Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot

by Ace Atkins

  In the harsh light, Lundquist’s cheeks were reddened and chapped. Small acne scars ran down his cheeks and across his neck. His eyes flicked on mine. “Spenser’s been working for you?” Lundquist said.

  Kinjo nodded.

  “Because you’d been recently followed?” Lundquist said. “And thought someone might want to do you harm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Kinjo looked up at me. I shook my head.

  His eyes trailed away and studied the floor. “I thought maybe I’d gone crazy,” he said. “Got followed that one time and I pulled a gun. I thought they were on me, not my son. I thought it was somebody wanted to take me out. Something personal. What kind of coward comes for a child? He’s a kid, man. He’s just a fucking kid.”

  Cristal cried harder and snuffled some. I did not look back, leaning into the doorjamb, hands in my jacket pockets, letting Lundquist take the lead.

  “We have people at the school and in the neighborhood where you stopped,” Lundquist said. “We hope someone saw something.”

  “What time?” I said.

  “Nine-one-one call was made about eight-twenty.”

  “God, he was running late to school,” Cristal said. “What will Nicole say?”

  Kinjo looked up, eyes sleepy, and looked at her. “Not your fault,” he said. “I should’ve taken him myself. He’s my child. Never thought it was about him. Got my goddamn head up my ass.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cristal said. “I’m so sorry.”

  The Pats’ security chief, Jeff Barnes, walked into the study, looked to Lundquist and then looked to me with clenched jaw. “You, out of here,” he said, jerking a thumb. “This has nothing to do with you. Go.”

  “I called him,” Kinjo said. “I want him here.”

  Barnes wore a tight-fitting blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and no tie. He reeked of aftershave and breath mints and kept on shaking his head, eyes fixed on mine. “Did you bring some Mexican guy with you? Police can’t get him to move his car, said he was with you.”

  “He’s Cree Indian,” I said. “And yes, he’s with me.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s the king of Siam,” Barnes said. “You need to get out of here. This is mine. I’m in charge.”

  I looked to Lundquist and raised my eyebrows. I had not moved a millimeter from the doorjamb. I felt inside my pocket and found some gum. I took some out and started to chew it. That’ll show ’im.

  Lundquist stood up and faced Barnes, hands on hips and dead-eyed. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Brian Lundquist of the Mass state police. And who the hell are you?”

  Barnes reached into his tight-fitting coat and pulled out a business card with the Pats logo. Lundquist read it and handed it back to him.

  “I’m speaking to Mr. Heywood right now,” Lundquist said. “Wait in the next room and we’ll talk.”

  Barnes looked at me and said, “And what about Spenser?”

  “He works for Mr. Heywood,” Lundquist said. “He can stay as legal representation. And he can also stay because he’s not acting like a horse’s ass and giving me a migraine. Now wait for me in the next goddamn room, Jeff.”

  I did not react as Barnes passed me and walked into the kitchen. No reason to be smug.

  “You need to stick here,” Lundquist said, turning to Kinjo. “I don’t want you or your wife to leave. Not for a while. I don’t want you to make any calls or talk to anyone that isn’t crucial.”

  “I can’t just sit here on my ass and wait for y’all,” Kinjo said. “Some shitbags just snatched my child. How can I just sit down here and wait to see what happens?”

  “We can connect with both your landline and your cell phone,” Lundquist said. “You need to let us know about all your e-mail accounts, Facebook, Twitter, or whatever you use.”

  “Why?”

  “These days, it’ll be their easiest way to connect if there’s a ransom.”

  I left the doorjamb and sat down with Kinjo. I realized I had left on my Brooklyn Dodgers cap and removed it. “They want to wait a bit. Make you sweat.”

  Kinjo nodded. I turned back to Lundquist.

  “I’ll talk to numb-nuts about the press,” Lundquist said. “We don’t want this broadcast on sports talk. But, shit, look at the circus outside. How long do you think we can keep a lid on it?”

  “Not sure,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe five minutes?”

  11

  I found Z leaning against the hood of my Ford Explorer. He was wearing Oakley sunglasses like an outfielder and staring down the hill to the Heywood mansion. I walked up to meet him.

  “I need you to go back to the health club,” I said. “Find Hawk. Tell him to hang loose. I may need him, too.”

  “Is Hawk good at hanging loose?”

  “Not very.”

  “And me?”

  “You stick close to Hawk,” I said. “I’ll call if I need you. Right now I’ll stay here and wait.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Lundquist thinks we’re waiting for a ransom,” I said. “Staties are wiring the house for a phone call or e-mail messages.”

  Z nodded.

  “Revenge?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Some people in New York that I may have to meet. Other than that, it could really be anything or anyone.”

  Z nodded. “A man with a ten-million-dollar contract makes for a good target.”

  “You came close to that life,” I said.

  “One season away,” Z said. “But one season at that level is forever.”

  “And you’d never have met me,” I said. “Potential as a crime buster untapped.”

  “They okay inside?”

  “Nope,” I said. “A lot of crying and worrying and general shock. Kinjo is trying to make sense of things while trying to calm down Cristal. Cristal is a mess.”

