by Ace Atkins
Ray grabbed my shoulder. “They said if we told the cops, they’d kill Akira,” he said. “I just told Rosen and he and Jeff Barnes thought I should go alone. You know, find out the terms.”
I nodded. Ray left, and I stayed in the bathroom for a minute before leaving.
I sat back at the bar.
Z did not say anything, just stared at the wide expanse of the Boston night. Lights twinkled and pulsed. Over the shadows and the rain. To a blossom-covered lane.
“Waiting on demands.”
Z nodded. Fifteen minutes later, Ray walked past us and gave a slight nod.
We followed him in the next elevator and out of the Pru Center garage onto Boylston. I called Hawk on the way.
26
An hour later, Z and I sat down across from Ray Heywood and Hawk at the South Street Diner. The restaurant was open twenty-four hours, which made it attractive at two in the morning. It also made it attractive to many drunken kids leaving the bars around Faneuil Hall. There was a lot of noise and boisterous laughing, which was a bit incongruous to our talk of kidnapping and ransom demands. Said demands being left on the windshield of Ray Heywood’s Mercedes while we were all listening to “Skylark” up at the Top of the Hub.
As soon as we both drove out of the parking garage, Ray had called. We drove a fair bit around Chinatown to make sure he was not being followed. Z had recommended South Street because it was near the Harbor Health Club and was a favorite of Henry Cimoli’s. Not that Henry’s taste in food was stellar.
We all drank coffee. Hawk ordered a southwestern omelet with hash browns and a side of bacon. He ate while we spoke. His presence seemed to make Ray nervous. Which was only natural. Hawk made any normal person nervous.
“You’re someone,” Ray said. “I know you.”
“I am someone,” Hawk said. “But you don’t know me.”
“You were an athlete, a ballplayer or something.”
“Before your time.”
“But I know you.”
Hawk shook his head. “You are mistaken, friend.” With that, Ray turned back to me.
“Do you think they saw you?” Ray said.
I shook my head.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because we were careful you didn’t see us,” I said. “And they don’t know us.”
A waitress refilled our cups. Hawk finished the omelet and pushed the plate away, dabbing his lips with his napkin. Z sipped black coffee and listened to the talk.
“Where?” Hawk said.
I looked to Ray. “South Station at six a.m.”
Ray nodded.
“You got the note?” Hawk said.
Z reached into his leather jacket for the note and handed it across. Hawk read it and handed it back.
“Staties gonna be pissed,” Hawk said.
“Yep,” I said. “We should tell Lundquist.”
Heywood looked at both of us as if we needed to be fitted for straitjackets. “Didn’t you read the fucking note?” he said. “No cops or the kid is dead.”
“We read the note,” Hawk said.
Ray closed his mouth.
“I would have thought they’d ask for more money,” I said.
“You don’t think a hundred grand is a lot of money?” Ray said.
Z looked up and spoke. “Not when the victim is worth twenty million.”
“Kinjo’s gonna get the cash.”
“Who’d he tell?” I said.
“His agent.”
“Terrific,” I said. Z still wore his black leather jacket, hands around a thick ceramic coffee mug. Hawk had neatly hung up his trench coat by the booth. His black T-shirt seemed painted onto his body. His forearms corded with muscle and vein. Z studied Ray as he spoke, offering no emotion or reaction. His right hand tapped slightly on the mug.
“What does Kinjo want?” I said.
“He doesn’t want the police to know.”
“We ain’t the police,” Hawk said.
“He doesn’t know,” Ray said, lowering his head and leaning in among the rattling noise to whisper. “This his goddamn kid, man. You don’t mess around with that. I think he just wants to bring the cash, get Akira, and get done with this.”
I nodded.
“But that shit ain’t gonna happen,” Ray said. “Is it?”
I shook my head.
“They gonna try and kill him anyway.”
“It happens,” I said. “But I’d prefer to change the script.”
“How?”
“Three of us can even the odds.”
“And do what?”
“Make sure Akira is returned safe,” I said.
Z drank some coffee. It had started to rain out on South Street and the streetlamps glowed stark and bright white along the pavement. Hawk watched the rain from the booth. He was quiet but completely in tune with every word that was being said. One of the drunk kids dropped a glass of water off a table, crashing to the ground.
Ray recoiled. Hawk didn’t so much as turn his head.
“I can call Kinjo,” Ray said. “But I can’t promise nothing. It’s his kid. His decision.”
“Just how does he figure to leave the house with a hundred grand without the dozens of police camped out at his house knowing?” I said.
“Y’all just haven’t known my brother long enough. But he can do anything he puts his mind to.”
Ray stood up and walked outside under the diner overhang to make the call. I looked to Z. Hawk was still very interested in the rain.
“What will Lundquist do if we’re involved and don’t tell him?” Z said.
“I’ll be number one with a bullet on the staties’ shit list.”
“That bad?” Z said.
“Spenser tops many shit lists ’round here,” Hawk said. “Where he feels at home.”
Outside, Ray’s thick shadow bent over as he spoke into the phone. The streetlights turned the falling rain into sharp gold pellets hitting the asphalt. Gutters collected the runoff and rolled down the dry concrete.
