“I like to pass on my cultural knowledge with tough-guy talents.”
I pointed at his empty Coke glass. “As long as you’re driving,” he said.
I had not seen Z take a drink since the beating. He did not seem to mind me having a beer but often seemed uncomfortable at the sight of me with whiskey. I sipped the one beer but laid down a nice tip for the bartender so she would not think we were just mooching off the view. Through the shelves of booze bottles, the nightlights of Boston flickered and pulsed in the blackness. Perspective.
“Kid’s out there somewhere,” Z said.
“Yep.”
“Coming up on three days and nothing.”
“We’ll find him.”
“Now what?” Z said.
“Don’t know.”
“Why don’t we just sit down with Ray?” Z said.
“We could,” I said. “But might scare whoever he’s meeting. If he’s meeting one of the kidnappers.”
Z nodded.
“Should we call Hawk?”
I shook my head. “Break glass only when necessary,” I said.
We listened to the music and sipped our drinks. Just another couple of businessmen out for a good time in ol’ Beantown. Z had only recently been able to pass after cutting off his ponytail. If I had my nose fixed, I might be considered midlevel management material.
At one a.m., Ray walked from the club toward the restroom. I followed him inside and saddled up beside him at the urinal. Over the urinals were historic photos of the city. Mine showed a group of mustached men in front of a horse-drawn fire wagon.
“How about that version of ‘Skylark’?” I said.
Ray turned to me. “Shit.”
“I thought it was pretty good.”
“What the fuck you doing here, Spenser?” he said. “Shit. I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“That’s why I didn’t approach you in the lounge.”
“This is nothing to fuck around with,” he said, stepping away. “Besides, I thought you were through with this.”
“According to super-agent Steve Rosen?”
Ray nodded and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. The bathrooms were very cramped on the fifty-second floor.
“Who contacted you?” I said.
“Don’t know.”
“But it’s the kidnapper?” I said.
“That’s what they say.”
“When did they call?” I said.
“Didn’t call,” Ray said. “They fucking sent a message to Kinjo’s Facebook page.”
“Now everyone knows?”
“I’m the administrator,” he said. “It was a personal message.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “What did it say?”
“Man,” Ray said, turning off the sink and reaching for a towel. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”
“What did they say?”
“If I tell you, they’ll get rid of me next.”
“Did Kinjo want me gone or Rosen?”
Ray was quiet. He was a rotund man, and the two of us filled the small bathroom. His sky-blue silk dress shirt was stained at the armpits.
“Rosen,” Ray said. “Kinjo’s ass is knocked out. They gave him some sleeping pills so he could rest.”
“Then I’m still on the job.”
Ray walked back to the sink and splashed some water on his face. He wiped his eyes and turned back to me. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They didn’t show.”
I nodded.
“They told me to go to this fucking bar in Newton and so I go to fucking Newton. I get there and the bartender asks if I’m Ray Heywood. I was like the only one in this shithole and said yes. He hands me the phone, and same weird-ass voice as called Paulie and the Gooch come on and tell me to go to the Top of the Hub and wait. So I wait, and not shit so far.”
“Wait some more,” I said. “Z and I are at the bar.”
Ray ran a hand over his face. He was breathing hard out of his nose as he thought, and finally nodded. “Okay.”
I grabbed his arm, and he looked me in the eye. “If someone sits with you, we’ll see them. If you get a message to go somewhere else, just nod at us on the way out. I have a blue Explorer and will follow you out of the garage.”
Ray grabbed my shoulder. “They said if we told the cops, they’d kill Akira,” he said. “I just told Rosen and he and Jeff Barnes thought I should go alone. You know, find out the terms.”
I nodded. Ray left, and I stayed in the bathroom for a minute before leaving.
I sat back at the bar.
Z did not say anything, just stared at the wide expanse of the Boston night. Lights twinkled and pulsed. Over the shadows and the rain. To a blossom-covered lane.
“Waiting on demands.”
Z nodded. Fifteen minutes later, Ray walked past us and gave a slight nod.
We followed him in the next elevator and out of the Pru Center garage onto Boylston. I called Hawk on the way.
26
An hour later, Z and I sat down across from Ray Heywood and Hawk at the South Street Diner. The restaurant was open twenty-four hours, which made it attractive at two in the morning. It also made it attractive to many drunken kids leaving the bars around Faneuil Hall. There was a lot of noise and boisterous laughing, which was a bit incongruous to our talk of kidnapping and ransom demands. Said demands being left on the windshield of Ray Heywood’s Mercedes while we were all listening to “Skylark” up at the Top of the Hub.
As soon as we both drove out of the parking garage, Ray had called. We drove a fair bit around Chinatown to make sure he was not being followed. Z had recommended South Street because it was near the Harbor Health Club and was a favorite of Henry Cimoli’s. Not that Henry’s taste in food was stellar.
We all drank coffee. Hawk ordered a southwestern omelet with hash browns and a side of bacon. He ate while we spoke. His presence seemed to make Ray nervous. Which was only natural. Hawk made any normal person nervous.
“You’re someone,” Ray said. “I know you.”
“I am someone,” Hawk said. “But you don’t know me.”
“You were an athlete, a ballplayer or something.”
“Before your time.”
“But I know you.”
Hawk shook his head. “You are mistaken, friend.” With that, Ray turned back to me.
“Do you think they saw you?” Ray said.
I shook my head.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because we were careful you didn’t see us,” I said. “And they don’t know us.”
A waitress refilled our cups. Hawk finished the omelet and pushed the plate away, dabbing his lips with his napkin. Z sipped black coffee and listened to the talk.
“Where?” Hawk said.
I looked to Ray. “South Station at six a.m.”
Ray nodded.
“You got the note?” Hawk said.
Z reached into his leather jacket for the note and handed it across. Hawk read it and handed it back.
“Staties gonna be pissed,” Hawk said.
“Yep,” I said. “We should tell Lundquist.”
Heywood looked at both of us as if we needed to be fitted for straitjackets. “Didn’t you read the fucking note?” he said. “No cops or the kid is dead.”
“We read the note,” Hawk said.
Ray closed his mouth.
“I would have thought they’d ask for more money,” I said.
“You don’t think a hundred grand is a lot of money?” Ray said.
Z looked up and spoke. “Not when the victim is worth twenty million.”
“Kinjo’s gonna get the cash.”
“Who’d he tell?” I said.
“His agent.”
“Terrific,” I said. Z still wore his black leather jacket, hands around a thick ceramic coffee mug. Hawk had neatly hung up his trench coat by the booth. His black T-shirt seemed painted onto his body. His forearms corded with muscle and vein. Z studied Ray as he spoke, offering no emotion or reaction. His right hand tapped slightly on the mug.