  I handed Z the keys to the Explorer.

  “How will you get back?”

  “I’ll get one of the cops to drive me,” I said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “I hope it is a kidnapping,” Z said. “I hope all they want is money. At least that’s something.”

  The first leaves of fall left their branches and twirled about. Smoke drifted from chimneys along the street as the day grew colder. The road was crooked and never-ending down the hill.

  12

  Where the hell is my son?” Nicole Heywood said.

  The three cops guarding the front door had not been able to restrain her. Nor the maid or Ray Heywood or Detective Lieutenant Lundquist. Even super-agent Steve Rosen could not buffer his client. She was shaking and breathing hard, pumped full of anger and adrenaline.

  Kinjo didn’t answer. He sat at a long glass kitchen table, head in hand. His head dropped even more upon her entry. The kitchen was very large and lined with white tile, making everything sound hollow. Nicole stood, hands on hips, shaking and ready to pounce on Kinjo or anyone who got in her way. I hung back.

  The two detectives in front of laptop computers stared intently at their screens.

  Lundquist looked to me. And I back at Lundquist.

  “Can we talk outside?” Lundquist said. “We’re waiting on a call, ma’am.”

  “Hell, no,” Nicole said. “Tell me. You tell me, Kinjo. I want to hear what happened from his father.”

  “He’s gone,” Heywood said. “I told you. Some men took him as he was on his way to school. We don’t know why.”

  “Why the hell would someone take Akira?” she said. “You better tell me right now what’s going on. What the hell did you do now? You just handed over your child?”

  “Wasn’t him,” I said. “And they had guns.”

  She turned to me, folding her arms over her chest, and stared me down. “Who?”

  “Doe
sn’t matter,” Kinjo said. “They got him. Whoever got him gonna call and I’ll pay them and this will all go away.”

  “Damn right it matters.” Nicole put a hand to her mouth and fell to her knees. “Where is that goddamn bitch? I knew she did this. I knew it. What happens when you bring trash into your house.”

  I helped her to her feet. She squirmed, trying to run for the door, my arms around her. I loosened my grip, and she slammed an elbow in my stomach and ran for the living room, where Cristal sat watching the news. Cristal looked up and cowered as Nicole launched herself from the doorway. She looked like she could tear Cristal to pieces. I finally caught her, wrapping her in a bear hug and sweeping her out of the room. She turned into me and clawed at my face, let out an unholy scream, and seemed to collapse on herself. Kinjo grabbed her and held her close, pleading to her in a soft, intimate voice. “Baby, we’re doing all we can. We got to be calm. Think of him.”

  Lundquist handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed the blood from my face. Rosen helped Nicole to a chair.

  The two detectives continued to watch their screens. Nothing to see here. All is well.

  “Be calm?” Nicole said. She tried to act strong, but there was a breathless fear in her voice. “I try and leave the bank and two cops show up. They won’t let me. They want to talk, want to know had I heard from my son. Did I know anyone who would want to do him harm? Was I in a good place with my ex-husband? All the while, nobody telling me anything. Not you. Not the cops. Everyone wants me to calm down. Be cool.”

  “I got some pills,” Rosen said.

  “Fuck your pills, Steve,” she said.

  I stood at the kitchen counter. It was a nice kitchen. Lots of chrome and marble and gleaming stainless steel. The refrigerator would have filled half my apartment. I ran my handkerchief under the faucet and wiped my face.

  “At this point, we don’t know anything,” Lundquist said. “We’re treating it as a kidnapping and waiting to hear from the kidnappers. We are tapping both the main line here and Mr. Heywood’s two cell phones. We’d like to include your number as well, just in case they reach out to you.”

  Nicole reached into her purse and threw a cell phone onto the glass table with a thunk. One of the laptop cops picked up the phone and tapped away on his keyboard.

  “Why?”

  Kinjo did not answer.

  “Why?”

  Kinjo did not answer.

  “I swear to Christ if she did something that caused this,” she said. “I swear I’ll come after her. I’ll kill her.”

  Lundquist lifted his eyes to me. I showed him the bloody handkerchief and nodded in agreement.

  “What if they don’t call?” Nicole said.

  “They will call,” Kinjo said.

  “If they want money,” Lundquist said, “we’ll hear from them.”

  Nicole turned her eyes to Kinjo. She held the stare until he looked up.

  Cristal entered the room. Nicole did not turn her head, only held up her hand. “If you know what’s good for you,” she said, “you better get gone.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Do I stutter?” she said. “Get.”

  “You’re blaming me?”

  “Goddamn right I am,” Nicole said. “Funny how you the last one to see him. Nobody else around. You better take your fake tears and fake tits and get out of my damn face.”

  Without a word, but lots of snuffling, Cristal turned on a tall golden heel and skittered away.

  “You’ll pay, Kinjo,” she said. “You’ll pay every cent. Me and you both. Every cent to get him back.”

  Kinjo nodded. Nicole began to cry. I wanted to place a hand on her shoulder but was concerned she might break it.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, moaning. “Jesus Christ.”