Hawk turned from the window and smiled. “A woman would be mighty grateful to the man who saved her child.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Hmm,” Hawk said.
“I told Susan that you were smitten with Nicole Heywood,” I said. “Was I correct?”
“Smitten too nice a word for what I got,” Hawk said.
27
Kinjo Heywood walked into the Harbor Health Club at four-thirty a.m. and tossed a large workout bag on a weight bench. Hawk had loaded up a curl bar as we waited and repped out with forty-five plates. He had not broken a sweat or showed any labored breathing on his twentieth curl. As he set down the bar, he nodded to Kinjo. Kinjo shook all of our hands. Ray Heywood had gone back to Chestnut Hill.
“I told the police I was headed to the stadium,” Kinjo said.
“What about Barnes?” I said.
“Fuck Barnes.”
“What about Steve Rosen?” I said.
“Rosen got the cash for me,” Kinjo said. “He works for Team Heywood, not the Pats. What we got? Come on, let’s go.”
Z and I had taken a nice leisurely stroll around South Station and came back with diagrams sketched on sheets of yellow legal paper. Kinjo was to show up at the Au Bon Pain in the center of South Station and take a seat. Someone would soon join him, pick up the bag, and leave, presumably by bus, subway, train, taxi, or car. There were many options at South Station, which made it convenient for a drop.
“I’ll cover the platform,” I said. “Z can wait at the escalator down to the T and Silver Line. Hawk is our utility outfielder, covering the taxi stand and exits onto Atlantic.”
“These motherfuckers didn’t say how or when I’d get my kid back,” Kinjo said.
“It’s a one-way c
onversation,” I said.
“What if this dude tells me Akira isn’t there?” Kinjo said. “That he’ll get me later or some shit.”
“Your son won’t be there,” I said. “They’ll make sure they get the money and then figure out their next move.”
“What would you do?” Kinjo said. “If it were your kid? You want me to be cool about all this. Trust them?”
“Nope.”
I looked to Hawk. Hawk had selected a leather jump rope and used it to stretch out his shoulders. He shot a glance at me before jumping a little rope by the mirrored wall. Hawk was not proficient at being idle unless necessary.
Z sat, elbows on knees, on a bench loaded with the sack of money. I stood with Kinjo. Most of the lights were off in the gym and the air purifier made gentle humming sounds. I had enough coffee at the diner to overcaffeinate a rhino.
“You don’t trust anyone,” I said.
“Then what the hell do you do?” Kinjo said.
“We follow him,” I said. “I wouldn’t want this guy out of my sight until you have Akira in yours.”
Kinjo nodded. “What else?”
“We could put a tracker with the money,” I said. “But I think they’ll check it pretty quickly. The device would get tossed and could definitely piss them off, too. We follow the courier.”
“Where’d you park?” Z said.
“At the Aquarium, like y’all said.”
Z nodded and stood up, going out to the street to check to see if anyone had tailed Kinjo. Hawk finished jumping rope and walked over to where he’d hung up his holster and coat. He slid into the leather, holstering his .44 Magnum, and then fit his leather trench over it. He turned his head slightly, his neck giving an audible pop.
“Won’t be long before Barnes calls the police,” Kinjo said. “Let them know I never made it to the stadium.”
I checked my watch. “Won’t take that long.”
“Can you both promise me something?” Kinjo said.
I nodded. Hawk nodded.
“You snatch up this man and get him to a place where I can whip his ass,” Kinjo said. “All I need is five minutes and a quiet room. I’ll come to terms, I promise.”
“No problem with that, man,” Hawk said. “But Spenser and I have years of experience reasoning with people.”
“You gonna try and talk it out?” Kinjo said.
Hawk shook his head.
“If this person shows up,” I said, “we’ll find out where he’s taking the money and to whom. He’ll talk.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Hawk smiled. I nodded my head modestly.
“Y’all stay so cool,” Kinjo said, shaking his head. “I feel like I’m going to come out of my skin.”
“You just show up with that bag,” I said. “We’ll handle the rest.”
He nodded. And then he got up on shaky legs and walked back to the gym bathroom. A toilet flushed and we heard him throw up.
28
South Station was busy at five minutes until six. Kinjo was already seated at the table by the Au Bon Pain as I perused a copy of Radio My Way by Ron Della Chiesa at Barbara’s Bookstore. I could see Kinjo from where I stood, my elbow resting atop a bookshelf, the brim of my ball cap low in my eyes. In the opposite direction, through the mire of travelers and commuters, Z lingered by the escalators down into the T station. If we had wanted to detain the courier, the number of MTBA cops milling about would have made the task difficult.
The loudspeakers announced train departures from various tracks. The big train board clicked and whirred with the latest updates. Early gray light flooded high windows as the station pulsed with brisk energy. I had just got to a profile on Ruby Braff when I saw a thick-necked guy with bleached-blond hair step up to Kinjo’s table and lean in to speak.
