“What does Kinjo want?” I said.
“He doesn’t want the police to know.”
“We ain’t the police,” Hawk said.
“He doesn’t know,” Ray said, lowering his head and leaning in among the rattling noise to whisper. “This his goddamn kid, man. You don’t mess around with that. I think he just wants to bring the cash, get Akira, and get done with this.”
I nodded.
“But that shit ain’t gonna happen,” Ray said. “Is it?”
I shook my head.
“They gonna try and kill him anyway.”
“It happens,” I said. “But I’d prefer to change the script.”
“How?”
“Three of us can even the odds.”
“And do what?”
“Make sure Akira is returned safe,” I said.
Z drank some coffee. It had started to rain out on South Street and the streetlamps glowed stark and bright white along the pavement. Hawk watched the rain from the booth. He was quiet but completely in tune with every word that was being said. One of the drunk kids dropped a glass of water off a table, crashing to the ground.
Ray recoiled. Hawk didn’t so much as turn his head.
“I can call Kinjo,” Ray said. “But I can’t promise nothing. It’s his kid. His decision.”
“Just how does he figure to leave the house with a hundred grand without the dozens of police camped out at his house knowing?” I said.
“Y’all just haven’t known my brother long enough. But he can do anything he puts his mind to.”
Ray stood up and walked outside under the diner overhang to make the call. I looked to Z. Hawk was still very interested in the rain.
“What will Lundquist do if we’re involved and don’t tell him?” Z said.
“I’ll be number one with a bullet on the staties’ shit list.”
“That bad?” Z said.
“Spenser tops many shit lists ’round here,” Hawk said. “Where he feels at home.”
Outside, Ray’s thick shadow bent over as he spoke into the phone. The streetlights turned the falling rain into sharp gold pellets hitting the asphalt. Gutters collected the runoff and rolled down the dry concrete.
Hawk turned from the window and smiled. “A woman would be mighty grateful to the man who saved her child.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Hmm,” Hawk said.
“I told Susan that you were smitten with Nicole Heywood,” I said. “Was I correct?”
“Smitten too nice a word for what I got,” Hawk said.
27
Kinjo Heywood walked into the Harbor Health Club at four-thirty a.m. and tossed a large workout bag on a weight bench. Hawk had loaded up a curl bar as we waited and repped out with forty-five plates. He had not broken a sweat or showed any labored breathing on his twentieth curl. As he set down the bar, he nodded to Kinjo. Kinjo shook all of our hands. Ray Heywood had gone back to Chestnut Hill.
“I told the police I was headed to the stadium,” Kinjo said.
“What about Barnes?” I said.
“Fuck Barnes.”
“What about Steve Rosen?” I said.
“Rosen got the cash for me,” Kinjo said. “He works for Team Heywood, not the Pats. What we got? Come on, let’s go.”
Z and I had taken a nice leisurely stroll around South Station and came back with diagrams sketched on sheets of yellow legal paper. Kinjo was to show up at the Au Bon Pain in the center of South Station and take a seat. Someone would soon join him, pick up the bag, and leave, presumably by bus, subway, train, taxi, or car. There were many options at South Station, which made it convenient for a drop.
“I’ll cover the platform,” I said. “Z can wait at the escalator down to the T and Silver Line. Hawk is our utility outfielder, covering the taxi stand and exits onto Atlantic.”
“These motherfuckers didn’t say how or when I’d get my kid back,” Kinjo said.
“It’s a one-way conversation,” I said.
“What if this dude tells me Akira isn’t there?” Kinjo said. “That he’ll get me later or some shit.”
“Your son won’t be there,” I said. “They’ll make sure they get the money and then figure out their next move.”
“What would you do?” Kinjo said. “If it were your kid? You want me to be cool about all this. Trust them?”
“Nope.”
I looked to Hawk. Hawk had selected a leather jump rope and used it to stretch out his shoulders. He shot a glance at me before jumping a little rope by the mirrored wall. Hawk was not proficient at being idle unless necessary.
Z sat, elbows on knees, on a bench loaded with the sack of money. I stood with Kinjo. Most of the lights were off in the gym and the air purifier made gentle humming sounds. I had enough coffee at the diner to overcaffeinate a rhino.
“You don’t trust anyone,” I said.
“Then what the hell do you do?” Kinjo said.
“We follow him,” I said. “I wouldn’t want this guy out of my sight until you have Akira in yours.”
Kinjo nodded. “What else?”
“We could put a tracker with the money,” I said. “But I think they’ll check it pretty quickly. The device would get tossed and could definitely piss them off, too. We follow the courier.”
“Where’d you park?” Z said.
“At the Aquarium, like y’all said.”
Z nodded and stood up, going out to the street to check to see if anyone had tailed Kinjo. Hawk finished jumping rope and walked over to where he’d hung up his holster and coat. He slid into the leather, holstering his .44 Magnum, and then fit his leather trench over it. He turned his head slightly, his neck giving an audible pop.
“Won’t be long before Barnes calls the police,” Kinjo said. “Let them know I never made it to the stadium.”
I checked my watch. “Won’t take that long.”
“Can you both promise me something?” Kinjo said.
I nodded. Hawk nodded.
“You snatch up this man and get him to a place where I can whip his ass,” Kinjo said. “All I need is five minutes and a quiet room. I’ll come to terms, I promise.”
“No problem with that, man,” Hawk said. “But Spenser and I have years of experience reasoning with people.”
“You gonna try and talk it out?” Kinjo said.
Hawk shook his head.
“If this person shows up,” I said, “we’ll find out where he’s taking the money and to whom. He’ll talk.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Hawk smiled. I nodded my head modestly.
“Y’all stay so cool,” Kinjo said, shaking his head. “I feel like I’m going to come out of my skin.”
“You just show up with that bag,” I said. “We’ll handle the rest.”
He nodded. And then he got up on shaky legs and walked back to the gym bathroom. A toilet flushed and we heard him throw up.
28
South Station was busy at five minutes until six. Kinjo was already seated at the table by the Au Bon Pain as I perused a copy of Radio My Way by Ron Della Chiesa at Barbara’s Bookstore. I could see Kinjo from where I stood, my elbow resting atop a bookshelf, the brim of my ball cap low in my eyes. In the opposite direction, through the mire of travelers and commuters, Z lingered by the escalators down into the T station. If we had wanted to detain the courier, the number of MTBA cops milling about would have made the task difficult.
The loudspeakers announced train departures from various tracks. The big train board clicked and whirred with the latest updates. Early gray light flooded high windows as the station pulsed with brisk energy. I had just got to a profile on Ruby Braff when I saw a thick-necked guy with bleached-blond hair step up to Kinjo’s table and lean in to speak.