  It was Kinjo who got down on one knee before her and held her hand. He was crying, too. Rosen sat down at the head of the table and started to text.

  I walked outside to the back patio. The night had grown chilly. The old play fort looked big and skeletal and quiet as hell in the night. Lundquist came outside and closed the French doors behind him. He lit a cigarette.

  “What did you get from that?”

  “Consider investing in a catcher’s mask?”

  “From the exchange?”

  I tilted my head. Lundquist burned down the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Look at the second wife.”

  “Natural reaction from the first,” Lundquist said.

  “Maybe.”

  “You know some things?”

  “Probably the same things as you.”

  “If this goes the way it often goes, I’ll be living here for the next week.”

  “I’ll chip in for some deodorant and mouthwash.”

  “I could send some guys to check out those things we both might know,” Lundquist said.

  “Or I could go to New York while you check out the second Mrs. Heywood.”

  Lundquist nodded. He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt.

  “Okay,” he said. “But call from New York if someone from that nightclub thing looks good.”

  “Would I ever hold out on you?”

  13

  Don’t ask me to watch Pearl,” Hawk said. “A man of my talent must draw a line.”

  “Is it the poop scooping that bothers you?”

  “You want me to carry a bag of shit in a thousand-dollar jacket?”

  Hawk wore a knee-length black leather trench over a designer black T-shirt and jeans. His cowboy boots were made of a crocodile’s belly. They were very nice.

  “Susan will watch Pearl,” I said.

  We sat at the counter of one of the five million Dunkin’ Donuts in the greater Boston metro area. I drank coffee and worked on an old-fashioned; another one waited on deck. Hawk abstained.

  “And Z is sticking with Kinjo if he leaves the house,” I said. “His agent requested bodyguard services.”

  “He ready?”

  I nodded.

  Hawk nodded.

  “But if he needs help—”

  Hawk nodded again.

  “If the kidnappers call, I’ll come straight back.”

  “No word?” Hawk said.

  I shook my head. “Not a syllable.”

  “How ’bout I gallivant over to Manhattan,” Hawk said. “And you stay here?”

  “Because I’m the dedicated sleuth,” I said. “You’re the heavy.”

  “And the brains and the shooter,” Hawk said. “The total package, babe.”

  “Nice to be you.”

  Hawk’s face showed no emotion. Dull fluorescent light beamed off his bald head. “This one of those deals where we work for free?”

  “Nope.”

  Hawk’s mouth moved a millimeter into perhaps a smile.

  “Our client happens to be loaded,” I said. “You will be compensated for your time and considerable talents.”

  “Fucked up to take a kid.”

  “Yep.”

  “You trust the staties?”

  “Lundquist is on it,” I said. “Remember Wheaton?”

  Hawk was definitely smiling now.

  “So you call me out for donuts at midnight to tell me to stay put?”

  “I do not wish to have you gallivanting off to Miami or L.A. or Southeast Asia or wherever else you sometimes go,” I said. “Consider the donuts to be a retainer.”

  Hawk nodded. He reached over for the second donut and headed for the door.

  I watched the lights punch the night from his Jaguar and the car slide into the dark.

  I finished the coffee and drove back to Marlborough Street to pack.

  14

  The next morning, I took the eight a.m. Acela to Penn Station. I read the Globe and drank coffe
e as we slowed into New London and raced on to Manhattan.

  One of the many advantages of train travel was that I could stash my .38 into my clean underwear along with a couple boxes of ammo. I did not pack much else besides two changes of clothing and a nice blazer in the unlikely event the case called for an elegant meal. I had already left a message for Corsetti, and Corsetti, being Corsetti, would be overjoyed to see me. I told him I had questions on the nightclub shooting from two years ago.

  I arrived at Penn Station at eleven-forty-five and took a cab up Eighth Avenue to the Parker Meridien. I unpacked my blazer and underwear. I wore the gun. It went well with my work ensemble of navy T-shirt, A-2 jacket, jeans, and New Balance sneakers. Fifteen minutes later, I found Eugene Corsetti sitting at his desk, about to attack a forlorn Twinkie. A nameplate stated he was a detective, first grade.

  “Jeez, is everyone getting a promotion?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Just me.”

  “Jesus.”

  “With the promotion, can’t you eat any better?”

  Corsetti stood, which did little, since he stood only about five-foot-six or -seven. It was more his girth that filled the room. Corsetti was built like a bowling ball.

  “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  He dropped the Twinkie in the wastebasket and we shook hands.

  “Sure, I remember the case,” he said. “Pats player involved in a first-class clusterfuck.”

  “I need a few more details than that.”

  “Didn’t you pull the file?”

  “I got the face sheet and the initial report,” I said. “But no transcripts. I need the transcripts.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. “Can we make it quick, sir? You know, I do work other cases between our meetings.”

  He reached for a satin Yankees warm-up jacket. Despite his questionable wardrobe, we had remained friends for many years.

  We walked around the corner to East 45th and a hot dog stand that also served gyros and falafel. I bought us each a dirty-water dog and a Coke.

  “May I ask why a hotshot Boston gumshoe is interested in a two-year-old homicide?”

  “Background.”