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.

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?”