.

“It’s kind of gotten complicated,” Coffone said. “We don’t want to make any major changes until we find out what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that someone killed my husband for trying to do business in Boston.”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Weinberg,” Coffone said. “But that contract can be contested. We liked your husband a lot. And we liked his plans for the Ocean View. But now, I mean, hell. It’s all very different. He’s no longer a part of this. A person doesn’t know what to think.”

Rachel Weinberg leaned her head back. She took in a deep breath. “Bullshit,” she said. “You want to sit around with your dicks in your hands until you see who’s going to take charge for the widow. Or are you fishing for more money?”

I enjoyed the company of Rachel Weinberg.

“This has been a bad shock to all of us,” Coffone said.

“I’m sorry my husband’s brutal murder has been so hard on you,” Rachel said.

Buddy looked up from his menu. He signaled the waitress and asked for a western omelet with french fries. He continued to work at whatever was in his tooth with his little finger.

“If the picture cleared up,” I said, “would that make a difference?”

“Like if whoever did this was locked up?” Buddy said.

“Exactly, Buddy,” Henry said.

Coffone shrugged. Buddy followed.

Blanchard drank coffee. He turned his head very slightly, studying Z, who was outside, leaning against my SUV. Z had his arms across his chest, watching traffic zip by on 1A. No judge had ever been as sober.

“I can legally hold you to the agreement,” Rachel Weinberg said.

“Lot has happened.” Coffone gave a smile befitting a condo board president. “People have been killed. Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we have consulted with a new attorney.”

Henry looked at me. He had not been notified.

“Has anyone at the Ocean View been approached in the last few days?” I said.

“Since Big Chief got his ass handed to him?” Buddy said.

I just stared at Buddy. I waited. Buddy craned his head to the kitchen, looking for his western omelet. There was great clamoring in the kitchen. The cook rang a bell.

“Nobody,” Coffone said. “But we’re all scared to death. Nobody even wants to go to the store or get their dry cleaning. We just kind of want to be left alone now.”

“Holdouts,” Rachel said under her breath.

Coffone nodded. “What would you do? This is the only thing we got left. What we get from this deal is how our children and grandchildren remember us.”

Rachel Weinberg rolled her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stood. Blanchard pushed his chair back and waited. “This is the last goddamn thing Rick wanted to see through,” she said. “Think about that legacy.”

Coffone opened his mouth.

Rachel Weinberg held up a finger to silence him.

“Excuse me, but I’ll be gone for two days,” she said. “Now that my husband has been reassembled, I have a funeral to plan and attend. I hope your nerves settle by the time I get back.”

Rachel Weinberg walked out. Blanchard widened his eyes and followed.

Henry and I sat there with Coffone and Buddy. Everyone stayed quiet while we ate.

“Should have ordered the hash,” I said.

49

“ARE YOU BUSY?” Wayne Cosgrove said.

“Extremely,” I said, phone cradled against my ear.

I had spent the afternoon cleaning my office, refiling files, and looking in catalogs for a new sofa for Pearl. The Vermeer prints now hung razor straight.

“So I guess you don’t have time to find out what I found out about Weinberg’s political donations?”

I put down the dustpan, and sat at my chair with the phone. Z looked up at me from the cushionless sofa, reading a copy of The Ring. The blues and purples on his face had faded to a yellowish hue.

“On the official contribution list, I found pretty much the expected,” Wayne said. “He greased the palms of everyone he should. Right and left. He gave a few thousand here and there. Senators, congressmen. Council folks in Revere. Usual suspects.”

“Okay.”

“But being the true muckraker I am, I also looked into contributions given to super-PACs in the Commonwealth,” he said.

“Which I understand is legal.”

“A candidate can take as much money as he or she wants from a super-PAC, but the Supreme Court says all donors must be made public. And late last year, through his front Envolve Development, it looks like Weinberg gave nearly a half mil to a super-PAC run by the brother of Joseph G. Perotti.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost.”

“And you might ask what Perotti has to do with casino licenses?”

“Mr. Cosgrove, just what does Joseph Perotti have to do with casino licenses?”

“As speaker of the house?”

“Yep.”

“Everything.”

“Aha.”

“Damn right.”

“What’s your bar tab running now?”

“You’ve gone from a bottle of Blanton’s up to a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.”