by Ace Atkins
“How the hell do you know?”
“Crime-fighter intuition,” I said, tapping at my temple.
I drank some beer. I considered Hawk’s plan to see how things would evolve. At the very least, Nicole had proven herself to be a very good bad cop. The tequila might prove to be an even better cop.
“How could I have stopped them?” she said. “They blocked in my car. They put a gun in my face and took Akira.”
“You’ve had a lot of guns pointed at you lately.”
“Damn right,” she said. She drained the rest of the tequila. I lifted my index finger to the bartender. He salted the glass and poured her another, topped with a lime slice.
“She would’ve done the same,” Cristal said. “Nicole wouldn’t have let herself get shot.”
I nodded.
“I couldn’t have done anything.”
I sipped some beer.
“Why does she hate me?”
I shrugged.
“I mean, I’ve made some mistakes in my life,” she said. “But this is not my fault.”
“What can you tell me about your relationship with Kevin Murphy?”
“Oh, fuck,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Holy fuck,” she said.
“He was your boyfriend.”
“You’re doing it,” she said, drink held high. “You’re on her side.”
“I’m on Akira’s side.”
“Let me tell you something,” she said.
“Sure.”
She continued to hold the tequila high. She held the pose, as if it was something she’d seen once in a movie. “My life before Kinjo is none of your damn business.”
I nodded. I took another sip. Seeing that I sipped, she sipped. Cooperation. Cars zoomed by freely along Washington Street. As I waited for her statement to sink in, I ordered the house charcuterie plate with seasonal pickles.
“You understand?”
I nodded. Cristal stared at herself in the bar window. She shook her head, disgusted. “I look like a fucking raccoon.”
I was pretty sure raccoons did not have purple eyes. But I kept my mouth shut as she excused herself and I sat at the bar. Even at nearly midnight, the bar did a healthy business. Lots of couples talking among candlelight. Young professionals discussing matters of the young and professional. Cristal reemerged from the ladies’ room at the same time my charcuterie arrived from the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was a mess?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” She looked exactly the same as before but smelled of more cologne. It was not an unpleasant fragrance, only too much of it.
“We were talking about Kevin Murphy,” I said, adding some prosciutto to a slice of bread.
“No,” she said. “You were talking about Kevin Murphy.”
She gulped down the rest of the second double tequila. Cristal subtly turned the glass upside down and stared at the bartender until he took the empty glass.
“If Kevin is involved,” I said, “it doesn’t mean you are involved.”
“Kevin is not involved.”
I chewed my food. I swallowed and raised my eyebrows. Doing both at the same time took some skill.
“Why not?” Cristal said. “Because he’s a fucking dumbass. He loves doing what he does. He’s not about money, he’s into making himself famous.”
“As Mr. X?”
“Have you seen that shit?”
I shook my head. I tried a seasonal pickle. It went well with the prosciutto. “But my associate combed the archives.”
“Looking for me?”
I nodded.
“You won’t find it,” she said, ripping her third drink from the bartender’s hand. “That was from like four years ago. It’s old news.”
“Did Kinjo see it?”
“Hell, yes,” she said. “That’s how we met. He saw me in a movie and wanted to meet me. Fell in love with my body.”
“He told me he met you at a club in Chelsea.”
“He came to the club to watch me dance,” she said. “All the Pats hung out there. Some Bruins, too. I used to be into hockey players. But they’re all Canadian and crazy. You know, for a hotshot private detective, you really don’t know jack shit.”
I shrugged and tried a nice slice of hard cheese as consolation.
“Kinjo said you were only a waitress.”
“I did that, too,” she said. “I only made four movies, anyway. Kinjo has seen them. Sometimes I catch him watching them when he’s not watching that Japanese stuff.”
“Doesn’t bother him?” I said.
“He said it would bother him if I was with a man, but since it’s just with girls, he’s cool with it.”
“Ah,” I said. “And what about Mr. X?”
“Kevin didn’t start doing Mr. X until I was gone,” she said. “Back then, we used to have this fake sorority house where we made up stories. Pillow fights and all that crap. Sold a ton on DVD.”
I nodded. “Kind of a homemade Linda Lovelace.”
She looked confused and drank even more. I worked on the charcuterie plate. I offered a bite, but she turned up her nose. She seemed immune to her cocktails, talking without a noticeable change.
“So, your ex-boyfriend is a self-made pornographer and has several prior arrests.”
“Those arrests were nothing,” she said. “Drugs and all that. I think he beat up some girl one time because she laughed at his thingy.”
“Not impressive.”
“Hardly,” she said. She picked up one of my pickles and held it up as exhibit A. “I heard he uses a double for close shots.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I said.
She looked up and tapped at her chin. Many of her movements were like that, practiced for effect. “A year?”
“Has he ever threatened you?” I said.
“Nope.”
“Has he ever come to your home?”
“Nope.”
“Has he ever approached Kinjo?”
“He tried,” she said. “But he got his ass kicked.”
“Has he ever asked you for money?” I said.
