Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot Read online

  I nodded at Susan as she turned to leave Akira’s room. Susan winked back at me.

  32

  Bright and early the next morning, I paid a social call to my office on the assumption that even offices get lonely. I also had to pay my monthly rent for fear my desk, file cabinets, and framed Vermeer prints might end up on the curb. After urgent checks were written and sealed in envelopes, I congratulated myself with the accomplishment and set my feet at the edge of my desk.

  As I gloated, I leaned back in my chair and pondered all that I didn’t know about Cristal Heywood. Which was substantial. Susan and I thought Nicole’s concerns were grounded, Nicole being more forthcoming with Susan than she had been with me. Susan said she’d thought of me as just another one of Kinjo’s yes-men. Susan assured her that agreeing with my employers was not always in my nature.

  I listened to the Mr. Coffee trickle on top of my file cabinets. The bay window was slightly open, letting in a cool fall breeze. The sounds of cars, jackhammers, and an occasional siren as comforting to me as a wolf’s cry is to an Eskimo. I planned on running a basic criminal background check on Cristal through the state and AutoTrack of her prior addresses, relationships, debts. Nicole told Susan that Cristal never wanted Akira around and found him a barrier to her running Kinjo completely.

  Of course, ex-wives were seldom complimentary of their successors.

  It took me about ten minutes to accomplish on the Internet what used to take me a day on foot. I was reading through Cristal Heywood, formerly known as Cristal Jablonski, when a familiar face appeared in my doorway.

  I looked up from my laptop. Tom Connor, special agent in charge of Boston’s FBI office, walked into my office and took a seat in front of my desk.

  “To what do I owe this dishonor?”

  “You fucked up, Spenser,” Connor said. “Again.”

  I leaned back in my chair. I could not wait for him to explain.

  “This kidnapping of the Heywood boy,” he said. “You can’t just fucking go at it without working with law enforcement. Are you nuts? I don’t know what kind of shit you got hanging over Lundquist’s head, but the same deal don’t apply to me.”

  “So the Feds are taking over.”

  “Goddamn right.”

  “With you gallantly leading the investigation.”

  Connor nodded with a lot of pride. He was a fat, florid guy with a big helmet of black hair. He always dressed like he’d just escaped the Men’s Wearhouse. Shiny double-breasted suits and bright-colored ties. His hands were thick and chubby, and on his left hand was an honest-to-God pinkie ring.

  “Whew,” I said. “We’re safe now.”

  “I don’t want you around Heywood, I don’t want you at the house, and I don’t want you near a part of this. A fucking kid’s life is at stake. Leave it to the pros.”

  “And you being so good with looking after kids,” I said. “Why don’t we call up Gerry Broz and see if maybe he can help.”

  “Eat shit.”

  “For a federal employee, your elocution is excellent.”

  “As soon as I got a call from Jeff Barnes, I knew you’d fuck it up,” he said. “I just knew it. It’s your fault your pal Lundquist got shitcanned. You running around South Station playing cop? Then that freak show you beat up in Charlestown? It all landed on Lundquist’s desk like a steaming turd. I don’t need that shit.”

  “That’s not up to you,” I said. “I don’t work for the Pats and I don’t need your approval. I work for Kinjo Heywood.”

  “I spoke to his agent this morning,” Connor said. “He wants you gone.”

  “I don’t work for his agent, either.”

  “Fuck me.”

  Connor adjusted himself in my client chair. His face looked as if he’d just sucked a lemon. The Mr. Coffee had stopped brewing. I got up, poured a cup, and added a little sugar and milk. I sat back down. I set my feet on the desk. Connor and I sat and stared at each other. He was not an attractive man.

  “Aren’t you gonna offer me some coffee?” he said.

  “Nope.”

  “I want you clear of this, Spenser,” he said. “This is a federal case now. Your involvement will only get his kid killed. If you get in our way, I will have you arrested and put you in lockdown until the kid is home. Be as smart as you think you are.”

  I nodded. “Did you hear from the kidnappers?”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “So you got something?”

  “Jeez,” Connor said. He stood up, turned his back, and made his way to my open door.

  “It’s been nearly a week, and the family has heard nothing,” I said. “How many cases start off in radio silence?”

  “I can promise you I’ve worked a lot more of these than you.”

  “Well, I am flattered that you drove yourself all the way from Government Center on your lunch break to say hello.”

  “I’m telling you to get lost,” Connor said. “It’s not a request. I want you clear of my case.”

  “Your predecessor was a much more pleasant guy.”

  “Epstein is long gone, Spenser,” Connor said. “Get used to it. This is my fucking city. And I don’t need you fucking up the case all over again.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Nope,” he said. “It’s over.”

  He walked from my office. I heard his cheap, shiny shoes clacking on the halls to the bank of elevators. I drank some coffee and looked out across Berkeley Street and listened to the wind whistle against my building. It would blow every few minutes, almost signaling winter, and then would stop for a long while.

  I shrugged and started a file on Cristal.

  33

  Kinjo called four hours later and asked me if I’d meet him at Foxboro.

