by Ace Atkins
The last sentence lapsed into Hawk’s James Mason accent. I wondered if Hawk had ever watched any James Mason movies to practice. I did not ask. Some things were better not to know.
“Z’s done well,” Hawk said.
“He’s genetically programmed to track,” I said.
“What’s a thick-necked Irishman programmed for?”
“Sitting in the pub and bitching about affirmative action.”
“Ha,” Hawk said.
We had been sitting on the house for five hours and no one had walked in or out. Z had parked his dark green Mustang on the far corner, facing the opposite direction. If our courier or alleged kidnappers decided to leave, we were covered.
“She invited me in for coffee yesterday,” Hawk said.
“Who?” I knew but wanted him to say it.
“Nicole.”
“Ah.”
“Said if I was just going to be loitering, might as well be loitering in her living room.”
“Makes sense.”
“Mm-hm.”
Hawk leaned back into the seat. He crossed his massive arms across his chest. I don’t know if his eyes were closed or not. He wore a dark pair of sunglasses that made knowing impossible.
“And,” I said.
“And what?”
“How was the coffee?”
Hawk’s mouth curled a bit. “Excellent,” he said. “She talked a lot about Akira, mostly. Loves the boy, hates the father. Hates the stepmother even more. All that.”
“Hate is a strong emotion.”
Hawk nodded. The rain fell harder and there was a long, lingering thunder that rattled the windshield.
“Kid had a hard time with the divorce,” Hawk said. “Keeps on trying ways to get them back together. Think he the one made the trouble.”
“Which is not happening.”
“Kinjo seems to have a wandering dick.”
I nodded. “That often complicates a relationship.”
“Kid will want Kinjo to stick around when he drops him off,” Hawk said. “Kid’s only eight but starts talking about old times with the family. Trying to bring up good memories. Momma says he’s become nervous.”
“And now this.”
“No kid should be a part of this.”
A black Dodge Charger passed us, heading up Mead, and parked in front of an empty playground. A middle-aged white guy with a scruffy beard walked across the street to the triple-decker we’d been watching all morning. He wore an oversized gray hoodie with the Bruins logo. He looked as put together as an unmade bed.
“See that?” Hawk said.
Gray hoodie had an automatic wedged in a belt behind his back.
“Inconspicuous.”
The man walked up into the triple-decker without knocking or waiting for the front door to open. We sat in the car for another five minutes, waiting, and no one came out.
“We could call the state police,” I said. “And notify them of recent activity.”
“Might create a circus.”
“Or they might send in a SWAT.”
“And try and negotiate.”
I nodded. “Negotiation was not part of the plan.”
The front door opened and our old pal Blondie stepped out with a spray-tanned gorilla in a pink shirt. They both seemed unfazed by the rain. The gorilla, who we presumed to be the courier’s driver, stepped back in the house and then returned a few moments later.
The gorilla wore the tight clothing of a gym rat and seemed to have a hard time walking. With some effort, he crawled into the Charger, cranked it, and turned down Ludlow.
“Just the two now?”
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
“’Course they could be holed up with the Wild Bunch.”
I shook my head. Hawk turned to me. He nodded and opened the driver’s door. Across the street, Z did the same and met us at the corner. We walked separately down the neighborhood street, Hawk and Z breaking off toward an alley behind the house. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The cloudy skies and light rain made Charlestown gray and slick and pleasant.
30
Blondie, the courier, answered the door.
“Avon calling,” I said. “We have a wonderful assortment of styling products, sir.”
“What the fuck?”
“Don’t be angry,” I said. “We can do something about those roots.”
He started to close the door. I wedged my steel-toed Red Wing into the threshold. I aimed my .38 into his stomach. “How about you invite me inside,” I said. “I have so much to show you.”
“Hey,” he said, very loud.
“Keep it down,” I said. “This is a very special offer. Just for you.”
He tried to pull a gun. I punched him in the gut and took it away from him and marched him backward into the narrow hallway.
The antique floors had been stained very dark and recently sealed. The walls were Sheetrocked and newly painted. The rest of the house was empty besides a card table, some folding chairs, and a big green Celtics flag that said Believe in Boston.
I told Blondie to sit down.
Z and Hawk walked Hoodie into the room. His Bruins sweatshirt was covered in blood and he was holding his nose. Hawk did not tell him to sit. But he sat anyway. His hood was up, which made him look monkish and ridiculous for a man of his age.
“Money is in the kitchen,” Hawk said.
Z walked upstairs, gun drawn, and came back. He shook his head. “No kid,” he said. “Lots of dope.” Z headed into the kitchen and quickly returned, tossing the workout bag stuffed with Kinjo’s money onto the wooden floor.
“Where’s Akira?” I said.
“Who?” Blondie said.
Hoodie just shook his head and said, “Shit.”
I hit Blondie very hard in the mouth with an overhand right. He toppled from the chair and ended up on all fours. I kicked him hard in the gut and he fell onto his back. Hawk made a tsk-tsk gesture.
“My teeth,” Blondie said. “You knocked out my front teeth.”
“Do make it hard to whistle,” Hawk said.
