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.”

“Which is not happening.”

“Kinjo seems to have a wandering dick.”

I nodded. “That often complicates a relationship.”

“Kid will want Kinjo to stick around when he drops him off,” Hawk said. “Kid’s only eight but starts talking about old times with the family. Trying to bring up good memories. Momma says he’s become nervous.”

“And now this.”

“No kid should be a part of this.”

A black Dodge Charger passed us, heading up Mead, and parked in front of an empty playground. A middle-aged white guy with a scruffy beard walked across the street to the triple-decker we’d been watching all morning. He wore an oversized gray hoodie with the Bruins logo. He looked as put together as an unmade bed.

“See that?” Hawk said.

Gray hoodie had an automatic wedged in a belt behind his back.

“Inconspicuous.”

The man walked up into the triple-decker without knocking or waiting for the front door to open. We sat in the car for another five minutes, waiting, and no one came out.

“We could call the state police,” I said. “And notify them of recent activity.”

“Might create a circus.”

“Or they might send in a SWAT.”

“And try and negotiate.”

I nodded. “Negotiation was not part of the plan.”

The front door opened and our old pal Blondie stepped out with a spray-tanned gorilla in a pink shirt. They both seemed unfazed by the rain. The gorilla, who we presumed to be the courier’s driver, stepped back in the house and then returned a few moments later.

The gorilla wore the tight clothing of a gym rat and seemed to have a hard time walking. With some effort, he crawled into the Charger, cranked it, and turned down Ludlow.

“Just the two now?”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

“’Course they could be holed up with the Wild Bunch.”

I shook my head. Hawk turned to me. He nodded and opened the driver’s door. Across the street, Z did the same and met us at the corner. We walked separately down the neighborhood street, Hawk and Z breaking off toward an alley behind the house. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The cloudy skies and light rain made Charlestown gray and slick and pleasant.

30

Blondie, the courier, answered the door.

“Avon calling,” I said. “We have a wonderful assortment of styling products, sir.”