  When he’d called, I’d been working out with Hawk. Hawk decided to come along, too. If Kinjo did fire me, Hawk said he’d comfort me in my time of need.

  We met Kinjo at a restaurant up the steps from the stadium in Patriot Place, since I knew Jeff Barnes would be less than ecstatic to see me so close to Gillette. Kinjo sat in a back booth at a big sports bar, drinking ice water and checking his phone. Hawk also drank some water with lemon. I had a draft beer.

  “Y’all can’t stop,” Kinjo said.

  I nodded.

  “Barnes got onto me last night,” he said. “He sat down with me, Ray, and Mr. Rosen, and said that it was in the best interest of Akira and the organization if you were fired. He said the state police were backing off, too, and this was going to be a federal case. But shit, man. I haven’t seen one FBI agent yet.”

  “I have,” I said. “I may have to fumigate my office.”

  “Just ’cause the Feds are on it doesn’t mean I want y’all to back off,” he said. “Wasn’t your fault that those shitbirds were trying to con me. What if they’d been real and they’d taken the money and then tried to kill Akira? Y’all found out who they were, where they lived, and took care of business. That’s what I want. I don’t need more talk. I need people to be at the ready when the word comes down.”

  “Still nothing?”

  Kinjo looked down at the phone in his hand. His knuckles had been bloodied in practice. “I look at this screen nearly every second since he’s been gone. I’ll pay them. I’ll do whatever it takes. Why won’t they try me? Why won’t they reach out?”

  I shook my head.

  “I give you my word that I’ll tell you everything,” Kinjo said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Not telling you about paying off those people in New York was a mistake. That won’t happen. I don’t give a damn what you think about me. You can think I’m a son of a bitch as long as you trust me.”

  Hawk drank some ice water. He wiped away the table’s condensation with a cocktail napkin, not saying a word since we sat down. There were ten custom
ers in the bar that probably could hold six hundred. The staff was young and female and attractive. The bartender was dressed as a referee, complete with whistle around her neck.

  “How did you and Cristal meet?” I said.

  “Oh, shit,” Kinjo said. “Nicole got you onto this?”

  “Nope,” I said. “But in the absence of anything else, it can’t hurt. How did you two meet?”

  “How else? At a bar.”

  “What bar,” I said. “When.”

  “Bar here in Boston,” he said. “Two years ago. Place called Camelot.”

  Hawk looked up. “Gentlemen’s establishment.”

  “Yeah,” Kinjo said. “Strip club.”

  “And she was a, uh, dancer?” I said.

  “Shit, no,” Kinjo said. “I don’t date strippers. She was a waitress. Said she liked to watch me play and had been a fan going back to when she was a kid. She even knew who Andre Tippett was. He was my hero when I was a kid. I wanted to be just like him.”

  I drank some beer. There were at least twenty televisions on the bar, turned to various iterations of ESPN and the local news. “Speaking of the old days, did you ever meet a guy named Kevin Murphy?” I said.

  “Her ex?”

  I nodded. I had made this connection before working out.

  “I knew who he was,” Kinjo said. “Yeah. Came up to her apartment one time when I was there. He never did that shit again.”

  “Did you know what he did?”

  “He was a stupid punk,” Kinjo said.

  “He was busted in December for using underage girls in dirty movies,” I said. “Arrested several times with drugs, intent to sell. Guy like that has to be connected.”

  “So Cristal made some mistakes,” Kinjo said. “She’s got no reason to mess with my family. She loves Akira. And he loves her. Hell, during the season she with him more than me.”

  “It would’ve been nice to know the connection,” I said. “Maybe Murphy saw an opportunity?”

  “State police never asked me about him.”

  “Some of the state police are not as dogged as me.”

  The waitress reappeared and asked if we wanted anything to eat. Hawk said he wanted a grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side. I was good with the beer. If I were to eat, I’d decided on the burger. Never order a salad at a bar.

  “I don’t know,” Kinjo said.

  “It’s worth checking out,” I said.

  Kinjo nodded. I finished the beer. A couple in matching Pats sweatshirts walked in the front door and made their way to the bar. The man and the bartender chatted like old friends, the bartender leaning across and nodding over to our table. The man and the woman stared openmouthed at Kinjo.

  “People are always talking about me,” Kinjo said.

  “Who?”

  “Sportswriters and shit,” he said. “There’s this one dude with a blog who called me heartless because I’ve gone back to practice. How’s this any of his fucking business? How can he understand?”

  “Can’t,” Hawk said. “Same way he can’t understand what it’s like to play.”

  “Other people saying the same thing,” Kinjo said. “Those guys Paulie and the Gooch? They were on me last night about going back and practicing. Front office let it be known I’ll play this Sunday. What else can I do? I don’t have nothing else. I got to believe he’s going to be all right. I got to have a place to put all that anger. Hitting brings me level. I got to be level.”

  Hawk nodded.

  I asked for a second beer. Second beers keep me level.

  “My mind goes places,” Kinjo said. “My heart feels torn to shreds. He’s everything. I don’t care who you hurt. I don’t care what Cristal thinks. You think maybe her ex got something going, check him out. But y’all don’t leave. This morning, Detective Lundquist and his people started to pack up their show. They been living with me and then I walk in and get breakfast and they’re closing up their computers and shit. Say they still working leads but they aren’t in control. Feds taking over. I don’t know these people. Or trust them.”