She again made the practiced tilt of the head. She tapped at her chin. And then she nodded. “Yeah.”
“How much?”
“He wanted fifty grand or said he’d make a big thing about my movies,” she said. “He wanted to package it like The Players’ Wives Club or some shit.”
“And what?”
“Kinjo and I laughed at him,” she said. “I think it just kind of fell through. Who cares if people know I did porn? You think I’m the only NFL wife with a sex tape? Big deal.”
I nodded. I pushed the plate away, although there was still some sausage and cheese left. I watched more cars pass by the big window facing the intersection of Washington and Beacon. I lifted my chin and tapped at it. I liked it.
“I think I’d very much like to talk to Kevin.”
“Are you not even listening to me?” she said. She stood up, mad, straight, and tall in her Roman sandals. She pointed hard at my chest.
Three drinks with no effect. If I had three double tequilas, I’d be singing José Feliciano tunes.
We all have our talents.
I paid the tab and drove her home.
39
I returned to relieve Z at four-thirty that morning.
To show my gratitude, I brought him two corn muffins and a large cup of coffee.
As I crawled into his Mustang, he peered into the bag and then up at me. “No donuts?”
“You’re an Indian,” I said. “Your people love corn.”
“For the record,” he said, “I prefer a Boston cream.”
“You’re officially off duty,” I said. “Get some sleep.”
“What about you?” he said. He reached into the bag for a corn muffin.
“Be good to switch it up,” I said. “New man. New vehicle. The spice of life.”
“I don’t think they’re paying attention to us,” Z said, nodding up to the second-floor window above the store. “I think they’re in production.”
“You spot Murphy?”
“Yep,” he said. “Came upstairs about an hour ago with a big white guy with a crew cut. Maybe thirty minutes ago, a young girl in a raincoat and rubber boots walked up the stairwell and knocked on the door. Big guy came out a little later and walked out to a van. Brought up C-stands and lighting rigs.”
“Hooray for Hollywood,” I said.
Z nodded. He drank some coffee and ate some of the corn muffin. We watched the upstairs window. The blinds were closed, with light burning bright behind them. I told him about the great Cheesecake Factory standoff and my later conversation with Cristal Heywood.
“Three tequilas?” he said.
“Yep.”
Z nodded as he listened. “What else do we know about Murphy?”
“Besides him being a creep?”
“Besides that.”
“He’s dealt drugs, sold stolen televisions, and got caught carrying a pistol without a permit. He has twice been convicted of domestic violence and once been charged with having sex with a minor.”
“How minor?” Z said.
“Does it matter?” I said.
Z shook his head. “I’ll head back to the gym, get cleaned up, and get some breakfast.”
“Sleep,” I said. “Get some rest. This might be a very long day.”
“And this creep?”
“I’ll stick here,” I said. “See if I detect anything interesting.”
“Maybe he’ll bring in some farm animals,” he said. “Maybe a chicken or a donkey.”
“That would be interesting for Dorchester.”
Z gave me a look as if he wasn’t too sure. I got out and walked back to the Explorer. He started the Mustang and headed north. I got in behind the wheel, where I’d left my own coffee, and watched the street for what seemed like a very long time.
A rusted train trestle loomed behind me and the storefronts stretched north toward Fields Corner. Along Dot Ave, some minor improvements had been made, a few new iron streetlamps lit up the road, a few trees had been planted. There were also plenty of places to cash your paycheck early, get your hair and nails done, and go for some Vietnamese or a slice of pizza.
The only vehicle close to the trestle was an old moving van parked in front of an insurance company. The rear door had been secured with a big padlock.
I sipped the coffee and sat in stillness. A cop passed me patrolling south, not even slowing. Two Asian kids wearing leather jackets and carrying brown bags of beer walked past the Explorer. They craned their heads to see inside and I gave them a polite two-finger wave. They kept walking and did not offer me any beer.
If I stayed here long enough, I’d get to see Murphy and his pals. And if I got to see Murphy and his pals, I still had nothing. I wondered if Lundquist had spoken to Murphy. I could call him and ask, but after the exchange at South Station and the entry of Connor and the Feds, he might not be so glad to hear from me. I probably could accomplish just as much sitting at my desk. But sitting at my desk did not offer such a fantastic view of Dorchester, and sitting at my desk wouldn’t tell me about the movements of Kevin Murphy and associates known and unknown.
Or maybe Murphy had turned over a new leaf and was working to help young wayward girls. Maybe he was up above the storefront right now taping a public service announcement about how to watch out for strangers and believe in yourself. Maybe Murphy was a complete turd but not the turd I was looking for. I still didn’t like the loose ends and what-ifs of the New York shooting. A payoff was temporary, but revenge was forever. I had the feeling that every person I’d spoken to about the murder was lying.
I still wanted to talk to Lela Lopes. I still needed to find out if there was a third man with Kinjo that night.
At first light, the big guy with the crew cut walked out onto the stairwell and smoked a cigarette. After a few minutes, another man joined him. I assumed it was Kevin Murphy, as Z had seen only one more guy. I didn’t have any binoculars with me but in my backseat had a Nikon with a pretty good zoom lens. I reached for it and zoomed in.
