Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

21

Paulie and the Gooch talked little else but Boston sports from a two-story brick radio station off the Birmingham Parkway in Brighton. They were hitting their noontime stride when Z and I arrived. Lou from Quincy had taken the duo to task for saying the Red Sox Nation was washed up, blaming fans for lackluster play. Lou said Paulie and the Gooch were the biggest dips in Mass. Reggie from Worcester congratulated the boys for sticking by Tom Brady this season despite inexperienced tight ends and receivers. Reggie said the naysayers would soon eat their words. He actually said they’d eat something else for the five-second delay.

Z and I could hear the broadcast from a stale waiting room outside the studio.

“I never liked to discuss sports,” Z said. “I’d rather just play.”

“Depends on who’s talking.” I shrugged. “A Paulie and a Gooch probably don’t equal a Frank Deford.”

When the show went to a commercial break to advertise a Honda dealership, the producer, Cindy DeLuca, came out to meet us. She was a short woman in jeans, a faded green flannel shirt, and a Bruins hat. From a distance Cindy DeLuca might resemble a fifteen-year-old boy. “How long will this thing take?”

“Quick and painless,” I said. “We want to hear the clip.”

“Police already heard it.”

“I’m not the police.”

Cindy scrunched up her nose as if we didn’t pass the sniff test. But then she just threw up her hands and shrugged. “Ray Heywood called us,” she said. “He said you work for his brother. Ray’s a good guy. We need signed jerseys for sick kids? He comes through every time. We need Kinjo to stop by the studio? He’s there on time.”

Cindy ushered us through a long hall lined with various local awards for charitable events, certificates of big ratings, and framed photos of great moments in Boston sports: Damon’s World Series home run against the Cards, the Larry Bird baseline jumper against Portland, Brady celebrating a Super Bowl touchdown against Carolina. We soon found a small closetlike room with an oblong window facing the hall. Paulie and the Gooch wore headphones and were in a heated exchange with someone over why the Bruins blew the Stanley Cup. The caller referred to the radio journalists as a couple of douchebag morons. Both laughed it off right before they cut to a commercial.

“Rotten bastard,” Cindy said.

Paulie was thin and bald and wearing a Celtics hoodie zipped to the chin, jeans, and flip-flops. The Gooch was stockier, with a graying goatee, wearing a Dropkick Murphys sweatshirt. Neither had been born anywhere near Boston but had made the smart choice to go native.

We made small talk. I introduced them to Z.

“Wasn’t there a football player in California named Sixkill?” Paulie said.

Z shrugged.

“He grew up on a reservation and played fullback,” Gooch said. “You know? He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Great player, but got all fucked up with drugs and got booted before his senior year.”

Z remained impassive. He leaned against the door.

Paulie walked over to the console and began to cue up the call. The room was kept very cold and dim. The dials and switches glowed red and green as he worked. “We burned a copy for the cops,” Paulie said. “I think it’s just a crank. What says the Gooch?”

“Some nutbag.”

“If it’s good enough for the Gooch,” I said.

Gooch smiled and stroked his goatee. “Then again,” he said. “Nutbags pay our salaries.”

I smiled. “Sometimes mine, too.”

The commercial faded into the recorded voice of the hosts taking their next call. The voice had been run through some kind of electric voice changer, making the caller sound somewhere between Barry White and Robby the Robot. “I have Heywood’s kid. He’s safe and got shit to eat. We got demands and will let Heywood know when we’re ready.”

Paulie ran it back and played it again. There was a long silence before the hosts began to speak, and he shut off the recording.

“That’s it?” I said.

Paulie and the Gooch nodded. Cindy DeLuca showed up in the window and held up two fingers.

“Caller ID?” I said.

“Sure,” Paulie said. “But I thought the state police said it wasn’t any good?”

“They can run down where the phone was bought,” I said. “But it’s doubtful they’ll get a credit card or any video surveillance. They probably bought it from a third party.”

