Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot

by Ace Atkins

  I mentioned to Susan that I had confronted Kinjo about the payoff to the family.

  “And what do we know about Akira?” she said.

  “I only met him briefly,” I said. “Smart. Curious. Seems to idolize his father. Had a lot of astute questions about my chosen profession.”

  “And scared to death.”

  I nodded.

  “He’s old enough to know exactly what is going on and is probably wondering if he’ll live through it. Can you imagine being that age and contemplating death? Or wondering if you’ll ever see your parents again? We create these safe, warm places for children. Despite a divorce or animosity with the parents, his world is probably a good one.”

  “And so we wait.”

  I checked my phone again.

  Susan moved in next to me. I put down my pizza and my beer and wrapped my arm around her. She rested her head on my shoulder. Her curly hair was very shiny and black. She smelled like lavender and the lightest trace of perfume mixed with lovely sweat.

  “Call if you need me,” Susan said.

  I pulled her in closer and kissed the top of her head. As I did, I saw her drop a pepperoni slice for Pearl.

  24

  The Heywood house was jumping later that night. Food had been catered, bushels of flowers unloaded, and two big coffee urns set up in the kitchen. Cops drink a lot of coffee. Grief-stricken people need flowers and food.

  Lundquist and I waited in a sitting room that faced the driveway. From there, we could see reporters milling under camera lights. The room had white carpet and white leather furniture and a very large oil painting of Kinjo in his college uniform, delivering a bone-jarring tackle on a quarterback.

  “You think someone might want to paint me in action?” I said.

  Lundquist shook his head. “Sarcasm is hard to capture on canvas.”

  Across the hall, I could hear the scanner for Brookline PD, which had set up roadblocks around the house. The Heywoods’ neighbors had not been pleased with the influx of traffic and gawkers. I’d been there for two hours and had spoken to Kinjo and talked to two Brookline cops about a man they had detained but later let go. The man apparently had a knack for showing up at crime scenes and confessing. Not only to being the Boston Strangler but also to shooting Lincoln.

  “What’d you think of the guy who called in to Paulie and the Gooch?” Lundquist said.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Depends on if he or she follows up.”

  “Very PC of you to think our kidnapper may be female.”

  “But probably a guy,” I said.

  “Most often is.”

  Lundquist removed his sport coat and loosened his red tie. There was reddish-blond stubble on his face and dark circles under his eyes.

  “How long have you been here?” I said.

  “Two days straight,” he said. “I slept for two hours earlier in a guest room.”

  “Can you go home?”

  “Not until we hear something,” he said. “I want to be here when the call comes through.”

  I nodded. I watched a grouping of reporters on a hill. A large bloom of light encircled a male reporter as he stood with his back to Kinjo’s house. Every few seconds he would gesture down the hill and then turn back to the camera. Except for some dotted points lighting a brick walkway, everything was stark black. The reporter turned and pointed a final time, holding the pose. The bloom of light extinguished, and it was dark again up the hill.

  “Susan thinks we should tell Kinjo the odds.”

  “You want to have that conversation?”

  “He should know,” I said.

  “I don’t want to tell him anything until we even understand what we’ve got.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “But what do we have? A trophy wife with a sordid past? A family who believes Kinjo is guilty but took cash instead of court?”

  “I guess we’re dealing with pros.”

  “How many pros leave a victim behind?”

  “There have been some.”

  “But not a child old enough to ID them.”

  Lundquist’s head sagged. He patted his shirt pocket for some cigarettes and came out with a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a Zippo. He stood and stretched. He walked to the door, and as he rounded the corner, he nearly ran into Steve Rosen and Jeff Barnes.

  “Spenser,” Rosen said. “You got a few minutes?”

  “For you, Steve?” I said. “Always.”

  Lundquist hung back for a second over the men’s shoulders. He looked at me, shook his head, and headed for the front door.

  Rosen grinned, exposing his eyeteeth in a way that did not make me feel comfortable. Jeff Barnes followed him.

  Barnes looked as if he’d just started his day. His flawless double-breasted gray suit matched his flawless gray hair. He was clean-shaven and bright-eyed, and if he’d been maybe six inches taller, he might’ve even pulled off the glare he was giving me.

  “We appreciate all you’ve done,” Rosen said. He kept grinning, and I wished he’d stop.

  “Sure.”

  “And this has nothing to do with you going to New York on your own.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But this whole thing has been shot to hell,” Rosen said. “This isn’t what we hired you for, and with the police involved . . . we think . . .”

  I tilted my head. “That we need to see other people?”

  Barnes stepped up at the same line as Rosen. He had been standing a few paces back, and I had been waiting for him to hit his mark. “Do you have to be so goddamn glib, Spenser?” Barnes said. “Do you even understand what is at stake here?”

  I stood up. I smiled. “Glib?” I said. “I assure you my words are fraught with meaning.”