I said, “Maybe the tooth fairy will come through.”
Blondie poised to get back on his feet. Hoodie stayed seated, wide-eyed and watching all three of us. Hawk had the man’s gun on his waist now. Hoodie just shook his head, attentive yet confused at what he was seeing. Z stood by the card table, arms folded across his chest.
“How about you?” I said to Hoodie.
“We ain’t got the kid,” Hoodie said. “We ain’t got the kid. Never fucking had the kid.”
He blurted it out as if he needed to push all the air from his lungs. Blondie got to his feet. He shook his head with great disappointment for his partner. Hoodie held on to his bleeding nose.
“Where’d your buddy go?” Z said.
“Getting some food,” Hoodie said. “You know, to celebrate.”
Z got down on one knee and pulled out bundles of cash in the bag. When he noted it was all there, he nodded at me.
“Did you ever have the kid?” I said.
No one said a word. Blondie spit on the ground and shook his head. He had a large gap where his two front teeth used to be. His mouth was very bloody. He stayed silent. Hoodie shook his head.
“I’m not convinced,” I said, turning to Hawk. “You?”
Hawk stepped up to Hoodie. Hoodie flinched and covered his head. Between his face and the front of his shirt he was a real mess. “Come on. Come on.”
Hawk feinted at him. Hoodie flinched and recoiled. Hawk stepped back.
“Shit,” Hawk said. “These boys aren’t worth the trouble.”
“Yep.”
There was a knock at the door. Z pushed Blondie into the seat next to his friend. I put a finger to my li
ps, only the sound of ragged breathing in the room and the soft clicking of rain against the glass. I looked through the peephole, pulled my S&W, and cracked open the door. I motioned to the juiced-up gorilla in the pink T-shirt who was using both hands to carry a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and a tray of coffees.
“Put it on the table.”
“What the fuck, man,” the gorilla said. “What the fuck?”
I took a nifty little .32 auto out of the front of his pants. I looked at Hawk.
“Little gun,” Hawk said. He held his .44 in his right hand.
Z pulled out another chair, gripped the man’s shoulder, and tried to force him to sit with his bleeding friends. Gorilla lunged at Z, and Z hit him very hard in the gut. Gorilla bent at the waist and tried to suck in a lot of air that wouldn’t come. He reached for his knees and Z knocked him on his ass.
Soon the trio sat before us in the folding chairs.
“I have an idea,” I said, pointing at each of them. “You cover your eyes, you cover your ears, and you cover your mouth.”
“We ain’t got the kid,” Hoodie said.
“We heard about it on the news,” Blondie said. “We figured it wouldn’t hurt no one. That nigger’s got a lot of money.”
Hawk whipped his head around and studied Blondie. He reached out and snatched a big handful of bleached hair. “Come again?”
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Blondie said. “But the guy is a millionaire. He signed a freakin’ ten-million deal. So we get some. We’d never take a fucking kid.”
“Perfect,” I said.
Z walked over to the table and opened the donut box. Half glazed and half chocolate. He handed a coffee to me and one to Hawk. There were little packets of sugar and cream containers in a bag. I added some to the coffee.
“Silver lining to everything,” Z said.
I nodded. “How much dope is upstairs?”
“Not Tony Montana,” Z said. “But dealing near a playground won’t look good in court.”
I shook my head with disappointment at the morons in front of me. Z hoisted Kinjo’s cash up on his shoulder and made for the back door. I dialed Quirk and told him we had something the department might want to see. The juiced-up gorilla opened his mouth as if about to speak. But he seemed to think better of it and stayed quiet.
“What the hell?” Quirk said.
“Just pass along this address to the drug unit,” I said. “Consider it a gift.”
31
That evening, I returned to Chestnut Hill with Susan Silverman.
I had to tell Kinjo and Nicole that they’d been conned, and that, in fact, after four days, no one had contacted the family about Akira. He was simply missing.
“Will they talk with me?” Susan said.
“Worth a shot,” I said.
“Did the state police provide their own therapist?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And how did that go?”
“Not well,” I said. “Nicole Heywood unleashed a torrent of expletives.”
“And why will I do better?”
“Besides you being a hot Jewess with a taut, athletic body?”
“Yes.”
“Because, Suze, you’re damn good at this stuff.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I am.”
I had to park nearly a half-mile away because of the news crews and onlookers, sports fanatics and nutcases. Not to mention the probable assortment of Hare Krishnas, Moonies, and those who follow Glenn Beck.
Susan and I hiked up Heath Street, Susan with little effort. I with a little effort. Of course I had been up all night and had to talk some sense into some faux-kidnappers.
The cops all knew me. Even the press who didn’t know me greeted me on sight. Some kid across from the Heywoods had set up a lemonade stand. The hand-painted sign read a portion of the proceeds would go for a welcome-home party for Akira.
A young cop opened the front door and we walked into silence.
The large house was even more of a mess than before. Anytime you have that many cops in a mansion with free food, the results would be ugly. Lots of paper plates and foam coffee cups. More laptop computers on the glass table. More cops milling about outside. More phone lines trailing through the center of the house. Four televisions brought into the family room tuned to two news channels and two ESPN channels.