“Kinjo’s had a rough time lately,” Gooch said. “Screwed up his ankle in mini-camp. Looked like he was loafing it in the last two exhibition games. I don’t know, it’s like his heart isn’t in it.”

“I don’t know,” Paulie said. “He’s not going to give it all in preseason. To be honest, I was shocked he got selected to the Pro Bowl. I mean, he missed some key tackles in that last game against Atlanta. There’s definitely some slipping in his intensity and focus.”

The Gooch belched as if to punctuate his colleague’s point. There was an open bag of Utz chips by the microphone and two open bottles of Diet Coke.

“I’ve got Kinjo on my fantasy football team,” Gooch said. “Hope this thing doesn’t rattle him too bad. Regular season starts next week.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be inconvenient.”

Z grinned.

“Shit, I don’t mean it like that,” Gooch said. “It’s just that Kinjo is something special. He keeps it up, even half-ass, and they’ll be taking his measurements for a gold coat in Canton. I hate to hear shit like this happening to him right now. It’s really messed up.”

“You think this kidnapping could be just to rattle his play?”

“During preseason?” Paulie said.

I shrugged. “Anyone else ever call the station mad at him?” I said. “Anyone lately having an extreme hatred for any Pats players?”

The men shrugged in tandem. The Gooch looked to Paulie. Paulie said, “Sometimes people get kind of nuts on Brady or Belichick, like they control it all. But hate? I don’t know. I mean, people get pissed. But that’s the Boston way. You got to hate your team to love it.”

The producer leaned in through the doorway and held up a single finger. Paulie handed me a disc and I thanked him. We all shook hands and headed for the door. The men began to slip their headphones back on.

“You sure you never heard of that guy also named Sixkill?” the Gooch said to Z.

“Nope,” Z said. “But who knows? All us Indians look the same.”

22

I dropped Z at my office and soon found Logan Wheeler in the weight room inside Gillette. He was squatting what must have equaled a tractor-trailer truck on his shoulders. As he cranked out the reps, deep and slow, he showed little sign of strain. He racked the weight with a small grunt. A coach stood nearby and tracked Wheeler’s progress on an iPad.

As more weight was added to an already bending Olympic bar, Ray Heywood stepped up and introduced me to Wheeler. Wheeler had been with Kinjo at Chrome. I’d read his interview on the train back to Boston.

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I work for the Heywoods,” I said. “And this isn’t about two years ago. It’s about now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Wheeler said. “Kinjo didn’t do jack shit, man. He’s a good guy. When I think about what happened to Akira, I want to throw up.”

Ray, dressed in a leather jacket and a scally cap, hung back a little. He told Wheeler that I was cool. I tried my best to look cool as I waited for Wheeler to add some.

“Like I told the police,” Wheeler said. “That guy, whatever his name is—”

“Antonio Lima.”

“Yeah, Lima,” Wheeler said. “He was drunk and tried to start some shit with Kinjo, which was stupid. And then he tried to start some shit with me, which was even more stupid.”

Wheeler was six-foot-six and well over three hundred pounds. He had a lot of blond hair and a stubbled beard and wore a gray T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His eyes were brown and tiny in his large head.

“And then?”

“And then nothing,” Wheeler said. “The bouncers broke it up and we went back to the Trump. We ordered up some ice cream and cake and laughed about the whole thing. The next thing I know the cops are pounding on our goddamn door, wanting to talk to Kinjo. At first, I thought it was a practical joke.”

“Not a good one.”

“We all like to screw with each other,” Wheeler said. “A couple weeks ago, we had these bumper stickers made up for the rookies. They said Small Penis On Board. The dummies didn’t notice until people started honking at them and laughing. It was funny as shit.”

The Pats’ weight room was part of the many chambers inside the stadium. There were rooms for watching film, for meetings with the position coaches, for holding press conferences, a training table, and a locker room nearly as large as the field itself. This room was even larger, with old-fashioned weights and several rubberized mats to work speed, agility, and coordination. A three-hundred-pound man with agility and quickness was a scary prospect. I thought about the other player interview I’d read.