If it was Murphy, he in no way resembled the NBA player. This Kevin Murphy was white, pudgy, and very pale. He was shirtless, with a paunchy stomach that hung over his designer jeans. He had a wide, freckled face, jug ears, and brown hair swept back, with longish sideburns and a little tuft of hair below his lip. There was a big tattoo of some kind of animal on his back. It was hard to imagine anyone paying to see him naked.
He talked with the big guy. They pounded fists and he walked inside. Back to the salt mines.
The big guy flicked his cigarette away and walked down to the street and crossed over to the moving van. He climbed in, started the van, and disappeared for nearly an hour. When he returned and parked in the same spot by the insurance company, he had upgraded to a black Toyota 4Runner. At first I made no connection. But the car was dealership new and very out of place with the neighborhood. I took another sip of coffee and a few moments to recall Kinjo saying he’d been initially followed by a black Toyota 4Runner. This was not the same as saying you’d been followed by a silver 1921 Pierce-Arrow.
Still, it was a connection, however common.
The big guy crossed back over Dot Ave, lit a cigarette as he did so, and had finished it as he’d tramped up the steps and walked back inside.
I called Kinjo Heywood. He sounded as if he’d been asleep. But answered on the first ring.
“What was the car that followed you the first time?”
“Spenser?”
“Yep.”
“Whew,” Kinjo said. “Oh, man. It was a Toyota, I think.”
“I need you to think more,” I said. “What color?”
I recalled. But I wanted him to recall, too.
“Black,” he said. “New.”
“And the guy you pulled a gun on?”
“Man, we been through this before,” he said. “What’s up?”
“The driver,” I said. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “White guy. Kinda fat and had a haircut like he’d been in the Army or something. What’s up?”
40
At six a.m., Hawk joined me.
We walked up to the convenience store in early light and then bounded up the steps. At the metal door, Hawk tested the doorknob, nodded, and we moved quickly inside without knocking.
We both carried our guns of choice. Hawk with his .44. I carried the Smith & Wesson auto I saved for special occasions.
Kevin Murphy was seated on a black leather couch in white-hot stage lights. A woman kneeled between his legs, practicing method acting.
The big guy ran the camera. When we entered, he stepped away from the camera, just a digital on a tripod, and said, “What the fuck, man?”
The girl discontinued performing Shakespeare in the Park and got to her feet. She had on a red G-string. The room was large and open, an old storage area with a wood floor and exposed brick walls. There were old desks and old chairs stacked against the far wall.
“You must be Moose,” I said to the big guy.
“And this motherfucker is Jughead,” Hawk said. “All ears, no brains.”
“What the fuck?” Murphy said. He was completely naked, wearing only what looked like a platinum bicycle chain around his neck.
“Moose already asked that,” I said.
Hawk stepped over to a chair and tossed the girl a pink robe. She was blond, petite, in her mid-twenties. She slid into the robe without a word.
“Archi
e know about you and Betty?” I said.
“If you aren’t cops,” Murphy said. “You two are dead.”
“Kevin, please sit down and shut up,” I said. “And please cover yourself before I get sick.”
I found a wadded-up pair of jeans and threw them at him.
“We don’t have any money here,” Murphy said. “Whoever sent you fucked up. We don’t keep cash laying around.”
“Why were you following Kinjo Heywood?” I said.
“What?” Murphy said. He wore a cocky, big-mouth grin until Hawk slapped him hard across the face.
Moose took a step forward. I simply shook my head. He stayed in place by the girl.
“I never followed him.”
“Mr. Heywood pulled a gun on Moose,” I said. “You recall that, Moose?”
Moose looked to Murphy, his mouth hanging open. He turned back to me, trying to tighten his jaw and appear mean. The girl wrapped her arms around herself and bit her lower lip. Her mascara had run down her eyes and her forehead was shiny with sweat.
“So, yes,” I said.
“Where’s the kid?” Hawk said.
“What?”
Hawk slapped Murphy across the face and then punched him in the gut. Murphy fell to his knees. Hawk gripped a lot of his greasy hair and tilted his chin upward. “Where’s the kid?”
Moose and the girl stared, openmouthed. Moose probably always had an open mouth. He looked as if you’d need a shovel to find his IQ.
“So the fuck what?” Murphy said from his knees. “So the fuck what if I was following my old girlfriend? That doesn’t mean jack shit.”
“It means jack shit when her stepson is missing a week later.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.”
“You never turn on the TV, the radio, or look at your phone?” I said. “Yes, Kevin. You’re the only one in Boston that hasn’t heard the news.”
“I didn’t take the kid.”
“But you followed Cristal,” I said.
“That’s between me and Cristal.”
Hawk lifted a hand. Murphy flinched.
Hawk stepped back and smiled.
“It looks like you have a first-class operation here, Kevin,” I said. “The glamour is overwhelming. Cecil B. DeMille of Dot Ave.”