“I think he got busted up,” I said. “He learned being cracked doesn’t make you broken. He’s ready.”

“How’d you get so wise?”

“I’m Irish,” I said. “I listen to the wisdom of the little people.”

“Okay, then,” Henry said. “Let’s find the kid.”

61

HENRY AND I had spent eight hours looking for Z. And looking for Jemma. I learned she no longer frequented the Four Seasons. Or the Boston Harbor Hotel. Or the Legal at Copley Place. I had tried the storefront in Revere that Rick Weinberg had rented. I had tried some of Z’s favorite brewpubs. Nothing. The next morning I went for a run, with Pearl trotting at my side with great enthusiasm. I missed Z. He always pushed me harder than I pushed myself. He was younger, stronger, and faster, and in turn made me better. I kept my mind off dark thoughts.

The rain had been constant, the remnants of a storm off the Atlantic. It fell warm and salty, hitting my face as we ran east along the river. Pearl and I crossed the Weeks Footbridge, heading back toward the business school, while I considered what I knew about Jemma Fraser. Which was not considerable or specific. She was ambitious and ruthless. She had been a protégée of Harvey Rose’s but had chosen to keep that relationship private. She had sent some local sluggers to scare some old folks into selling their properties, possibly against her boss’s wishes. She had tried to seduce me and had failed. She had told Z that I forced the issue. Now I learned she had probably stolen incriminating evidence from her old mentor and then sent it to me to show that Harvey Rose was in cahoots with Gino Fish and sever their relationship.

But being ruthless and even highly unethical in business does not make you a killer. However, it doesn’t make you Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, either.

I kept heading east on the Boston side of the river. I followed the path to Soldiers Field Road to where it would become Storrow. Despite the rain, the rowers were out in force. I watched a four-woman crew aimlessly float and then slow in alignment before falling into a steady dip of oars and muscle. I kept jogging, Pearl’s collar jingling beside me. Her constant pant a comfort.

As I approached the Harvard Bridge and Mass Ave, a black car slowed to my pace along Storrow before turning onto Mass and illegally parking on the curb at the edge of the bridge. Healy and Lundquist got out. I stopped and caught my breath. Pearl looked back at me with annoyance.

“Admiring my form?” I said.

“Got a minute?” Lundquist said.

“Is there a statie policy against having a hound in your car?”

“Yeah,” Lundquist said. “Might make my commander bullshit.”

Healy shook his head and climbed back into the passenger side. Lundquist eased his large frame behind the wheel. I opened the back door, let Pearl in, got in behind her, and closed the door. Lundquist drove out onto Mass Ave and crossed back over the river.

“How’s it going out there?” Healy said.

“Rain slows me down a bit,” I said.

“I meant with the Weinbergs,” he said.

“I was told that my services were no longer needed.”

“So you got it all figured out?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

“Why’d they let you go?” Lundquist said. His red hair was cut razor short above his thick neck.

“It was implied they now have their own people.”

“Anything you want to let us know?” Lundquist said.

Pearl sat at attention in the leather seats, head on a swivel as we passed MIT and the many students bustling about in tight jeans, sloppy T’s, and backpacks.

“My apprentice is missing.”

“You’re getting some rotten luck, Spenser,” Healy said.

“I suppose you have something to cheer me up.”

“In fact, we do,” Healy said. “We know who killed Rick Weinberg.”

I raised my eyebrows. Even Pearl perked up. “That is swell news,” I said. “Made the arrest?”

“Might be tough,” Healy said. “It was those two shitbirds we found shot up in Chelsea.”

I waited. Pearl waited.

“Weinberg’s DNA is in the trunk,” Healy said. “We found a receipt to the cash purchase of a Stihl chain saw. Want me to draw you a picture?”

“Lovely,” I said. “You tell Mrs. Weinberg?”

“You’re the first to know,” Lundquist said. “We don’t want it getting out until we get further up the food chain.”

“Ideas on who hired them?”

“That’s why we came to you, ace.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“We’re looking into their phone records, and people out in Vegas are doing the same,” Healy said. “It will take some time. They have connections to what’s left of the Genovese and Polizzi families.”

I scratched Pearl’s head. Her wet-dog smell and dog breath rapidly filled the car. I felt like I should share something with the staties, but wasn’t sure what. I could tell them what Gino Fish suspected about Jemma and perhaps mention the reason he sent his nephews to corral her. Instead, I thought for a moment. “Did your people ever find out what happened with Weinberg’s cell?”

“Nope.”

“But you subpoenaed the provider,” I said. “The provider would have to turn over what they had.”

“Takes more time than you think.”

“Phone is lost at sea,” I said. “But any texts or voice mails would still exist.”

“Remember the days when we just dealt with Ma Bell,” Healy said. “Jesus, it was much easier.”

“I used to send a box of chocolates and flowers every Valentine’s Day to my favorite operator.”

“Let me see where we stand,” Healy said. “You know something?”

“Did you guys happen to find Jemma Fraser?” I said.

“You don’t know where she is, either.”

“You looking for her?” I said.

“We are.”

“May I ask why?”

“Off the record?”

“Yep.”

Healy took a deep breath. “She is what we call a ‘person of interest.’”

“That would make Rachel Weinberg a very happy woman,” I said.

“Yep,” Lundquist said. “She is of interest on a great many things. We have her arriving yesterday in Boston, and then she’s fucking Houdini.”

“Registered at a hotel?”

“Nope,” Healy said.

“Talked to any business associates?”

“She’s missed two important meetings,” Lundquist said. “Nobody in the company can find their new CEO. That’s a little strange.”

He slowed the car. We had made it to Kendall Square right by the Longfellow Bridge. “You want us to put you out where we found you?” Healy said.

“This works,” I said.

“You’ll find your way back?” Lundquist said.

“Does it matter?” I reached for Pearl’s leash. “I’m still looking for a place to start.”

I tried calling Z again. No answer.

62

AFTER A SHOWER and change of clothes, I was still flummoxed. So flummoxed, I drove back to my office and uncorked a bottle of Black Bush.

A blank yellow legal pad sat on my desk. I had yet to hear from Z or hear from Healy or make any sense of what was going on in Wonderland. I thought maybe it had something to do with me not turning on my office lights. So I did. My door was slightly ajar. Rain blew in from the Atlantic. It was nearly night, and for an odd reason, I didn’t care about eating. Instead, I checked the time, and realizing it was three hours earlier in Vegas, called up Bernie Fortunato. Bernie, being one of those guys who kept a cell screwed into his ear, answered after one ring.

“It’s a comfort knowing you’re there for me.”