Kinjo was nowhere to be found. Lundquist looked up from where he sat with a couple of detectives. He looked less than enthused to see me.
I shook his hand. He greeted Susan warmly.
“Figured she might help a little.”
“This morning has put me in a tight spot, Spenser.” His eyes wandered over my face as he shook his head. “Made me look bad.”
“Ray Heywood was going to do it on his own,” I said. “We just lent some support.”
“Should have called us.”
I felt Susan’s hand on my back. I nodded to Lundquist.
“Didn’t turn out to be much, anyway,” I said. “Maybe the worst Charlestown crew ever assembled.”
“That would be quite an accomplishment.”
Lundquist smiled and turned. His pockmarked face was chapped and raw from a recent shaving. His dress shirt and dress pants were rumpled. Everything about him said cop.
Kinjo and Nicole sat waiting for us in Akira’s bedroom. The rain had stopped and a bright gold light flowed through the curtains and across the spotless white carpet. His walls were covered with oversized posters of superheroes, fast cars, and athletes; I noted one of them was his father. In the corner of a room sat a fish tank that had grown dirty with algae since the last time I’d been there.
Nicole wore a navy Auburn sweatshirt and jeans. No makeup. Kinjo wore the same standard-issue Pats workout clothes and no shoes. They both looked as tired and emotionally raw as expected.
“This is Susan Silverman,” I said. “She’s a psychologist I work with on many occasions.”
“No,” Nicole said. “Not now. Get her out of here.”
“Susan isn’t like anyone else you’ve spoken with, Nicole,” I said. “If she helps you, you can help me find your son.”
Susan smiled that brilliant, disarming Susan Silverman smile. She could have won over Stalin to capitalism. Nicole gave her a second glance. Kinjo didn’t show much of anything, waiting to hear what I knew.
“I’m here,” Susan said. “If you want to talk. I am not about to offer any meaningless platitudes or give you a fucking pep talk. Okay?”
“Would you believe she has a Ph.D. from Harvard?” I said.
Nicole gave a slight nod. It was not a smile but seemed to be a gesture of acceptance. Susan gently shut the door with a small click and stood close.
“It was a phony,” I said.
Kinjo nodded.
“Some drug dealers heard about it on the sports talk and wanted to bleed you a little.”
“Evil.”
“Yep.”
“What did you do to them?” Kinjo said.
“We tied them up with zip cords near their stash of coke and called the cops.”
Kinjo nodded. I took a seat on the bed next to Nicole. Kinjo sat at a child’s table in a chair made for a five-year-old. Nicole started to cry. Susan did not move. She simply observed and waited. Nicole cried even more.
“That’s the second crank,” Kinjo said.
“First one wasn’t much of a crank,” I said. “He claimed to have killed Lincoln and Mama Cass.”
“Nothing,” Kinjo said. “How can you and all these cops be looking all over Massachusetts and not find anything? What about the Crown Vic they used, men in masks? Someone saw something.”
“No one seemed to have seen them except for Cristal.”
Nicole’s eyes lifted to me and then Susan. Her chin shook a bit. And then she
clenched her jaw. “You want to find my son, check her out. But check her out for real, not just let her press up against you and bat her eyelashes. All I know about that woman is that she came to you because you smell like sweat, grass, and money. Am I wrong?”
“Shut up,” Kinjo said.
“Am I wrong?” she said. “She’s a gold digger, and I wouldn’t put it past her to want a big, nice cut before she leaves your dumb black ass.”
“She’s my goddamn wife,” Kinjo said.
“Yeah.” Nicole was crying but blurted out a bit of a laugh. “I forgot.” She stood up and wiped her eyes. Even dressed down the way she was, she looked regal and put together. Her brown eyes and red mouth were very large. Her short haircut was as hip and trendy as next week. Her attitude reminded me of another woman I knew.
None of us spoke for a few minutes. The cops shuffled and talked and answered phones in the great room down the hall. After a while, Kinjo looked up from his hands. “Is he dead?”
“You can’t think like that,” I said.
“Why?” Nicole said. “Why do this and ask for no money? Cristal hates Akira. She hates that he doesn’t love her and never accepted her for anything but what she is.”
Kinjo jumped up from the small table and kicked it over. He clenched and unclenched his hands, then walked over to the wall and put a nice-sized hole in the Sheetrock.
Susan stood and touched his arm. “You can tear each other apart later,” she said. “But right now, you need to keep clearheaded. Keep thinking. Whoever did this wants exactly what’s happening. They are smart enough to want to keep you unbalanced.”
Kinjo rushed from the room and left the door wide open.
“Where else should you look?” Nicole said, wiping her eyes. “Right?”
I nodded.
“Do you know anything about Cristal?” Nicole said. “Why should we take her word?”
“Point taken,” I said.
“Would you like to get away from this for a while?” Susan said. “Catch some air? Just to breathe a little.”
Nicole took a short breath and held it, as if she changed her mind. “Yes,” she said. “That would be a nice change.”
Susan smiled warmly. Nicole wiped her face with the back of her hand.