“The seventeen or the twenty-three?”

“I like my bourbon ancient.”

“Done.”

“Just wait,” Wayne said. “I followed up. Dug deeper. Quarterly reports were just filed for Perotti’s super-PAC. I did not see Weinberg’s name or anyone related to Envolve.”

I waited. Z had set aside his boxing magazine and listened.

“But I did see a more-than-generous contribution from someone else,” Wayne said.

“Harvey Rose?” I said.

“Which means our illustrious speaker has jumped ship.”

“Did the donation confirm that?”

“What do you think?” Wayne said.

I thanked Wayne and hung up. I looked to Z. He sat up straight and set his cowboy boots on the floor. Pearl looked from me to him, waiting for a word. I wondered if Pearl knew much about super-PACs.

“Seems like we now know the missing link.”

Z nodded. “Who?”

“A politician,” I said. “Shocked?”

“Cree takes everyone on faith. Especially white politicians. Why would they lie?”

“This one sold out Rick Weinberg before he got killed,” I said. “Be good to know why.”

Z stood up. “Why don’t we go ask?”

I smiled. “Let’s.”

50

Z AND I SPENT the afternoon on Beacon Hill.

I showed him the Hall of Flags, Doric Hall, and the murals opposite the main staircase. The State House was indeed grand in marble, mahogany, and brass. I took interest in murals of the Civil War and our war with Spain. Z studied the rotunda mural of John Eliot preaching to the Indians and the giant stained window of an Indian in a grass skirt. It read “Come and Help Us.” Z was not impressed.

At about four o’clock, the House broke for the day and I found a spot to rest my elbows on a filigreed iron banister.

Forty minutes later, Joseph G. Perotti, house speaker, emerged from his office. He made his way down the marble hallway with official clicking of his official shoes. He was discussing a matter of great importance to a flustered young woman in a navy pantsuit. She held many files in both arms. Perotti was empty-handed.

“Speaker,” I said.

He smiled. He offered his hand. Politicians often do goofy things like that to strangers.

“I am one of your proud constituents,” I said. “Duke Snider.”

“Glad to meet you, Duke,” he said. He shook my hand with both of his. Z continued to watch with detached interest down from the third-floor railing. An imposing statue of Roger Wolcott had his back.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

“I’m already late,” he said. “My secretary sets my appointments.”

“Is that how you met both Mr. Rose and Mr. Weinberg?”

Perotti stopped his happy skip down the marble steps. He turned to me. Perotti was a rotund little man with thinning gray hair and a brushy gray mustache. He wore rimless glasses in gold frames. I waited and he told his aide to meet him at the bottom of the steps. Perotti leaned in. “You fucking people from the Globe,” he said. “I just got through answering questions for that son of a bitch Wayne Cosgrove, and now you brace me on my way out.”

“Bracing?” I said. “Nope. Only asking. I’m not with the Globe, but I’m sure Mr. Cosgrove will appreciate your comments.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Just a constituent interested in the fate of some land in Revere.”

“What do you want?”

“When did you tell Rick Weinberg you switched teams?”

Perotti shook his head. His face grew red as he peered down the marble staircase to his young aide. He nodded very quickly. She trotted off. Time was short. Perotti began to move again, holding on to the rail, trying his best to escape me.

Z watched from above.

“Were you brokering a deal with Gino Fish,” I said, “or on your own?”

“I don’t know any such person.”

“Everybody with an office in the building is aware of Mr. Fish.”

“Not me.”

“But you were to broker a deal,” I said. “Pave some roads.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “Bullshit.”

Perotti rested for a moment at a landing near the bottom of the stairs. He wiped his brow with the flat of his hand. He was potbellied and winded. The aide had returned with a couple of house security guards. They began to approach. I looked up; Z had disappeared.

“All I want to know is why Rick Weinberg was killed. I leave you out of it.”

“I never met the man,” he said. He grasped the railing again and continued his descent.

I followed.

“What else did Harvey Rose offer?”

“You are insane,” he said, just as we hit the last step. Each security guard grabbed one of my arms. They asked what I had done. I looked to Perotti, and he blanched. I ripped free of one of the guards and raised my fist high in the air. “Free the Sacred Cod.”

“Sir,” a guard said.

“Insane,” Perotti repeated.

He and his aide clacked off. The guards escorted me out of the building. Z was waiting for me on the steps where Beacon meets Park. He had found a comfortable spot on a bench. “Why’d they let you go?”

“Perotti told them I was just an ordinary nut.”

“Which means he has something to hide.”

“Yep.”

“And he will jostle the source.”

“One can hope.”

Z pushed himself off the iron bench. I could tell he was still in some considerable pain. He walked down Beacon and back toward my office. The day had warmed, and we removed our leather jackets as we strolled. It was hard to be dignified when you had just proclaimed to worship a fish.

51

I MET LEWIS BLANCHARD that night at the Bristol Lounge. Happy hour was over and the bar had thinned of patrons. We found a small table only a few steps from the taps and drank cold Sierra Nevadas as we discussed details of Rick Weinberg’s funeral.

“She wanted me to stay here,” he said. He toasted me with his second beer.

“Punishment?”

“Didn’t say that,” Blanchard said. “She said she trusted me to continue working in her absence. I should have been there. I should have gone.”

I nodded. “A lot riding on Wonderland.”

“And now with the white-hairs spooked, holy crap,” he said. “You think they’re holding out?”

I shrugged. “I think they may be genuinely scared shitless. And a bit greedy.”

“Gaming commission will want detailed plans in a few months,” he said. “In a couple weeks we got to pony up a half mil for the registration fee.”

“Nonrefundable,” I said.

“If we can’t get this parcel, how are we supposed to get all of Revere behind us?” Blanchard said. “I want this for Mr. Weinberg. I really do. I mean, Christ, he used to come here as a kid. His dream was to bring back Wonderland. So much work to go to waste. Who wants that putz Rose to get the license?”

I nodded. I drank some more beer. I got to it. “Lewis, do you know who Joe Perotti is?”

“Holy Christ.”

“Nope,” I said. “He’s the house speaker of this great commonwealth.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Mr. Weinberg left a trail of very large bread crumbs.”

“Rachel is going to be pissed.”

“You don’t owe him,” I said.

Lewis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his jaw, nodding. “We need him,” he said. “Who else knows?”

“He’d promised to push Wonderland through.”

“Yes,” Blanchard said. “The reason why Rachel didn’t want him involved in your investigation. Holy crap.”

“Did you know he accepted twice the amount of Rick’s donation from Harvey Rose?”