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.
The plan was for Team Kinjo to view the counting of the money, sign the many documents for the money’s release, and then Hawk and I would drive the cash back to Chestnut Hill with an escort from the state police and the Feds.
“I just hope they haven’t spotted your mug at the post office,” I said.
“Babe, my image can’t be captured,” Hawk said.
The twenty-second floor was soon exchanged for the second floor and the main lobby of the bank. Twelve men and women greeted us in a very large conference room wearing plastic gloves and running used hundred-dollar bills through a dozen high-speed money counters. Two stainless-steel hard-shell suitcases sat on a table in the center of the room. A young woman wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and Ugg boots packed stacks of cash, already prepackaged and sealed in shrink-wrap for the kidnappers’ convenience.
Hawk nodded toward the suitcases. With pride, he winked at me.
“You mind me asking when was the time you saw the four mil?” I said.
“There was a general in the Congo Republic,” Hawk said. “He liked to buy a lot of weapons, women, and drugs.”
“Of course.”
There was the constant whir of the money counters. All the tellers were young, quiet, and attentive to the job. All wearing street clothes, brought in late on their days off.
An hour elapsed, and someone sent out for sandwiches and coffee.
Two hours elapsed, and Steve Rosen walked out of the conference room and into the darkened lobby where we sat. He held two clipboards in his hand.
He tried to hand one to each of us.
“Confidentiality agreement,” he said. “And that you are responsible if any of the cash goes missing. Yadda. Yadda. Typical shit.”
We did not reach for the clipboards.
“Bank requires it,” Rosen said.
I shrugged.
“Insurance company requires it.”
I shrugged even more.
“And I require it,” Rosen said.
“We already discussed terms,” I said.
“That was a million years back,” Rosen said. “This is here and now. This is what I need. Don’t be a pain in my ass. Okay, Spenser?”
“We had an agreement,” I said. “And this is the same job.”
Rosen whipped his head back as if I’d slapped him. “Really? And him? Him I don’t know from Adam’s fucking housecat.”
Hawk grinned.
“He’s with me.”
“But who the fuck is he?” Rosen said. He had a great face for smirking, wide and rubbery.
Hawk stood. He did not announce his name. He just looked down at Steve Rosen and studied him with curiosity. Rosen sniffed, his face continuing to go sour.
“I don’t need this shit right now,” Rosen said. “I’ve been an agent for fifteen years. I get the respect from my clients because they know I’m an athlete, too. I know the jock code. When I was putting myself through law school, I worked my way up to second-degree black belt in tae kwon do. I still commit myself to the training every day.”
Hawk grinned wider. His teeth were very white and perfect.
“Oh, no,” Hawk said.
“I’m just saying if you want to fucking get into it,” Rosen said, “I’ll fucking get into it with you, brother. This isn’t the time.”
Hawk took a short breath, crooked his head to the right, popping his neck, and hit super-agent Steve Rosen very quick and very hard in the solar plexus.
Rosen landed hard on his knees. He was working on breathing.
Hawk and I walked toward the money-counting room. Ray and Kinjo met us at the door. Most of the money on the table, nearly all of it, had already been shrink-wrapped and loaded into two suitcases.
“I don’t give a damn about any of this,” Kinjo said. “You hear me? We get the money to these sons a bitches. But I don’t want them spooked or scared off. You help me keep the Feds away. I do what these people say and don’t want any problems. Akira comes back unharmed.”
I nodded.
Ray Heywood was looking over Hawk’s shoulder. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Something’s wrong with Steve. He’s having a heart attack or something.”
“All that money flying out the door?” Hawk said. “Guess it really do get to a man.”
44
We delivered the money without incident to the Heywood house. Since the stone mansion was surrounded by half the cops in Massachusetts, I felt comfortable dropping Hawk at his car and returning to my apartment for a fresh change of clothes.
The kidnappers had contacted Kinjo again. Each time, they had jumped to a new Twitter handle. The Feds pegged that the messages were coming from one of the many thousands who’d used the city’s free Wi-Fi that day. A break in the case was as imminent as finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.
I brewed some coffee and pulled out my gun-cleaning kit from my closet. I laid my cell phone on the kitchen table beside my .38 and .357. I unfolded a well-used red cloth on which to rest my .38. I removed the bullets and began to run a brush though each cylinder and then brushed out the barrel. A clean gun is a happy gun.
After the brushing, I changed tools and attached a clean patch to the cloth, spraying a little gun oil on the cloth. I played an old Dave McKenna LP as I worked. Fond memories of Susan and me at the Copley Plaza and days gone by.
I cleaned the .38 more. Fond memories of shooting men who were about to shoot me.
The little patch came out clean each time. But the routine felt right, adding a little oil to the patch, and then spraying some oil into the cylinder. I ran the red rag over the .38 and set it aside, picking up the .357. The .357 needed the cleaning more, as I’d just taken it to the range a few weeks ago with Z.
McKenna played “Fools Rush In (Where Angels Fear to Tread).”
I smiled a bit. I got up, called Susan, and poured some coffee.
When I hung up, it was a little after eleven.
Hawk called. He was headed back to the Heywoods’.
I drank some coffee. I went through the routine on the .357. The patch came out slightly dirty this time. I ran another patch through to make sure it was clean. I added some oil to another and sprayed the cylinder. I spun the cylinder.
McKenna played “Deep in a Dream.”
I was back at the old Oak Bar. Susan and I were young, McKenna was alive, and the Sox were still the lovable bums of old. The bar was dark wood panels and leather furniture and familiar bartenders and a genial wave from McKenna, who was known to listen to ballgames while he played. I wondered if I could listen to ballgames while I shot. I decided not, and set the .357 aside. I found a leather rig for the big gun and clipped the .38 to my belt behind my right hip.
Whatever the kidnappers had in mind had been set in motion.
And all we could do was sit and wait.
I removed the needle from the record, locked up my apartment, and drove off along Marlborough Street.