“What about Robey?” I said. “Do you keep in touch?”

Wheeler shrugged. “It’s been a while.”

“And he was traded to Miami?”

“Yeah.”

“You have his number?”

Wheeler nodded. Ray stood next to us. The weight coach looked impatient, waiting for Wheeler to attack the next set. I stepped back and watched Wheeler knock out eight reps. There was more weight this time. He grunted a little.

“You want to try that?” I said to Ray.

“Shit,” Ray said. “You?”

“I value my knees too much.”

Wheeler racked the bar. He walked over to a table for a water bottle. He drank down a quart and turned back to me. He wiped his bearded face with the back of his hand. One of his sizable knees had a scar on it that looked like a zipper.

“What’s not clear,” I said, “and the reason I wanted to speak to you, is who else was there?”

“Like you said,” Wheeler said. “Me, Kinjo, and Robey.”

“Some witnesses said there was another football player there,” I said. “A third man out with Kinjo that night.”

There was a slight flick of his eyes to Ray, waiting for direction. Ray didn’t change expression or say anything. After a second, he nodded at Wheeler to continue.

“That’s not right,” Wheeler said. “I’ll give you Robey’s cell when I’m done here. You ask him.”

“And he left Chrome with you, too?”

“Yeah, man. What are you getting at?”

“Just trying to clear up a few things,” I said. “Was he involved with the fight?”

“There was no fight,” Wheeler said. “Robey was off with some girl. That Antonio guy pushed at Kinjo. Kinjo was ready to clock him and then the bouncers came up. I told him to cool off and get the hell out of there. We’re not stupid. It was all just some bullshit. How were we to know that guy was some thug? He obviously had his own problems that got himself killed. Kinjo was only talking to that girl.”

“His brother said Kinjo had inappropriately touched her.”

“Is that the reason she’d hopped up in his lap?” Wheeler said. “Kinjo doesn’t treat women like that. Why would he? Women can’t leave him alone.”

Ray nodded in agreement. Wheeler gulped down more water and looked at us with small, sad eyes. “You find out who took Akira,” he said. “Okay? God help the son of a bitch who did this. There isn’t a player on this team who wouldn’t kill for that kid.”

“Strong words.”

Wheeler nodded. “Don’t play with the meaning. You know what I mean. Kinjo is my goddamned brother.”

Ray and I walked out of the weight room and into the long concrete hall.

“What do you think?” I said.

“I think this is a waste of time,” he said. “Kinjo paid the family because he was being eaten alive by the press. The family knows he wasn’t involved. They wanted money. Kinjo didn’t want to lose endorsement deals.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “How much do you know about Cristal?”

Ray grinned. He shook his head. “Too much.”

“You think she knows more?” I said.

“Let me ask you this,” he said. “You think Cristal is mentally capable of pulling something like this?”

“I understand her background’s a bit sketchy.”

“She ain’t a virtuous woman,” he said. “But she ain’t evil, either. This isn’t an inside job, man. Not exactly a secret that Kinjo is now a ten-million-dollar man. Lots of bad folks out there who hate seeing a black man in the catbird seat. How the hell you narrow that down?”

I nodded.

“That man being killed in New York has always been the stuff of whispers and lies,” Ray said. “Don’t let it cloud what’s really happening.”

I held Ray’s eye for a while. He nodded with extreme certainty, adjusted his cap, and then led the way out of the labyrinth under Gillette.

23

Play it again, Sam?” I said to Susan.

“How’d I know that was coming?”

“That’s not really the line, but it sounds better than ‘Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”

“Do you want to hear ‘As Time Goes By,’ or do you still want my professional opinion?”

We sat outside on Susan’s small wooden deck, drinking and listening to the phantom caller from a portable CD player. Susan drank a glass of Barolo while I worked on an Amstel. There was a pizza ordered and a quick meal planned before I’d drive back to Chestnut Hill. Being able to combine official work and time with Susan Silverman is always a perk of the job.

I played the message again. And then, to punctuate the question, raised my eyebrows.

