Robert B. Parker's Cheap Shot Page 15

  He pushed up off his knees and stood. We let him. “I make more money in one day than you probably do all year,” Murphy said.

  “Probably,” I said. “But then again, if I had talent the size of a gherkin, I wouldn’t want to broadcast it.”

  The distraught girl snorted. Kevin’s face turned bright red. He rubbed at the tuft of hair under his chin and sucked in his gut.

  “You want me to throw ’em out, Kev?” Moose said.

  “Yeah, you do that, Moose,” I said.

  “Anytime,” Hawk said.

  Moose wiped his face and nodded at us. His toughness had dissipated.

  We all stood together in a tightly knit group under the hot stage lights. Kevin nodded to the camera. “It’s all there, dumbasses,” he said. “Trespassing, harassment. I’ll own Kinjo Heywood’s fucking black ass.”

  “And a bigot, too.”

  Hawk took a short breath and exhaled. Bored, he held the .44 at belt level.

  “And now destruction of property,” I said. I walked over to the tripod and ripped out the SIM card from the camera. If it had been the old days, I would have ripped the film from the camera and torn the strips from the canister. Pulling a SIM card had less gravitas.

  “That’s a night’s worth of work,” Murphy said. “Do you know what this means?”

  “I have spared many perverts the horror of seeing you naked?” I said. “Perhaps I have inspired them to recant and shut down the computer for the night.”

  “I’m a star.”

  Hawk laughed.

  Moose put an arm around the young actress. She tilted her eyes up at him and tore away her shoulder. She did not seem impressed with the studio security.

  “I don’t know why you’re even here,” Murphy said. “Two state cops came to see me a couple days ago. I told them the same thing. You come to me and fuck with me? That doesn’t change that I don’t know anything about Kinjo’s kid.”

  “Why were you following them?” I said.

  “Cristal owes me money.”

  “For what?”

  Murphy put a finger to the side of his nose and sniffed.

  “Recent?” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “If you’re holding the kid,” I said, “it’s better to deal with us than the Feds. Kinjo might even make you a deal to walk away.”

  “Do you not speak English?” Murphy said, scratching his neck. “I make flicks and do my thing. I don’t steal kids.”

  “Man got to have ethics,” Hawk said.

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t have the kid,” Murphy said. “You see him around anywhere? You want to follow me for a while? Go check under my bed at the house? Ask my neighbors? Go ahead. You won’t find shit. I’m just trying to do my thing.”

  I walked in close to Kevin Murphy. He smelled like someone had knocked over a piña colada in a locker room. His pupils were dilated to the size of quarters.

  “If you’re connected, Kev,” I said. “You better hope the Feds get to you first.”

  His shapeless, doughy chest had been shaved, as had his arms. Only the silly patch under his chin remained. It quivered a bit as he tried to stare me down.

  I looked to the girl.

  “You want to stay?”

  She stared at us for a moment and then nodded. We took their movie but left.

  41

  I took Susan to Gillette Stadium that afternoon. As she strolled across the parking lot in a form-fitting navy sweater, jeans, and riding boots, I decided she looked too good for the super-fans in their oversized jerseys and painted faces. Her designer sunglasses were on top of her head and she wore a light scarf around her neck. The brisk wind smelled of hot wings and kielbasa. Susan preferred neither. I, on the other hand, appreciated both.

  “Would you like me to buy you some pom-poms?” I said.

  “Would this be for use now or later?”

  “Probably later.”

  “Then yes.”

  “May have to work late,” I said.

  “I certainly hope so,” she said. “At least the family would know where they stand.”

  I walked with her through the growing crowd. Kickoff wasn’t for another hour, but according to sports radio, attendance promised to be a record day for regular season. I kept on wanting to call it opening day, but I knew that term applied only to baseball. Besides the standard satellite trucks from ESPN, there were droves of news crews, local, national, and cable. The disappearance of Akira Heywood and his famous dad taking the field was too good to pass up.

  “So there’s no telling how the demands will be issued?” Susan said.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think the kidnappers would show here?”

  “Can’t imagine why they would,” I said. “It will be a phone call, text, or an e-mail. I don’t think these people wish to be infamous. I think they want to get his money and slide into obscurity.”

  We had our tickets scanned, waited in line at concessions, and found our seats on the club level. They were good seats, almost directly on the fifty-yard line, with a view of the Patriots’ bench.

  I ate a hot dog and drank some beer. Susan nibbled on fresh fruit. I had been unaware you could buy fruit at any stadium.

  After a short while, we stood for the national anthem and watched as the starting players for the Pats were introduced. The roar from the crowd for Kinjo rattled the stadium seats. He raised a fist as he ran onto midfield and joined his teammates. And after a few more were announced, there was a kickoff and the violence began.

  I particularly liked when Kinjo took the field. Not only because he was my client but because I preferred watching defense. I had been a defensive player many moons ago and liked to watch the dismantling of an offensive attack. Kinjo did a lot of dismantling in the first quarter, with five tackles and one sack. He played with a lot of rage, disguised as passion. I drank my beer slowly. If something were to happen, I needed to be alert, focused, and ready.

