Vinnie took a seat on a brown leather couch. He leaned forward in the dim light and made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to every word. I tossed him the flash drive to see his quick hands in action. Vinnie, being Vinnie, caught it in his left hand like a trapped fly.

“Got this in the mail, Gino,” I said. “It’s a pretty well-detailed account of payments from your various companies to the esteemed Joseph G. Perotti.”

Vinnie leaned back into the couch. Gino placed his hands flat on his knees. His skin had become more paper-thin, and the number of liver spots on his hands had grown. His eyes were hooded, and his lips were thin and purplish. He smelled like a basket of potpourri.

“So?” Gino said.

“Thought you might want it back,” I said.

“Very generous of you.”

Gino and Vinnie exchanged looks. Gino turned to me and slowly lifted his chin. He swallowed and then turned his attention to the coffee. Michael stepped forward and poured a cup for Gino and then for me. As he left, he pulled the curtain shut as if separating first class from coach.

“And what do you want in return?”

“Your undying gratitude?”

Gino looked to Vinnie. Vinnie shook his head and looked at the floor.

“And what else?”

“I want to know who killed Rick Weinberg and why.”

Gino leaned back in his seat. He left the coffee on the table, a wisp of steam curling up in the glow of the Tiffany shade. He pursed his purple lips. “And if I had him killed, I would lie to you.”

“Yes.”

“But you came anyway.”

“As a show of good faith.”

Gino nodded. He tented his long fingers before him. I never was sure why people did that when they were thinking. I thought they often did that to telegraph contemplation. I usually just tapped at my temple to fire up my brain.

“I have no idea who killed Rick Weinberg.”

“You say that with such conviction.”

Gino nodded.

“Obviously, there are some who have benefited by Rick Weinberg’s death.”

Vinnie and Gino exchanged another look. Gino nodded to Vinnie.

“Mr. Fish and Mr. Weinberg had been business partners.”

“Till death do you part?”

“Yep,” Vinnie said.

“And now Mr. Fish does not care to work with Jemma Fraser?”

“She did not impress me,” Gino said.

“I figured you would be immune to her obvious charms.”

Gino took in a long breath. He leaned forward and added a lot of cream but no sugar to his coffee. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t owe Rick Weinberg or any of his people a thing. I’ve found it may be to my advantage to work with another party.”

“And that would mean Harvey Rose and his group in Eastie,” I said.

Gino sipped his coffee. He artfully crossed his legs, his ankle touching the edge of his knee. He just smiled with the thousand-yard stare.

“May I infer from your silence that I’m correct?”

Gino smiled and sipped again.

“You do know who sent you that fucking thing,” Vinnie said.

I shrugged.

“Do you really think we wanted to kill that broad?” Vinnie said. “Jeez. Mr. Fish only wanted to speak to her.”

“About taking something that didn’t belong to her.”

“Now you got it, Spenser,” Vinnie said. “Now you got it.”

“I will do you another favor,” Gino said. “There has been an ill wind blowing in from the west since Mr. Weinberg’s death. There are individuals who have arrived in Boston who have not been invited, nor do they have any business being here.”

“Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”

“Wouldn’t you like some sugar in your coffee?” Gino said.

I added a couple cubes and milk. I sat back and drank coffee. Say what you want about Gino Fish, but he was a solid host. If he had brought out tea biscuits, I might have been convinced to work for the other side.

“And who hired them?” I said.

Gino widened his eyes. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

“Did you have them killed?”

“No.”

He drank some coffee. He looked to Vinnie, who leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Vinnie popped a piece of gum into his mouth and waited.

“Anyone else ask you to make inroads on Beacon Hill?”

Gino touched the parchmentlike skin that hung from his neck. He took in a deep breath, eyelids slowly drooping back into place. “Those men you mentioned do not come cheap. They are well connected and well paid. And they got in my way.”

I nodded. I was not thrilled with the way this was headed.

“Vinnie knows a man named Zebulon Sixkill who has recently fallen under my tutelage,” I said. “If you find him caught in the crossfire, I would appreciate him remaining unharmed.”

Gino uncrossed his legs. He stretched his neck and rubbed his fingers across his jawline. “And I would like the same arrangement for Mr. Perotti. Can you see to this?”

“That may be more difficult,” I said. “Some other people know.”

“But can they prove it?”

I shrugged.

“Let’s keep it that way, Mr. Spenser.”

Vinnie looked at me, seeming odd in his tailored suit and neatly barbered hair, and blew a huge bubble. The bubble popped in the brick room like a gunshot.

59

“THAT LYING LITTLE BITCH is making a goddamn mess out of everything,” Rachel Weinberg said.

“It certainly appears that way.”

We sat together in the back of the black Lincoln, with Lewis Blanchard at the wheel. I had been summoned to accompany Blanchard to Logan to pick up Rachel. I had dressed in jeans, a herringbone jacket, a blue button-down, and no tie. I did not want to appear overly eager. But I did come armed with news of the winds swirling in Boston, ill and otherwise.

“First she hires some local hooligans to scare people from a condo we need,” Rachel said. “And now she’s breaking into Harvey Rose’s offices to blackmail him. This is why she has no business running our company. Rick would have never acted like such an idiot. She has gone batshit crazy.”

Rachel smoked down one of her thin cigarettes. The windows were up because of the rain and fogged the car. The windshield wipers sliced water from the gray landscape of overpasses and on- and off-ramps.

“I don’t know if she broke into his office or if she had someone do it,” I said. “I am merely speculating.”

“Who the hell else would do it?” Blanchard said from the front seat. He did not turn around; the Town Car dipped down into the Sumner Tunnel. The sound of the engine roared, muffled in the enclosure.

“Were you aware that Jemma had studied under Harvey Rose?” I said.

“We knew she worked for him and we knew she went to Harvard Business School,” Rachel said. “Hell, she wouldn’t let us forget. But when she came over to us it wasn’t like Harvey Rose was gonna write a recommendation letter. He was pissed. That was the start of some bad blood between him and Rick.”

“She never told you that they had been close,” I said. “Or that she had been his intern while in Boston.”

“No.”

“Why do you think she’d keep that a secret?” I said.

“Because she’s a lying piece of trash,” Rachel said. “She has blindsided me about every order of business since Rick’s death.” Rachel pounded the armrest with the bottom side of her fist.

“Did you know she would be his successor?”

“Of course,” she said. “I had to vote on it. Rick wanted it so damn badly. But Jesus, I didn’t imagine what would happen. Or that she would try to fuck me over with the board. I just got back from a meeting in Vegas where they offered me a buyout. They want me off the board and to take a fucking check. Who do you think broached that simple subject?”

“What did you say?”