It was a cool night and good for walking. I tugged on my Sox cap, feeling rebellious in hostile territory, and followed Lima across to the Winter Garden and up Broadway north toward Central Park. Lima had yet to look back, figuring I didn’t recognize him. I kept twenty yards back. If he suddenly stopped, I would window-shop, turned in profile. Advanced gumshoe techniques. We passed a Duane Reade, a Starbucks, and an outdoor café modeled after spots on the Champs-Élysées.
At 57th Street, Lima stopped and looked back. I was under some scaffolding and did not break stride, only lowered my head. He lifted his hand to hail a cab.
I increased my pace. Two cabs passed him. He stepped back on the curb and started to walk again. I caught him roughly by the elbow.
“In space, no one can hear you scream.”
“Get your fucking hands off me, man.”
“I can drag you into Central Park and tie you to a tree,” I said. “Or we can walk back a few blocks and sit down someplace nice.”
Victor Lima tilted his head and thought about it. He didn’t speak, only nodded.
“Good choice,” I said, and let go of his arm.
We walked a block south and found a place to sit outside the mock-Parisian café. I ordered a cup of coffee. Lima said he didn’t want anything.
“Sorry we didn’t chat while on Mars.”
“I wanted to see who you were,” he said. “And what did you want with Lela and shit.”
“To find you,” I said. “And shit.”
“That why you hassled my mother?”
“I only passed along my card.”
“What the fuck do you want, man?” he said. “It’s over. No one did crap about my brother. You’re just making trouble for all of us.”
Victor Lima was light-skinned and wore a dark jean jacket over what appeared to be a yellow soccer jersey. His jeans matched his jacket exactly, and the retro-style Jordans on his feet matched the bright yellow of the jersey. He had large, watery eyes and wore a slumped look of exhaustion, like a beaten fighter forced to go one too many rounds. He rubbed his face and leaned back in the café chair.
“You work for Kinjo Heywood?”
I nodded.
“Then screw you, man.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out a few things.”
My coffee arrived. It was French press — of course — and I let it steep. A couple at the next table shared some dessert.
“I saw where someone snatched his kid,” Victor said. “Man can’t stay out of trouble, can he? A straight thug.”
So the news had broken.
“Anyone you might know?”
Victor sat up straighter and shot me a sour look. “Are you kidding, man?”
“Just how do you know Heywood killed your brother?” I said.
“’Cause the police said he did,” Victor said. “’Cause I saw them fighting and heard him say he was going to kill Antonio. ’Cause I know things.”
I’d read Victor’s statement in the homicide file. “You held something back?” I said.
“His three buddies all lied for him,” he said.
“I read there were only two of his teammates,” I said.
“The cops lied,” he said. “There were three other football players and the cops took their side. They took their word for everything. They got into it again out on the street.”
“Did you see it?”
Victor shot me an unpleasant look.
“Then how do you know?”
I mashed the plunger on the coffee, taking the swirling grounds to the bottom of the glass. I poured some into the cup, added sugar, and this time skipped the cream. I also decided to forgo dessert. It’s hard to look like a tough guy with a crème brûlée in front of you.
“Were you inside Chrome when Heywood and Antonio got into it?”
“Yeah.”
“Over Lela.”
“Sure.”
“What happened?”
“Heywood grabbed her ass and asked her to screw him in the bathroom.”
“And Antonio took exception to this.”
I sipped some coffee. All the world walked by. I wondered if Toulouse-Lautrec ever strong-armed a suspect.
“He’s an animal, man,” Victor said. “He’s the same on the field as off. He likes to hurt people. He got off on killing my brother to make a point. He couldn’t stand anyone telling him what to do. How to act like a person.”
I put down my coffee. “And now you’d like to see him hurt?”
“Shit, man,” he said. “You really think I have his kid?”
I shrugged. “Some would agree you’d have good reason,” I said. “And if the kid is not harmed...”
Victor rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t ever want to see that man for the rest of my life,” he said. “I don’t want to be involved with anything to do with him or his family. This is all done.”
“How so?”
Victor grinned and shook his head. “Heywood didn’t tell you,” he said. “Did he?”
I waited.
“Why do you think we dropped the lawsuit, man?” he said. “Heywood paid off my family if we let it go. That’s what my mother wanted. What we agreed. We took his dirty money. It’s finished. I didn’t want to, but my mother thought it was best. I had to agree to her wishes.”
I sipped some coffee and kept quiet and still. Two cabs stacked up at the traffic light, held in place by the red light.
“I’d still like to talk to Lela.”
“She won’t talk to you,” he said. “I told her I’d take care of this, and that’s just what I did.”
Victor stood.
I stood.
“Don’t ever come to our home again,” Victor said, standing up and walking out to Broadway, where he disappeared around 55th Street. I finished my coffee and walked back to my hotel.
19
Hawk picked me up at the Back Bay Station the next morning in his silver Jag.
“You could have at least held open my door.”
“Sure,” he said. “I aims to please.”
“And surly, too.”
“You learn anything?”
“Nope,” I said. “Confused as ever.”
Hawk drove off, and soon we were heading north on Boylston. He had brought coffee and donuts from Café Dunkin. I had eaten a bagel on the train. This was second breakfast. Maybe I was turning into a hobbit.
“Z at Kinjo’s house,” Hawk said. “Which is now a three-ring circus.”
“Wondered how long it would take.”
“Waiting for someone to set up a fucking ice-cream stand.”
Hawk wore Chanel shades with a white cashmere turtleneck under a black leather jacket. He handled the Jaguar as if it were an extension of himself, coiled and controlled.
“How’s Kinjo?”
“Hasn’t slept since you left.”
“And his wife?”
“Wife one or wife two?”
“Who’s at the house?”
“Wife two,” Hawk said. “Z says the woman loving all those cameras on the street. Did her makeup and everything.”
“Must be her grief,” I said. “And wife one?”
“I sat on her house like you asked,” Hawk said. “She doesn’t have the boy. And if she did have the boy, she staying put. State police are all over her.”
“First to suspect a parent.”
Hawk slowed the Jag at the corner of Boylston and Berkeley.
“Not that I minded watching her,” Hawk said. “Damn. You meet her?”
“Yep.”
“And.”
“She scratched the hell out of my face.”