  “Maybe for good reason,” I said.

  Kinjo lifted his eyebrows, not considering I’d think he was right.

  “Their special agent in charge and I have a history.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Nope.”

  Kinjo shook his head. He stared straight ahead and then wiped his wet eyes. He pounded the table with his fist so hard, Hawk’s ice water spilled across the table. Hawk stood before the water dripped into his lap. The waitress came over and quickly cleared the table. My beer was unharmed.

  “Be cool,” Hawk said.

  Kinjo nodded.

  “Do what you need to do to keep your mind right,” Hawk said. “We’ll find your boy.”

  “How?”

  “We always do.”

  I shrugged and nodded. “I’m with him.”

  “Even on nothing?” Kinjo said.

  “Yep.”

  “As long as it takes?” Kinjo said.

  Hawk and I nodded.

  “You know what y’all are?” Kinjo said, staring at Hawk. “You’re Ronin. You, him, and that big Indian guy. Don’t answer to nobody. Am I right? You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I left my sword at the office.”

  “I’m serious.” Kinjo’s gaze did not waver. “Y’all are samurai with no master, doing what’s got to be done. Roaming the earth, taking care of business without any rules.”

  “Mostly greater Boston,” I said. “And I have rules.”

  The waitress brought Hawk fresh water. He took a sip, ice rattling, and set the glass back on the table. Hawk stared at Kinjo a long while and tilted his head to the side. “He do. But I write my own.”

  34

  How do you manage to so artfully piss off those you work with?” Susan said.

  “Gumption,” I said. “Determination.”

  We were in bed, wrapped up in the sheets, listening to a cold rain tap against my apartment window. Pearl had given up scratching at the door and returned to her place on my new leather couch. We had already had supper; four mini-apple pies baked in the oven.

  “From what you’ve told me about Connor, he is an absolute shit heel,” Susan said.

  “True.”

  “And dirty.”

  “True.”

  “But you don’t think his dirtiness will interfere with the investigation?”

  “I think his low IQ and lack of talent will interfere.”

  “So you and Hawk remain.”

  “And Z,” I said. “Don’t forget Z.”

  “The Three Caballeros.”

  “Which one am I?”

  “Why, the fucking duck, of course.”

  Susan propped herself up on one elbow, and was bathed in a slice of light from outside Marlborough Street. The air smelled of baking apples and cinnamon.

  “Kinjo feels a lot of guilt for returning to practice,” I said.

  “If it works for him, it works.”

  “Sure.”

  “But you find it odd.”

  “I don’t find it odd, but apparently he’s taking the heat from the piranhas who now pass as so-called sports journalists.”

  “You’re not suspecting him?” she said. “For acting indifferent?”

  “No,” I said. “Not at all. He’s broken up very badly. He’s as eaten up and sick with worry as is possible in a man. He walked away from us before the drop yesterday and vomited in the bathroom.”

  “But you’re asking if it’s healthy?” Susan said. “Or therapeutic?”

  I nodded. My eyes lingered on Susan’s chest. She smiled and settled onto her back, pillow under her head, her body half covered, and stared at the ceiling.

  “Doesn’t it help you to wo
rk out, pound out frustrations on a heavy bag, whatever it takes for a release?”

  “And other things.”

  “But violent exercise, too.”

  “Even playing in a game this Sunday?”

  “If it works for him,” Susan said. “Screw the bloggers and nuts on the radios.”

  “That’s the same advice I gave him,” I said. “Should I charge him an extra hundred bucks?”

  “I charge one-fifty.”

  I resettled against the pillow, reached over to the nightstand, grabbed my watch, and checked how long the pies had been in the oven. We had another five minutes. I turned my head to her. Her curly head lay on her pillow. We stared at each other, smiling.

  “Did Nicole tell you anything specifically about why she disliked Cristal?” I said.

  “She said she’s a terrible parent.”

  “In what way?”

  “Absent,” Susan said. “She said that Akira runs wild at their house while Cristal has cocktails with friends or watches television or posts pithy comments about Kinjo on her Twitter feed.”

  “Kinjo said Nicole is jealous.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Susan said. “But which woman would you trust?”

  “But why might she want Akira out of the picture?” I said. “What’s in it for her?”

  Susan blinked. Her large brown eyes turned slightly upward in thought. “There are bad stepparents,” she said. “And then there are bad stepparents.”

  “If the child is dead,” I said. The words so horrible they seemed to resonate long after I said them in the silent room.

  “Is that what you’re now thinking?”

  “Five days without contact,” I said. “Doesn’t look good.”

  “And you suspect Cristal?”

  “She is, as the cops like to say these days, a person of interest,” I said. “Before she met Kinjo, she bedded down with a known pornographer and drug dealer in Dorchester.”

  “Women do like bad boys.”

  “Is that me?”

  “Except for baking,” Susan said, lifting herself out of the bed and striding across my bedroom, completely naked, to my closet. “Baking puts you into a category unto your own.”