45
Two more photos of Akira were sent from separate Twitter accounts. Both shut down after being sent. One of them showed the child seated in a big, ugly green recliner. His face blank, eyes wide with exhaustion and fear. The next showed the child wearing Kinjo’s game jersey, eyes cast downward, and holding up his index finger in the number-one sign. Each shot was very close, impossible to tell much about the location of the photo if the kidnappers were caught.
Kinjo sat alone in his media room while he waited. He watched video from the game. He’d run a play back and forth twenty times before moving on.
It was one o’clock in the morning and the house was very still but alive with federal agents and cops. The two suitcases sat in the center of the living room as if to underscore the waiting.
I was adding sugar to my coffee when Tom Connor strode into the kitchen, talking on his cell phone. He eyed me, a second of hesitation, but continued toward the big island in the center of the room. He stood across from me and made his own coffee. I did not offer him any sugar or cream.
“What’d you make of that last one?”
“The taunt?” I said.
“Right?”
I nodded. I drank some coffee.
“Why dress up the kid as Kinjo, make him do all that shit?”
“Personal.”
“As in Antonio Lima?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t dismissed the possibility.”
Connor nodded, poured maybe half the sugar container into his coffee. He held the coffee and squinted his eyes in thought, nattily dressed in an official FBI golf shirt and black dress pants. I wanted to ask him if there was a special store catering only to the Feds. But with age comes wisdom. I drank my coffee, curious as to what he wanted.
“One week,” Connor said. “And we got nothing.”
I nodded, employing an old crime-buster technique — shut your mouth and let the other person keep talking.
“You went to New York,” Connor said.
“Yep.”
“And talked to Lima’s brother?” he said. “Met with the old lady?”
“I did.”
“Me, too,” he said. “What did you think?”
I shrugged again. I drank some coffee. The kitchen light shone off Connor’s helmet of perfect hair.
“And you found out they’d been paid out.”
“I did.”
“We didn’t know that,” Connor said. “Kinjo brought it up. Says he’s innocent but didn’t need the attention.”
I nodded.
“You believe that?”
“He said he wasn’t involved,” I said. “My job is to take him at his word.”
“We worked three different cranks,” Connor said. “Including those goddamn numbnuts from Charlestown. Jesus H. Those were some whack jobs. That steroid freak? He was the mastermind. Wanted to use the ransom money to open a dog-grooming business.”
“We all have a dream.”
“But you’re onto something,” Connor said. He smiled, trying to pull me along. “Right? You go up to New York, work that clusterfuck, and then nothing? I don’t believe it. You’re holding out.”
“I never stopped thinking there was a connection,” I said. “But since getting back, I’ve been a little sidetracked.”
I rested my left hand on the kitchen island. A couple more Feds walked into the kitchen, looking for some stray donuts. Connor gave them the stink eye, and they turned on their heels and left. “What is this, Denny’s?” he said, grinning more at me. Just a couple of old pals shooting the breeze.
“Why’d you go see Gerry Broz?”
Ah, I thought.
I shrugged, tilted my head. “Catch up on old times,” I said. “Offer my condolences on his late dad.”
“Joe was a grade-A turd.”
“But you worked with him.”
“And you don’t work with street creeps, hustlers, and pimps when you need it, Spenser?” Connor said. “Don’t get all high and mighty on me. We swim in the same fucking ocean.”
I took a long breath through my nose and let it out the same way. The coffee had grown cold and I set it in the microwave to reheat. In the living room, Cristal Heywood lay sleeping on the couch. In Akira’s bedroom, Nicole Heywood was probably still wide awake and staring at his fish tank.
From the kitchen, you could see Cristal covered in a large blanket, eyes closed, an empty highball glass on the coffee table. Her arm was draped out from under the blanket, long red nails dangling down to touch the perfect white carpet.
“You don’t have to tell me jack,” Connor said, speaking quietly. “But if you want to help the kid, maybe we should talk.”
I waited. The microwave dinged, and I grabbed my coffee. Connor was staring at Cristal.
“Gerry said you wanted to know about Kevin Murphy,” Connor said. “You think we hadn’t thought about that? We know her background.”
“Then what’s to discuss?”
“That you know something else,” he said. “So what if she liked to show off her goodies on the Internet? Why Murphy?”
“Why not?”
I considered my options. Tom Connor was a distrustful, immoral creep. And I’d rather have my manly parts roasted over an open flame than work with him. But my job wasn’t to vet the help. My job was to facilitate the return of an eight-year-old boy to his father. And if working with the devil himself would help, then I’d explore my options.
“An associate of Kevin Murphy followed Kinjo a couple weeks ago,” I said. “He drove the same vehicle and all but admitted he’d been nearly shot by my client.”
“This was how long before the kidnapping?” Connor said.
I held up all my fingers and exposed my thumbs.
“You follow him?”
“All the way to the depths of Dorchester,” I said. “He has a first-class studio over a convenience store near Fields Corner.”
“Anything?”
“Business as usual,” I said. “Caught Murphy in the act of adding to his oeuvre.”
I could tell that Connor was not familiar with the term. Probably not a fan of Godard or Truffaut. Or even Roger Corman.
“I want to pick him up,” he said. “You say Kinjo can finger the guy he works with?”
“Yep,” I said.
“I want to talk to him.”
“You guys have a little more muscle when it comes to gaining warrants,” I said. “And getting someone to flip on their employer.”
“But you like this guy Murphy for it?”
I shrugged. “Not especially,” I said. “But it’s pretty much all we got besides the Lima family.”
“You explain the odds to your client?” he said. “About actually ever seeing his son again?”
“I tried.”
“Maybe we should both try harder,” Connor said. “Everything about this feels wrong.”
46
At dawn, Tom Connor and I sat down with Kinjo and Nicole. Neither of them had slept. I worked on a record-setting cup of coffee as the sun rose over their fence and trees, silver and harsh. A bright, winter wind coming way too early for September.
We had gathered in the study after a fourth message had arrived.
BE READY. 2-MINUTE DRILL.
In a new photo, Akira wore an oversized white T-shirt, holding up two fingers. He’d turned his head away from the camera, a postcard-size bandage affixed to his neck. We all saw the blood.
“We just want both of you to be ready when this happens,” Connor said. “Mr. Heywood will probably be asked to deliver the money. Or his representative.”
He turned to me and nodded. I gave the old combat-pilot thumbs-up.
“What is that?” Nicole said. “What the hell’s wrong with his neck?”