“Where’s my fucking check?”

“In the mail.”

“I don’t usually go about business that way,” he said. “That’s like a broad telling you that you’re her first.”

“Jaded.”

“What do you need?”

“More snooping services are required.”

“You’re lucky this is a slow time for me.”

“You’d make time,” I said.

“You say.”

“I need you to get to the Clark County clerk’s office before they close.”

“Sure.”

“And search for anything of note filed on Rick Weinberg, Rachel Weinberg, or Jemma Fraser in the last few months.”

“Sure,” he said. “You want to tell me what the fuck I’m looking for?”

“Legal issues,” I said.

“A hint?”

“Maybe a lawsuit brewing between Rachel Weinberg and Jemma Fraser. Or maybe something within the company.”

“Sure, sure.”

He hung up. I hung up. I poured a nip of Black Bush into my coffee cup. I leaned back into my chair, propped my feet on the edge of my desk, and listened to the steady rain and the traffic sounds out on Berkeley. The whiskey tasted more warm and welcoming on a wet day. So welcoming, I drank some more.

After a time, I dropped my feet to the floor, picked up the phone, and called Susan, who also answered after one ring.

“You and Bernie.”

“Me and Bernie what?”

“Loyal pals.”

“So what’s the news from Berkeley and Boylston?”

“How’d you know I was in my office?”

“There is a new thing called caller ID,” she said.

“Ah.”

“Have you spoken to Z?”

“Nope.”

“Found out who killed Rick Weinberg?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s ‘sort of’?”

“I know who committed the act but not who made the call.”

I explained.

“And how is Z?”

“Z has disappeared, and so has Jemma Fraser.”

“Perhaps a romantic getaway?”

I stayed silent. I told her about Healy and the state police looking for her, too. I told her the abbreviated version of Joseph G. Perotti and his magical bank account. She was not shocked.

“And what will Gino Fish do if his dirty laundry makes it into the Globe?”

“Be further annoyed.”

“‘Annoyed’ is an underwhelming word.”

After we hung up, I leaned back in the office chair and watched the odd patterns of light along Berkeley and the comings and goings of cars along Boylston.

I looked at my watch. I called Henry. Still no Z.

“Any more ideas?” I said.

“Aren’t you the fucking detective?”

“Yeah, but sometimes I need a reminder.”

I hung up, grabbed my raincoat and ball cap, and locked the door behind me.

63

I TRIED ALL the spots Z was known to frequent, and some that were just wild guesses. I did not have a picture of him to pass around. The description of a big Indian seemed to be enough. After the happy-hour rush, I found myself sitting at J. J. Donovan’s at Faneuil Hall. Z and I often came here for a beer after working out. I ate a cheeseburger and fries and drank some Sam Adams on tap. J. J. Donovan’s was a solid bar despite being located in the hub of tourist central.

The Sox game was on, and I watched while I waited for Henry to close up. I had already asked the bartender about Z. She said she had never seen a real-life Indian except in movies. I asked which movies, and she said The Searchers. We talked about The Searchers for a while.

I drank the beer very slowly. A handful of patrons hustled in and out, their jackets and hats soaked from the rain. The Sox were dry in Toronto, down in the bottom of the eighth.

The waitress smiled brightly and removed my empty plate. She brought me a new Sam Adams without being asked.

I had a few sips and my cell buzzed. Unable to hear much in crowded spots, I took the call outside on the pedestrian mall. The rain swept across the old brick street, but it was quiet.

“Okay,” Fortunato said. “I made it to the clerk’s office and stuck around till they closed. This’ll all be on the bill. But it takes time, this stuff.”

“Of course.”

“And now I’m on the other side of town,” Fortunato said. “And I had to grab a sandwich. If I had been by my office, I wouldn’t need to go and get a fucking sandwich.”

“Naturally.”

“Okay,” Fortunato said. “You ready, or you want me to call back?”

“I am all ears.”

“So I went looking for any civil suits,” Fortunato said. “I cross-referenced anything with Rachel and Rick Weinberg or that broad you mentioned.”

“Jemma Fraser.”

“Right,” he said. “Her. I also had a list of all the known corporations Weinberg operated in Nevada.”

“And.”

“And I didn’t get jack,” he said. “There was some bullshit from a knucklehead who’d run up two hundred grand at Weinberg’s casino and now claims he was Weinberg’s guest. Basically he stiffed the joint and wants Weinberg to pay him or some crap.”

“So,” I said. “No lawsuits from Rachel Weinberg. No recent suits against the board of directors or against Jemma Fraser. I’m looking for something with these women trying to get more from the will.”

“I didn’t see nothin’ like that. I went back six months before they turned off the lights on me. You want me to head back tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

There was an old-fashioned iron street clock in front of the bar. If the old clock was right, it was nearly nine o’clock. Henry would be back soon.

“The only thing I saw with both the Weinbergs was motions filed in their divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rick Weinberg filed two weeks ago.”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”

“I thought you were working for her?”

“I was.”

“And she hadn’t told you?”

“Nope. You said Rick filed it?”

“I wouldn’t want to cross the daughter of old man Polizzi,” Fortunato said. “Do you know who her old man was?”

“A noted Las Vegas philanthropist?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fortunato said. “Christ, Spenser. I would have charged you double if I’d known Weinberg’s wife was a fucking Polizzi.”

“I guess she didn’t advertise.”

“You want me to fax it to your office?” he said. “I made copies of this and of the other thing with the deadbeat.”

I thought about what I’d learned from Healy about the dead men in Chelsea. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat.”

“You said that already, chief.”

“I feel like saying it again.”

“The sandwich wasn’t much,” he said. “But don’t go nuts when you see it was eighteen bucks.”

“Go get yourself a steak dinner and a bottle of red,” I said. “On me.”

I spotted Henry coming down Clinton Street, flags American and otherwise popping in the wind. He was still dressed in white workout clothes but had on a ball cap. I told Fortunato I’d call him back.

“Anything?” Henry said.

“Nothing on Z,” I said. “Go inside and get a beer. I’ll be right behind you.”

Henry shrugged and walked inside. I called Healy on his cell.

“This better be worth it,” Healy said. “I don’t just hand out my personal cell for the hell of it.”

“Any luck with those phone records?”

“God’s smiling on you today. We got them at lunch and finished them up a few hours later. Lundquist and I both read them. Couldn’t see jack shit. Bunch of crazy texts. Nothing jumped out.”

“Can I see them tonight?”

“Jesus,” Healy said. “You do realize I have a life.”

“Thirty minutes?”

“Okay, okay,” Healy said. “Christ. Meet you at 1010. So where’s the fire?”

“Rick Weinberg filed for divorce two weeks ago.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll bring you the filing,” I said.

Healy was quiet for a long while. “Christ.”

“Anything coming back to you about those texts now?”

“Rachel Weinberg uses a lot of colorful language.”