“Lovely,” I said.

53

I SAT WITH HEALY in the passenger seat of his unmarked unit. We had a pretty good vantage point to watch the detectives and crime scene techs work. I was never really sure what the techs did these days, but Rita Fiore assured me they focused mainly on confusing juries. The coroner had already removed the bodies by the time I arrived. Now there were several yellow cones placed in spots where evidence had been found.

“No shells, of course,” he said. “But we should find a nice .22 short bouncing around in their skulls.”

“Who are they?”

“James Congiusti and Anton Nelson,” Healy said. “AKA Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”

“Inspired.”

“Jimmy Aspirins because he takes care of the Mob’s headaches—”

“Naturally.”

“And Angel of Mercy because who the fuck knows. Nelson is a demolitions guy. Federal agent I called in Vegas says Nelson once blew up a dentist’s office because he pulled the wrong tooth.”

“What was Jimmy’s specialty?” I said.

“Crazy son of a bitch used a cordless drill into people’s heads.”

“And what were their ties with our beloved Commonwealth?”

“Zip,” Healy said. “This looks like an encroachment.”

“Of which someone was extremely resentful.”

Healy nodded. We had the windows down in the sedan. Parked along Shawmut Street, we had a lovely view of an endless row of sagging and paint-deficient triple-deckers. Empty trash cans, busted and turned upside down, lay along the curbs. Chain-link fences guarded front yards as big as area rugs. Another gorgeous day in Chelsea.

“What are you hearing?”

I shrugged.

“May I remind you that I have saved your ass on many occasions?”

“My ass is eternally grateful.”

“I’m getting a lot of pressure from the hill on this one,” Healy said. “I can’t turn something on Weinberg and I start hearing whispers of my retirement.”

“And then what do you do?”

“Watch soaps with the wife and drink light beer.”

“Did I not put you in touch with Weinberg’s second in command?”

“Belson put us in touch after the shooting.”

“A mere technicality.”

“Didn’t get us anywhere.”

“At least we know this thing is being stoked from Vegas,” I said. “But I’m not sure who is allied with whom.”

“Whom?”

I nodded. “Have you spoken to Harvey Rose?”

“This ain’t my first day on the job, Spenser.”

“What did you think?”

“I think he’s a schlub,” Healy said. “I think he resented Weinberg, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who knows people like Jimmy Aspirins exist.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you know?”

“I know the Sox are sucking this year,” I said. “And that Charles Mingus is the finest double bass player that ever lived.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Healy said. “I think there is a whole group of hoods in Boston who don’t want a casino to ever happen. They can’t get it into their thick heads that it’s happening whether they like it or not. But every day they continue to screw with the process is another day of big profits.”

I shrugged again.

“Jesus. What?”

“Or maybe they want a piece of the action,” I said. “And they are not evolved individuals when it comes to business negotiations.”

“Three men dead,” Healy said. “And we got zip.”

“Be nice to know who is negotiating exactly what.”

“You got something on that?”

“Gino Fish has removed his welcome mat.”

“And your other hoodlum friends?”

“That’s no way to describe some of the city’s most valuable resources.”

“Hoodlums.”

“At least they come honest,” I said. “It’s the ones in disguise that concern me.”

54

DEAN AGARWAL KEPT a neat and tidy office, as neat and tidy as one would expect of the head of Harvard Business School. A pal of mine named Bill Barke had made the introduction, Bill being a one-phone-call guy, and that afternoon I found myself drinking coffee with the dean in Morgan Hall. Agarwal was a professional academic, the framed paper hanging on his wall telling me he’d been educated in Bombay, London, and Cambridge. I noted from his bookshelf that he had authored several books with titles such as Leadership in the 21st Century, Leadership Through Economic Crisis, and Leadership and Building Trust.

Agarwal was a dark man, slight of frame, with a very shiny bald head and thin, trendy glasses. He was warm and polite, and spoke with a British accent overlaid with subtle tones of India. His hands were small, but he had a firm and assertive grip. He wore a light khaki suit and looked a bit like Vijay Amritraj, only with much less hair.

“Harvey Rose was one of our great stars,” he said. We sat a short distance from a large desk in a cluster of chairs set about a table with good china and a coffeepot. “I taught organizational behavior to many glum students. Harvey would attract hordes to courses that were somewhat unorthodox at the time. He said the key to corporate success was simple if you understood how to accurately predict consumer behavior. Many of the faculty frowned upon his methods, feeling they bordered on emotional manipulation, but one could not deny his genius.”

“Did he strike you as a future casino mogul?”

“Frankly, I never saw Harvey leaving the safe haven of academia,” Agarwal said. “On paper, Harvey is spectacular.”

“And in person?”

Agarwal reached over to the table behind us. With a small spoon, he extracted two cubes from the sugar bowl and plopped them into his coffee. He smiled and took a sip. “Less than,” he said.

“I’ve had the pleasure.”

“And now you are running a background check on him?”

“In a matter of speaking,” I said. “I work for the wife of the late Rick Weinberg.”

“Surely she doesn’t think—”

“No, she does not,” I said. “But part of my job is to check into the backgrounds of those who did business with Mr. Weinberg. I hope to learn a little bit more about his world and perhaps find some clues.”

“And even better with a competitor?”

“Some argue that Harvey Rose was running second.”

Agarwal took another sip and placed the cup on the saucer. He leaned back into a lemon-yellow Queen Anne chair. “If Harvey had entered the competition, then he had found a formula to win.”

“I believe his odds have improved recently.”

Agarwal smiled. “And had Harvey not taken his current position and left the business school,” he said, “this would be his office.”

The dean had a nice view of Shad Hall and some tennis courts. I added two sugars and a little bit of cream to the coffee.

“Besides being a mathematical genius,” I said, “why would a Las Vegas company hire a fairly bland figure like Harvey Rose?”

“The system.”

I drank some coffee. I waited for more.

“Surely you have heard about the Rose system,” Agarwal said. “It was quite the buzz in all the journals.”

“I only keep up my subscription to Guns and Ammo.”

“Harvey was the first to say the gaming industry was no different than any other form of retail,” he said. “He applied the same approach to the consumer as he would if he was working for JCPenney. What I would call a very macro point of view. Star Gaming hired him as a consultant and were so impressed with the results, they offered him the CEO position. What he’s done for them is really quite genius.”

“And what is that?”