  “This thing is way above your head,” Barnes said. I was pretty sure he was standing on his tiptoes when he said it. I looked down at his feet to see if he’d let his heels touch the ground. “You what? Work divorce cases? Maybe payroll theft?”

  “Wow,” I said. “You do your research, Barnes. You have me pegged. Peepholes R Us.”

  “I wouldn’t hire you to take tickets at Gillette,” he said. “This is professional business. We don’t have time for amateurs.”

  “Now that you’ve thoroughly deflated my ego,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down and shut up.”

  “Excuse me?” Barnes said.

  Rosen took three steps back. Barnes approached me. He was maybe a foot in front of me, nose to nose, or, more accurately, nose to chest.

  “I can squat down if you like,” I said. “It would make it easier to stare me down.”

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he said. “What Mr. Rosen is telling you is that you are fired. You’ll be paid for your time, but it’s time to pack up and head back to wherever you crawled out from.”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to sit down and shut up,” I said. “Rosen. Call in Kinjo. If he wants me to leave, I’ll leave.”

  “He wants you to leave,” Rosen said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Have him tell me. And I will.”

  “He’s asleep,” Rosen said. “He’s broken down. Don’t make it worse.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I hired you,” Rosen said. “And I handle his affairs.”

  I shot a look at Rosen and held it. He swallowed and disappeared from the room.

  Barnes laughed out of his nose. “You came just as advertised, Spenser.”

  “By your friend with the Feds?”

  “Yep.”

  “Surprised he had time to call you with all the payoffs he’s been taking in Southie.”

  “Keep talking,” Barnes said. “Wouldn’t take much from him to pull your license.”

  “Eek.”


  Z had wandered in, replacing Rosen, and stood wide in the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to me.

  “This isn’t over,” Barnes said. “Not by a fucking long shot.”

  “Z, have you met my friend, Jeff Barnes?” I said. “Million-dollar personality.”

  “Don’t bother coming back,” Barnes said. “I’ll notify the police.”

  “And witty, too,” Z said. His dark face showed no emotion. Black eyes steady on Barnes.

  I winked at Barnes as I followed Z into the hallway and down into the big kitchen. It was late and the kitchen was empty. Coffee mugs and empty plates crusted with food littered the room. I checked the time and poured some more coffee.

  “Have you talked much to the brother?” Z said.

  I took a sip. “Some.”

  “And?”

  “And something isn’t right.”

  “Two hours ago, we were outside talking, and Ray Heywood left pretty quick,” Z said. “He was inside the house for maybe an hour, talking with Kinjo. An hour ago, he passed me on the road and did not speak.”

  “Rude.”

  “His face was sweating and he was out of breath.”

  “He’s overweight and not in good shape.”

  “I followed him.”

  I put down the coffee.

  “He drove to a bar in Newton, stayed five minutes, and sped out of the lot.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “I put a GPS tracker on his car,” Z said. “Looks like he’s in Boston. What was that about, anyway?”

  I nodded. “Mutt and Jeff wanted to put us on waivers.”

  “They say why?”

  “Strongly suggested they were handling matters,” I said.

  “Looks like Ray Heywood is deep into whatever it is tonight.”

  25

  Nearing midnight, we caught up with Ray Heywood in his silver Mercedes SUV. He’d stopped off at his brownstone apartment in the South End for a few minutes, and we thought perhaps he’d turned in for the night. But thirty minutes later, he was heading up Mass Ave and turning onto Boylston toward downtown. I drove my Explorer with Z riding shotgun. Z tracked the car from his phone.

  “I almost feel like that’s cheating,” I said.

  “Is there an honest way to tail someone?”

  “Maybe not more honest,” I said. “But sporting.”

  I hung back five cars. Ray’s tall Mercedes was easy to spot as it slowed and turned down into the Prudential Center parking garage.

  We followed him down into the concrete cavern. I drove past Ray and let Z out before finding a slot two sections over. The garage was silent except for the electric buzzing of fluorescent lamps. Every step, every car door echoed loudly deep beneath Pru Center. Z and I waited until he took the elevator to the street level and followed. Out of the elevators, we rounded the corner and watched Heywood take an escalator up to the shopping plaza. Z and I walked together through the empty mall under the darkened skylights, past the Legal Seafood and the food court, all the kiosks in the center of the mall draped with black cloth. Ray never looked back, heels clacking on the marble floors as he punched the button to the express elevators headed to the fifty-second floor.

  “Top of the Hub,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “An overpriced bar with a great view.”

  “Maybe he wants a drink?” Z said.

  “Or was told to meet someone.”

  We took the next elevator up the second-tallest building in the city. The elevator rocketed up and soon slowed. When we stepped out, Ray Heywood was standing with his back to us at the hostess stand. I studied the artwork on the walls and glanced back in time to see Ray turning to the right, toward the long bar and the jazz club. A trio had started up before a huge bay window with a view of the city, the waterfront, Logan, and if you looked hard enough, London Bridge and the Eiffel Tower.