There wasn’t any reason to think this was our guy. Our guy had a knack for not showing. And this could be one of Kinjo’s many fans. Working a kidnapping exchange was more difficult with a guy who’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated and ESPN magazine. But the guy lingered at the table, and Kinjo’s body language indicated something other than a casual chat with a fan. His body was tense, leaning into the table. The bleached blond snatched the bag and walked toward the open-air bookstore.
Kinjo stood, walking in a daze into the crowd, lifting his chin at the man but not pointing and calling attention as we had discussed.
The man was tall, maybe six-three, broad-shouldered, and wearing an old-fashioned buffalo-check mackinaw with blue jeans and work boots. I got a good look at him as he passed me. Early thirties, chiseled face, thin lips, pale blue eyes. The hair was a color not found in nature. He had the workout bag tossed over his shoulder and wore a smug grin as he strutted through the crowd. I called Hawk on my cell.
The man headed toward a chocolate shop and a bank of ATMs. Z picked him up at the escalator. I told Hawk he was headed to the front doors that met at the corner of Atlantic and Summer.
I increased my pace, passing the escalator and the ATMs and catching Z as the guy crossed over Summer, dodging traffic. Horns blared and cars swerved around him as he made his way to the Federal Reserve Plaza. He began to jog through the open plaza as Hawk braked in front of us at the curb.
I jumped in. Z ran back to his car parked at the station.
Hawk’s car was not familiar to me.
“Trading up?” I said.
“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Every black man wants a ten-year-old Olds with bad brakes.”
“Borrowed?”
“Something like that.”
Hawk zipped down Atlantic and slowed as we passed the guy jogging toward Congress. Hawk pulled to the curb, motor idling, until we saw him run across Congress to a burgundy SUV and jump in. We accelerated from the curb past the Tea Party museum and north along the waterfront.
I called Kinjo and told him to head home. He tried to argue the point, but I’d already hung up.
Atlantic became Commercial, and soon we were in the narrow brick buildings of the North End. They’d spotted us. The SUV took a very hard left, squealing tires, onto Hanover as Hawk hit the accelerator.
“No use in pussyfooting,” Hawk said.
“Nope.”
“They tryin’ to get over the bridge,” Hawk said.
“Makes sense.”
“Tell Z to wait there.”
I called Z and told him to go ahead and drive over to Charlestown.
“Should’ve figured them for Charlestown,” Hawk said.
“Or Roxbury or Dorchester or Southie,” I said. “We mustn’t generalize a hood’s home turf.”
“Charlestown got more criminals per capita.”
“Per capita?” I said.
“I heard it on the television once,” he said. “Don’t know what it means.”
We raced down Hanover toward the statue of Paul Revere. The burgundy SUV squealed right up onto Charter Street. We followed.
“Yep,” Hawk said.
“You sure?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Then back off,” I said. “Let Z take it.”
“You trust him?” Hawk said.
“He was trained by us,” I said.
Hawk took his foot off the accelerator. We passed the crooked headstones of Copps Hill burying ground where Charter came into the curve at Commercial. At the corner of Prince, we waited and watched the SUV run through a red light and race onto the Charlestown Bridge.
I called Z again.
“Good to have three of us,” Hawk said.
“Knew the kid would come in handy.”
“Especially now that you pissed off Vinnie,” Hawk said.
“That was inevitable.”
“Inevitable that he’s gonna take over Gino Fish’s territory and we all be screwed.”
“You
think?” I said.
Hawk nodded. We idled at the stoplight. A car behind us honked its horn. We turned left onto Commercial and took our time driving over the river into Charlestown.
“You call Vinnie about this?” I said.
“’Cause you can’t?”
I nodded.
“He got his own troubles,” Hawk said. “New crew moving into Eastie on account of that casino being built.”
“Shocking,” I said.
“Mmm-hmm.”
We made it over the bridge and drove slowly along the old Navy Yard where the Constitution lay anchored. Actually, it wasn’t anchored. The proper term was berthed. Or maybe it was moored.
Hawk parked along a row of old brick buildings once in official use by the shipyards. Some of them had been turned into luxury condos and restaurants. Others lay dormant. The street was empty. It had started to rain again.
Hawk leaned back into his seat. We sat there maybe ten minutes when my phone rang.
“Charlestown,” Z said. “Ludlow and Mead. I parked next to the basketball court. There’s two of them. Just went into a triple-decker.”
Hawk started the borrowed car and headed out of the Navy Yard.
29
Kid been gone three days,” Hawk said.
“Yep.”
“Kid lucky his dad is Kinjo Heywood.”
“Or unlucky,” I said. “His dad was Joe Blow and nobody would be interested in holding him for ransom.”
Hawk nodded. The rain created a pleasant patter on the hood of the Oldsmobile. Every ten minutes or so, he’d hit the wipers and clear our view of the triple-decker. It wasn’t a bad house, as Charlestown was not the Charlestown of old. Fresh blue paint, good roof, no broken windows. Of course, everything looks better in the rain.
“You know how many black children go missing every year?”
“No,” I said.
“Unless you blond with blue eyes, you don’t make the evening news.”
“Are you trying to say this country still is plagued by racial issues?”
“Nope,” he said. “I am simply stating a fact.”