There wasn’t any reason to think this was our guy. Our guy had a knack for not showing. And this could be one of Kinjo’s many fans. Working a kidnapping exchange was more difficult with a guy who’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated and ESPN magazine. But the guy lingered at the table, and Kinjo’s body language indicated something other than a casual chat with a fan. His body was tense, leaning into the table. The bleached blond snatched the bag and walked toward the open-air bookstore.
Kinjo stood, walking in a daze into the crowd, lifting his chin at the man but not pointing and calling attention as we had discussed.
The man was tall, maybe six-three, broad-shouldered, and wearing an old-fashioned buffalo-check mackinaw with blue jeans and work boots. I got a good look at him as he passed me. Early thirties, chiseled face, thin lips, pale blue eyes. The hair was a color not found in nature. He had the workout bag tossed over his shoulder and wore a smug grin as he strutted through the crowd. I called Hawk on my cell.
The man headed toward a chocolate shop and a bank of ATMs. Z picked him up at the escalator. I told Hawk he was headed to the front doors that met at the corner of Atlantic and Summer.
I increased my pace, passing the escalator and the ATMs and catching Z as the guy crossed over Summer, dodging traffic. Horns blared and cars swerved around him as he made his way to the Federal Reserve Plaza. He began to jog through the open plaza as Hawk braked in front of us at the curb.
I jumped in. Z ran back to his car parked at the station.
Hawk’s car was not familiar to me.
“Trading up?” I said.
“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Every black man wants a ten-year-old Olds with bad brakes.”
“Borrowed?”
“Something like that.”
Hawk zipped down Atlantic and slowed as we passed the guy jogging toward Congress. Hawk pulled to the curb, motor idling, until we saw him run across Congress to a burgundy SUV and jump in. We accelerated from the curb past the Tea Party museum and north along the waterfront.
I called Kinjo and told him to head home. He tried to argue the point, but I’d already hung up.
Atlantic became Commercial, and soon we were in the narrow brick buildings of the North End. They’d spotted us. The SUV took a very hard left, squealing tires, onto Hanover as Hawk hit the accelerator.
“No use in pussyfooting,” Hawk said.
“Nope.”
“They tryin’ to get over the bridge,” Hawk said.
“Makes sense.”
“Tell Z to wait there.”
I called Z and told him to go ahead and drive over to Charlestown.
“Should’ve figured them for Charlestown,” Hawk said.
“Or Roxbury or Dorchester or Southie,” I said. “We mustn’t generalize a hood’s home turf.”
“Charlestown got more criminals per capita.”
“Per capita?” I said.
“I heard it on the television once,” he said. “Don’t know what it means.”
We raced down Hanover toward the statue of Paul Revere. The burgundy SUV squealed right up onto Charter Street. We followed.
“Yep,” Hawk said.
“You sure?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Then back off,” I said. “Let Z take it.”
“You trust him?” Hawk said.
“He was trained by us,” I said.
Hawk took his foot off the accelerator. We passed the crooked headstones of Copps Hill burying ground where Charter came into the curve at Commercial. At the corner of Prince, we waited and watched the SUV run through a red light and race onto the Charlestown Bridge.
I called Z again.
“Good to have three of us,” Hawk said.
“Knew the kid would come in handy.”
“Especially now that you pissed off Vinnie,” Hawk said.
“That was inevitable.”
“Inevitable that he’s gonna take over Gino Fish’s territory and we all be screwed.”
“You think?” I said.
Hawk nodded. We idled at the stoplight. A car behind us honked its horn. We turned left onto Commercial and took our time driving over the river into Charlestown.
“You call Vinnie about this?” I said.
“’Cause you can’t?”
I nodded.
“He got his own troubles,” Hawk said. “New crew moving into Eastie on account of that casino being built.”
“Shocking,” I said.
“Mmm-hmm.”
We made it over the bridge and drove slowly along the old Navy Yard where the Constitution lay anchored. Actually, it wasn’t anchored. The proper term was berthed. Or maybe it was moored.
Hawk parked along a row of old brick buildings once in official use by the shipyards. Some of them had been turned into luxury condos and restaurants. Others lay dormant. The street was empty. It had started to rain again.
Hawk leaned back into his seat. We sat there maybe ten minutes when my phone rang.
“Charlestown,” Z said. “Ludlow and Mead. I parked next to the basketball court. There’s two of them. Just went into a triple-decker.”
Hawk started the borrowed car and headed out of the Navy Yard.
29
“Kid been gone three days,” Hawk said.
“Yep.”
“Kid lucky his dad is Kinjo Heywood.”
“Or unlucky,” I said. “His dad was Joe Blow and nobody would be interested in holding him for ransom.”
Hawk nodded. The rain created a pleasant patter on the hood of the Oldsmobile. Every ten minutes or so, he’d hit the wipers and clear our view of the triple-decker. It wasn’t a bad house, as Charlestown was not the Charlestown of old. Fresh blue paint, good roof, no broken windows. Of course, everything looks better in the rain.
“You know how many black children go missing every year?”
“No,” I said.
“Unless you blond with blue eyes, you don’t make the evening news.”
“Are you trying to say this country still is plagued by racial issues?”
“Nope,” he said. “I am simply stating a fact.”
The last sentence lapsed into Hawk’s James Mason accent. I wondered if Hawk had ever watched any James Mason movies to practice. I did not ask. Some things were better not to know.
“Z’s done well,” Hawk said.
“He’s genetically programmed to track,” I said.
“What’s a thick-necked Irishman programmed for?”
“Sitting in the pub and bitching about affirmative action.”
“Ha,” Hawk said.
We had been sitting on the house for five hours and no one had walked in or out. Z had parked his dark green Mustang on the far corner, facing the opposite direction. If our courier or alleged kidnappers decided to leave, we were covered.
“She invited me in for coffee yesterday,” Hawk said.
“Who?” I knew but wanted him to say it.
“Nicole.”
“Ah.”
“Said if I was just going to be loitering, might as well be loitering in her living room.”
“Makes sense.”
“Mm-hm.”
Hawk leaned back into the seat. He crossed his massive arms across his chest. I don’t know if his eyes were closed or not. He wore a dark pair of sunglasses that made knowing impossible.
“And,” I said.
“And what?”
“How was the coffee?”
Hawk’s mouth curled a bit. “Excellent,” he said. “She talked a lot about Akira, mostly. Loves the boy, hates the father. Hates the stepmother even more. All that.”
“Hate is a strong emotion.”
Hawk nodded. The rain fell harder and there was a long, lingering thunder that rattled the windshield.
“Kid had a hard time with the divorce,” Hawk said. “Keeps on trying ways to get them back together. Think he the one made the trouble.”