  “Do you think Hawk is cheering?” Susan said.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think Z is cheering?” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “You’re cheering,” she said. “Does that mean it’s okay for me to cheer?”

  “I’m not cheering,” I said. “I’m yelling positive encouragement for Kinjo.”

  “To knock the quarterback’s fucking head off?”

  “In a matter of speaking?” I said. “Yes.”

  Susan had her sunglasses down and leaned forward in her seat. Not long into the second quarter, her right leg tapped up and down with excitement. And she stood twice as Kinjo ran after the Bills’ quarterback, getting close to a sack. The quarterback let go of the ball just as Kinjo slammed into him, sending him flying. After the play, Kinjo helped him to his feet.

  “I never knew you were such a football fan.”

  “Lot faster than watching baseball,” she said.

  “True.”

  “I have to admit, I like the speed.”

  “Perhaps dealing with some pent-up aggression?” I said.

  Susan stayed focused on the game but smiled. The Bills punted and Kinjo trotted off the field. I checked my phone again. Nothing.

  With a minute left in the second quarter, Jeff Barnes appeared at the end of the row. He looked at me and crooked a finger toward the aisle. I did not like when anyone crooked a finger at me. In fact, I had broken many fingers that had performed similar actions.

  After Brady threw an incompletion, Susan caught me staring.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Head of security.”

  “Friend?”

  “Foe.”

  “A casualty of your charm?”

  “I’m a casualty of his.”

  “Perhaps he has some news?” />
  I finished my beer and stowed the cup under my seat. “Perhaps.”

  I made my way to the steps. I smiled at Barnes and told him what a wonderful surprise it was to see him.

  “Cut the shit, Spenser,” he said. “Kinjo told me you were coming. That’s his business, we can’t stop him. But I wanted to let you know my team is aware you’re here and to be on your best behavior.”

  The row was narrow, and a Coke vendor had to do some considerable acrobatics to get past our pissing contest.

  “What’s the penalty for sticking chewing gum under my seat?”

  Barnes flared his nostrils. He was dressed as he’d been dressed every time I’d seen him. Charcoal pin-striped suit, red tie, and a nifty NFL pin on his lapel. I smiled at him some more. His cheek twitched.

  “Can you walk up the steps for a moment?” he said.

  I turned to Susan. I winked at her and then followed.

  We stood out of the sun and in the shadow of the narrow tunnel leading to the second level. Barnes’s steel-gray hair looked as if it had been barbered two hours ago. His face was clean-shaven, with a ruddy glow.

  “Listen,” he said. “I want you to know I don’t give a damn who does what. I just want Heywood to get his kid back.”

  I nodded.

  “So if something happens,” he said, “and you can help . . .”

  I nodded again.

  “It seems Mr. Kraft is friends with an individual you helped out in the past.”

  “And Mr. Kraft, being Grand Pooh-bah of this organization, has changed your mind about me.”

  Barnes just stared at me. I smiled. He shook his head and looked away. Something big had happened on the field and the stadium erupted in wild enthusiasm. “The kid used to follow me around at practice,” Barnes said. “He pretended like he was a secret agent or something. Thought what I did was cool.”

  I had a comment for that. But I kept it to myself.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Six days of this shit,” Barnes said. “Silence? I couldn’t fucking leave my house. And he’s out there playing his guts out.”

  The first half was almost over and the fans started to fill the tunnel, pouring past us to the bathrooms and concessions. Barnes turned his back and left without another word.

  I returned to my seat just in time to see Kinjo knock a short pass from the tight end’s hands. He gathered the defense before the next play, calling the shots, seeing what’s going to happen before the offense lined up. If only I could do the same.

  42

  The ransom demands arrived five minutes after the final whistle blew, via Twitter.

  FIVE MIL 4 SON. NO COPS, NO TRIX, NO MARKS MONEY. OR THE KID DEAD. DETAILS TO COME

  Attached to the message was a photo of Akira. The little boy stood against a concrete wall, staring into the camera with very large eyes. Nearly impossible to trace under the handle TRUPATSFAN. Z called me as soon as the message posted. Z being the one with a Twitter account.

  Hawk and I were brought down onto the field by two of Barnes’s men and then walked into the tunnel and under the north stands. Susan drove back to Cambridge with Z. Most of the players, including Kinjo, had gone into the locker room. A few other players finished up interviews on the field. There was a lot of standing around, grim talk, and whispers about the news.

  “Fucking Twitter?” Hawk said.

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t even have the balls to type out a note.”

  “I don’t think kidnappers use typewriters anymore,” I said. “Or even craft good ransom notes.”

  “Lack of professionalism,” Hawk said.

  I nodded.

  The Pats had won by three touchdowns. But none of Kinjo’s teammates looked pleased as they passed us, giants with thick necks and limping gaits, bloody knuckles toting their helmets. Heavy cleats echoing through the tunnel. News crews waited like hyenas by the locker room door for Belichick to finish his postgame talk.

  “Wanna bet it’s another hoax?” Hawk said.

  I shook my head. “Nope,” I said. “It’s time. Same ones from the radio show.”

  “Paulie and the Gooch.”

