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.

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.