Susan closed her eyes in thought. After taking a sip of the wine, she nodded. “I hear sexual repression, some Oedipal mother issues, and maybe some hypochondria mixed with erectile dysfunction.”

“Zowie.” I raised my brows again. “Really?”

“God, no,” Susan said. “Do you really expect a clue from a five-second threat as read by a computer?”

“Cops call it a synthetic computerized voice changer.”

“Can you even tell if it’s a man or woman?”

“I would hope you could tell me.”

“Erectile dysfunction would imply man,” Susan said.

“So, right.”

“Has this been the only contact with the kidnappers?” Susan said. “Or should I say alleged contact?”

“We believe,” I said, sipping the Amstel. “You take what you can get.”

“And the only thing Akira’s parents can do is sit around and wait,” she said.

“Separately,” I said. “They’ve been divorced for two years.”

“And there’s a new wife?”

I explained about Cristal Heywood and the little I’d learned from Lundquist and Ray. I told her Cristal had bragged earlier in the day to Z about how the kidnapping increased her Twitter followers.

“Did Nicole really try and attack her?”

“She did more than try,” I said. I pointed to the scratch on my cheek.

“Wow,” she said. “Not exactly the reaction of a parent who’d be in on the kidnapping.”

“No,” I said. “The state police ruled her out pretty quickly. As did I.”

“So why’s Hawk still following her?”

“Kinjo’s paying us to watch her.”

“Which she doesn’t know?”

I nodded and grinned. “I think Hawk is a bit smitten.”

Now was the moment for Susan to raise her eyebrows. The doorbell rang and Pearl launched into attack mode. Susan stood, placed her wine on the table, and turned to the door. “Smitten?” she said. “That word has never been used to describe Hawk.”

“Scary, isn’t it?”

Susan nodded and walked downstairs to grab the pizza. She returned in a few seconds with a pizza box and Pearl trotting enthusiastically behind her.

“She has a nose for wild game and anchovies,” I said.

Susan opened the box at the kitchen island and grabbed some good plates from the cupboards. We ate standing up at the island. Pearl sat at our feet, studying how we worked on each slice, waiting for one morsel to drop.

“Perhaps you should be watching Cristal instead?”

“Lundquist has it,” I said. “Even a super-sleuth like me can only follow so many leads.”

“You know much about wife two?”

I shrugged.

“And that’s why you will check her out, even if she comes up clean.”

“Being of a suspicious and doubtful nature has served me well.”

“I just hope whoever has Akira calls soon,” she said.

I nodded.

“The unknowing is the worst,” Susan said. “A parent’s mind will go to terrible places.”

“If it’s just money,” I said. “The kidnappers just want Kinjo to sweat a bit. And to throw off the cops.”

“And once they’re paid in full?” Susan said. She picked at the pizza, taking in little nibbles in a distinctly Susan Silverman way. Pearl seemed frustrated and annoyed by this. Gobbling was the appropriate course of action.

“Do you really want to know?” I said. I drank some beer and reached for another slice of pizza.

Susan waited, noticing something in my face with her large brown eyes. She wore a thin silver chain around her neck.

“There is a fifty-fifty shot whether they get the kid back. Even if they pay.”

“A brutal perspective,” she said.

“But true.”

“Cops say the same?”

“Cops know the same,” I said. “Only the child can identify who took him.”

“Are you going to tell the family this?” Susan said.

“Not my job.”

“I think you should tell them.”

“They have hope right now,” I said. “And knowing the odds will only take that away. We’ll talk when the time is right. When we know more about the people who took him.”

“Any other theory besides just greed?” Susan said.

“I thought I had one,” I said. “That’s why I went to New York.”

“And now?”

“I’m not so sure,” I said, shaking my head. I told her about the Limas and my conversation with Kinjo’s teammates. I had spoken to Robey in Miami an hour earlier and came up with identical answers as those of Logan Wheeler. There was a scuffle, it was broken up, and they went back to the Trump.

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.”