“Ever think of taking up tennis?” I said.
“You kidding me?”
The light turned green. I turned left on Hammond and on into Chestnut Hill.
“Shit, I only moved out here for Akira,” he said. “A few of my teammates moved out here. Brady moving out from downtown. I thought, why the hell not? Good schools. Good restaurants. Make his life into something right. He’s a good kid. Smart as hell. If I was smart as him, I wouldn’t need football.”
“Do you want him to play?”
“If he wants to play, I’ll help him,” Kinjo said. “He don’t want to play, that’s fine by me. Kid is special. He can draw. He can sing. He can memorize whole songs after hearing them once. Seems like a waste just to do something that’s expected.”
I nodded. We rolled up onto Heath Street and I turned toward Kinjo’s house. I pulled in, killed the engine, and sat there. The engine made hot ticking sounds as I waited for him to get out. But he just sat there, looking at his stone house lit up like a birthday cake in the night. A few leaves twirled down from the oaks.
“Steve Rosen is going to call you tomorrow,” he said. “Says whatever was going on isn’t going on anymore.”
I nodded.
“So he’s going to fire you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What do you think?” Kinjo said. “You think you can get these guys?”
“‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’”
“Who said that?”
“Some old Greek guy.”
“I’d pay you for as long as it takes, but the front office has spoken to Steve, and now Steve isn’t so sure if it’s a good thing for you to be hanging around.”
“And you have promised to be more selective in the discharging of your weapon.”
Kinjo smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
“Well, okay,” I said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
I offered my hand and he took it.
We got out of the car, and I walked with him to the back of the Explorer to open the hatch. He reached in and got his travel bag. The front door opened and Akira came running out in blue pajamas and no shoes. He jumped up high into Kinjo’s arms and clung tight to Kinjo’s body. Kinjo didn’t miss a stride, walking with the boy held tight, travel bag in right hand and left hand on the child’s back. The kid didn’t even see me, his eyes shut tight as Kinjo opened the front door.
I parked down the hill and sat on the house until late. I had been paid for the week and might as well see it through. When nothing menacing appeared, I cranked my car and drove home.
9
“If they were letting you go,” Z said, “why follow through watching the house?”
“I was paid until today,” I said. “If I didn’t follow through, then I might start padding expenses, billing extra hours, charging to drink on the job. The whole thing would get shot to hell.”
“The code?”
“Maybe the code,” I said. “Or maybe it’s valuing my own self-worth.”
“But you don’t feel guilt about me buying the sandwiches?”
“I bought last time,” I said. “And I wish to value your self-worth.”
“Sandwiches are very good.”
“That they are.”
Z had stopped off in Chinatown for an early lunch of Vietnamese bánh mì sandwiches and two hot Vietnamese coffees. Shredded pork, cilantro, jalapeños, and pickled carrots on a baguette. The coffee was milky and strong and sweet.
“If the Vietnamese outnumber the Chinese in Chinatown,” I said, “perhaps a name change is due.”
“Or you might be overthinking the sandwich.”
“Perhaps.”
It was brisk and cool. Z wore a black motorcycle jacket over a gray T-shirt with old jeans and cowboy boots, true to his heritage on a Montana rez. His face still showed the scars of a savage beating. The face had mostly healed, but a large swath of skin from his left eye and cheek was mottled with scar tissue. He had spent weeks in the hospital and there had been a lot of rehab. He did not like to discuss it.
“I don’t know how much work I’ll have,” I said.
“Henry got me extra hours at the gym,” Z said. “And I got an offer to work as bouncer on Fridays and Saturdays at the Black Rose. Good pay.”
“You mind being around the booze?”
“Nope,” he said. “I like to be in control. I like to see everything around me.”
I ate the rest of my sandwich and sipped the sweet coffee. I swung around in my office chair and planted my feet on a window ledge. The bay window of my second-floor office composed a nice view of Berkeley Street. Shreve, Crump & Low had moved out. I had wished for a good restaurant to replace it but instead got a Bank of America.
“So what does a trained investigator do when business is slow?”
“Live deliberately and front only the essential aspects of life.”
“Such as sandwiches.”
I nodded and picked up the morning Globe. I tossed Z the front page and kept the sports and comics for myself. As he started to read, I furtively reached into my desk for a pair of reading glasses. Once in focus, Arlo & Janis were at it again.
The phone rang.
“Spenser? It’s Kinjo, I need you quick.” His voice sounded tight and high-pitched. I took my feet off the windowsill and cradled the phone to my ear. Z put down the paper and stared at me.
“They got him,” he said. “They fucking snatched him, man.”
“Who?”
“Whoever was following me took Akira.”
I waited a beat, my eyes lifting to Z. He listened with intent.
“Could he be with Nicole?”
“I know when my kid is gone. Cristal was taking him to school and two men with guns jacked her at a red light and took him. Nicole blames me. She’s coming over right now.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Hell, yes, I called the police,” he said. “Spenser, help me. That kid is everything. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care. I want these motherfuckers dead.”
10
When we arrived, there was a lot of activity on Chestnut Hill. Dozens of cop cars, marked and unmarked, hugged Heath Street in both directions, up and down the winding hill. Z and I parked a good bit away and walked to the top of the Heywood driveway. Two Brookline uniform cops stopped us before we even reached a mailbox.
They asked who we were. I told them and asked who was in charge.
“Captain O’Leary,” one cop said.
“Anyone from the staties?”
The cop studied Z’s profile and pressed a radio mic on his collar. Some garbled bit of radio noise returned a few seconds later. “Detective Lieutenant Lundquist.”
“Tell Lundquist Spenser is here,” I said.
“He know you?” the cop said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I promise to brighten his day.”
“I thought Lundquist was Homicide under Healy,” Z said.
I shrugged. “Nothing gold can stay.”
The Brookline cop nodded at me but held up his hand to stop Z. “Only Spenser.”
“It’s okay,” Z said. “While I wait, I can water the horses. Give them oats.”
The cops looked at each other in confusion. I followed the sloping drive to the large stone house. At a side door, I was ushered in and taken into a study, where Kinjo Heywood sat holding court in an overstuffed white leather chair. Cristal slumped on a nearby white couch, head in hands, crying. Lundquist sat wide-legged on an ottoman across from Kinjo, taking notes. The house was thick with cops. A few had set up laptop computers on a large dining room table, orange cords running into the wall.