  “Boston’s own number-one sports duo.”

  “And so we wait some more.”

  “Special Agent Connor won’t let us get close to the planning or the drop.”

  “Ain’t up to Connor,” Hawk said.

  An official-looking guy in a dark suit asked us if we were with the press. Hawk just stared at him.

  “Just to let you know, Kinjo Heywood will not be appearing at the press conference or answering any questions,” the man said. “We ask that you respect his family’s privacy at this time.”

  His nametag stated his name was Stacy James and that he was vice president of media relations. I told him we weren’t media. As he turned and walked away, Hawk grunted.

  “Must’ve mistaken you for a sideline bunny,” I said.

  “And you an ex-athlete.”

  I’d been inside a lot of arenas, both as a fighter and on other cases. But I’d never heard a postgame crowd so quiet. The smooth concrete tunnel wrapped around to the office elevators, weight room, and coach’s offices. Coaches and players parted the locker room doors and the crowd, heading toward the media room to take questions. Golf carts zoomed past us, loaded down with trainers’ supplies, equipment, and buckets and buckets of water and Gatorade.

  Hawk leaned against the expansive concrete wall.

  After a long while, I leaned on the wall next to Hawk.

  Across the hall, there were faint sounds coming from the press conference. Freshly showered and shaved players in expensive tailored clothes hobbled from the double metal doors and walked into the media room. More downcast eyes. More whispers. The postgame started to feel like a wake. The news that Akira really was being held, this wasn’t some kind of misunderstanding, seemed to just be dawning on Kinjo’s teammates.

  Ray Heywood found us before Kinjo walked out.

  He was wearing a light gray pin-striped suit, white shirt, no tie. His round face was sweaty and serious when he got to us. Ray was very out of breath.

  “Y’all hear that shit?” he said.

  Hawk nodded. I nodded.

  “Five million,” he said. “Five fucking million.”

  “Can it be raised?” I said.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “But depends on how soon they call it in. It’s not like Kinjo stacks it in the freezer or in the trunk of his damn car.”

  “His bank will open for him,” I said. “Even on Sunday.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “I guess we been waiting on this. But five million is a lot.”

  “One year of play,” Hawk said.

  Ray nodded. He ran his hand over his sweating face. The front of his dress shirt was soaked with sweat. “Kinjo wants y’all with me,” he said. “From the bank to the house.”

  “What about the Feds?” I said.

  “Fuck the Feds, man,” Ray said. “That’s what Kinjo told me and what I’m telling y’all. The Feds officially can’t take part in handing over the money. That doesn’t mean they won’t be around. But they can’t be seen.”

  “And have they gotten any closer?” I said.

  “Shit, I don’t know,” he said. “You?”

  “We have a person of interest,” I said. “Although calling him a person may be a bit of a stretch.”

  “Cops know about him?” Ray said.

  “Sure,” I said. “They brought him in.” Hawk pushed off the wall.

  We walked to the center of the long tunnel with Ray. Kinjo hadn’t come out yet. Maybe sixty reporters had been let into the locker room, with fifty still waiting outside. There were players’ wives and coaches’ wives. Several kids about Akira’s age running in the tunnel, tossing game balls around.

/>   “So y’all come with me,” Ray said. “Get the money. And then watch the money?”

  Hawk tilted his head. “Better than watching the action from the stands.”

  “When?” I said.

  But Ray had already turned around to take a cell-phone call, back turned to us, holding up a finger for us to give him just a minute.

  “They want me to guard five mil?” Hawk said.

  “Ironic,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  43

  As the kind of guy who carried most of his money in his wallet, five million was a little hard to wrap my head around.

  Hawk and I had plenty of time to contemplate it on the drive back from Foxboro. Hawk said he’d actually seen four million on a table once. A million bucks made up of hundreds would fit nicely in a shopping bag. According to Hawk, all of it would fit in a couple of large duffel bags or suitcases.

  “Tricky for a getaway,” I said.

  “Could do a wire transfer,” Hawk said. “But Feds would cover them like flies on shit.”

  “Appropriate analogy.”

  “Ways to reroute that money,” Hawk said. “I’d have a pickup man somewhere overseas.”

  “Given you have those kind of resources.”

  Hawk nodded. We parked along State Street in front of a bank building with mirrored windows that seemed to continue above the clouds. It was twilight and the day had turned a soft, pinkish gold, with a brisk wind off the harbor. I still had on a blue hunting shirt I’d bought at Ball and Buck, Levi’s, and my dress pair of New Balances. I took off my sunglasses in the lobby but kept the vintage Dodgers cap.

  All that money might throw a glare in my eyes.

  We were met by security, satisfied the security, and made our way up to the twenty-second floor. Kinjo had been given a police escort and had been joined by his brother, Ray, and super-agent Steve Rosen. Kinjo nodded at us. Super-agent Steve ignored us. And Ray Heywood was too busy countersigning on five million to notice.

  There were a handful of federal types, Tom Connor not to be found among them. They eyed me and Hawk with admiration, or more likely suspicion. I eyed them back as we waited. It gave me something to do. They wore official badges on their belts and guns in shoulder holsters.