  “Nice,” Z said.

  “You should see the bathrooms,” I said. “They put ice in the urinals.”

  Z seemed properly impressed. We both took a seat at the bar, not within sight of Ray, but Ray had to pass us to leave. I had removed my Spinners cap. Z took off his coat and ordered a Coke. I had a Harpoon on draft in an effort to support local commerce.

  “You want to walk back there?” Z said. “Or me?”

  “He knows us both.”

  I drank some beer and shrugged. I walked back to the jazz club and glanced inside. Ray Heywood was seated near the northern windows. He said something to a waitress and then looked down at his cell phone. The trio played “Skylark.”

  I walked back to the barstool.

  Z looked up from his Coke.

  “‘Skylark,’” I said. “In case you were wondering.”

  Z nodded.

  “Melancholy.”

  “Music of the night,” I said.

  We did not speak for a long while, occasionally turning back to the bar and waiting for Ray to return. I had been here recently with Susan and Rachel Wallace. We had heard the food had improved a great deal and had heard right. I’d had the spicy lobster soup, followed by scallops as big as a fist. I thought for a long while about what Susan had ordered but came up with nothing in my memory but a garden salad and a gimlet.

  After ten minutes, I got up again and looked for Ray. He was still sitting and looking at his cell phone, pressing some keys. The waitress had brought him a tall drink over ice. The trio had moved on to “’Round Midnight.”

  I walked back to the barstool.

  “‘’Round Midnight.’”

  Z nodded. “Good to know.”

  “I like to pass on my cultural knowledge with tough-guy talents.”

  I pointed at his empty Coke glass. “As long as you’re driving,” he said.

  I had not seen Z take a drink since the beating. He did not seem to mind me having a beer but often seemed uncomfortable at the sight of me with whiskey. I sipped the one beer but laid down a nice tip for the bartender so she would not think we were just mooching off the view. Through the shelves of booze bottles, the nightlights of Boston flickered and pulsed in the blackness. Perspective.

  “Kid’s out there somewhere,” Z said.

  “Yep.”

  “Coming up on three days and nothing.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Now what?” Z said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we just sit down with Ray?” Z said.

  “We could,” I said. “But might scare whoever he’s meeting. If he’s meeting one of the kidnappers.”

  Z nodded.

  “Should we call Hawk?”

  I shook my head. “Break glass only when necessary,” I said.

  We listened to the music and sipped our drinks. Just another couple of businessmen out for a good time in ol’ Beantown. Z had only recently been able to pass after cutting off his ponytail. If I had my nose fixed, I might be considered midlevel management material.

  At one a.m., Ray walked from the club toward the restroom. I followed him inside and saddled up beside him at the urinal. Over the urinals were historic photos of the city. Mine showed a group of mustached men in front of a horse-drawn fire wagon.

  “How about that version of ‘Skylark’?” I said.

  Ray turned to me. “Shit.”

  “I thought it was pretty good.”

  “What the fuck you doing here, Spenser?” he said. “Shit. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

  “That’s why I didn’t approach you in the lounge.”

  “This is nothing to fuck around with,” he said, stepping away. “Besides, I thought you were through with this.”

  “According to super-agent Steve Rosen?”

  Ray nodded and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. The bathr
ooms were very cramped on the fifty-second floor.

  “Who contacted you?” I said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “But it’s the kidnapper?” I said.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “When did they call?” I said.

  “Didn’t call,” Ray said. “They fucking sent a message to Kinjo’s Facebook page.”

  “Now everyone knows?”

  “I’m the administrator,” he said. “It was a personal message.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “What did it say?”

  “Man,” Ray said, turning off the sink and reaching for a towel. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”

  “What did they say?”

  “If I tell you, they’ll get rid of me next.”

  “Did Kinjo want me gone or Rosen?”

  Ray was quiet. He was a rotund man, and the two of us filled the small bathroom. His sky-blue silk dress shirt was stained at the armpits.

  “Rosen,” Ray said. “Kinjo’s ass is knocked out. They gave him some sleeping pills so he could rest.”

  “Then I’m still on the job.”

  Ray walked back to the sink and splashed some water on his face. He wiped his eyes and turned back to me. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They didn’t show.”

  I nodded.

  “They told me to go to this fucking bar in Newton and so I go to fucking Newton. I get there and the bartender asks if I’m Ray Heywood. I was like the only one in this shithole and said yes. He hands me the phone, and same weird-ass voice as called Paulie and the Gooch come on and tell me to go to the Top of the Hub and wait. So I wait, and not shit so far.”

  “Wait some more,” I said. “Z and I are at the bar.”

  Ray ran a hand over his face. He was breathing hard out of his nose as he thought, and finally nodded. “Okay.”

  I grabbed his arm, and he looked me in the eye. “If someone sits with you, we’ll see them. If you get a message to go somewhere else, just nod at us on the way out. I have a blue Explorer and will follow you out of the garage.”