“Perhaps you should have spoken to her before laying down the bounty.”

Kinjo’s eyes turned hard and fast on me. He stared at me for a while, breathing hard and uneasy out of his nose. I thought for a moment he was going to hit me. But he just stood, hands on hips, and looked across the river to MIT.

“I did what I thought was best for Akira,” he said. “I made the move. I have to live with it. But I’ll tell you something. I don’t regret it. It’s the right play. You’ll see. He’ll come back. That boy is tough. Me and him the same. Ain’t nothing going to get to my boy. He’s coming the hell back home.”

I stood with him.

“Goddamn it, Spenser,” Kinjo said. He was crying very softly and quietly.

I put my hand on his shoulder. And he thanked me before walking away, down a very skinny trail toward the Hatch Shell.

The trail was way too small for a guy like Kinjo Heywood. As he walked, he swatted at the overgrown branches that blocked his way.

49

Did you speak to Kinjo again?” Susan said.

“No.”

“Are you the one who advised him this was the best course of action?”

“Of course not.”

Susan’s last appointment of the day had canceled, so she decided to surprise me at my office. I leaned back in my chair and stared at her as she sat at the corner of my desk. Staring at Susan Silverman was the highlight of some long, dark days.

“But you’re still blaming yourself,” Susan said.

“What makes you say that?”

She nodded at an open bottle of Bushmills next to my coffee mug. I shrugged and poured out a couple fingers more. It had been two days since the Sports Monstah bounty, and in those very long forty-eight hours, all communication from the kidnappers had ceased. Not a phone call. Not a tweet. Silence. All the talk around the case now focused on Kinjo, not Akira. The blame was harsh and consistent.

“I understand why he did what he did,” Susan said. “Given the exact same circumstances, and if Akira had been my child, I may have done the same.”

“You are far more tactical than emotional.”

“A fifty-fifty chance, either way?” Susan said. “Why not hedge the bet and hope someone turns on the kidnappers?”

“Then he shouldn’t have answered their messages,” I said. “He didn’t just confront them. He put a price on their heads.”

Susan pondered, legs crossed, head crooked in thought. Susan, being Susan, looked elegant and smart as hell while pondering in a black dress with tall black heels. She was dressed for dinner at Grill 23. I was in jeans and a T-shirt and looked more appropriate for takeout at Taco Bell.

“Did you try and talk to him?” Susan said.

I nodded.

“But he wouldn’t see you?”

“He won’t see anyone,” I said. “Kinjo hasn’t gone back to practice or left his house since returning from the radio station. He might not admit it, but I’m sure he’s thinking long and hard about the choice he made.”

“And what about the other leads?”

“Cristal Heywood’s ex?” I said. “I turned over that information to the FBI. He was being grilled by the Feds at the same time Kinjo was getting his final ransom instructions.”

“Nothing?”

“Even at his chosen vocation, Kevin Murphy comes up short.”

“And nothing more from the FBI or the police?”

“I’ve spent the last two days going through every interview on the Antonio Lima killing,” I said. “I’ve spoken to the lead investigators, tracked down old witnesses, and located two new ones. I learned the Limas once lived in Boston, that the nightclub fight was over before it started, and that the woman who started it all seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Lela?”

“Lopes,” I said. “With an s.”

“Strange that they were from Boston?”

“Apparently Boston is where most Cape Verdeans move first,” I said. “Didn’t make them Pats fans.”

“Perhaps you should look at this from another angle,” Susan said. “What if Kinjo had done as he was told and paid the ransom?”

“The serial numbers would have been recorded,” I said. “Witnesses might have eventually stepped forward.”

“And now?”

“Now every lowlife criminal in greater Boston is looking for the kidnappers,” I said. “This kidnapper or kidnappers have become a human Powerball ticket.”

“So this screws the pooch?”

“I’m glad Pearl isn’t here,” I said. “She’d find that offensive.”

I drank a bit of the Bushmills. I had started to drink early, in an effort to think upon the little I knew about the case. As the shadows fell in my office, I knew it had become more of an escape from how I’d been feeling.

“Can you do any more tonight?” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Susan walked to my hat tree and grabbed my bomber jacket. She tossed the jacket to me, along with my ball cap. “I’m buying you dinner.”

“As long as you won’t try and take advantage of me later.”

“I make no promises.” Susan grinned.

I grinned back but wasn’t feeling it much. The loss of a child seldom brought out my jovial side.

Long evening shadows crept through my office windows. I stood up, slid into the jacket, and met Susan by the door. We walked down the steps and out onto Berkeley Street, heading away from the river and toward Grill 23.

“How’d you know Grill 23?” she said.

“The shoes,” I said. “I can always tell by the shoes.”

We walked for a minute, Susan’s hand in mine. “Is Kinjo being watched?”

I nodded. “His brother removed all the guns from the house,” I said. “There are still some local cops on duty.”

“And will he speak to anyone about what’s going on?”

“Nope,” I said. “And Nicole?”

“Did I mention she is now a patient?”

“I had hoped.”

“I can’t discuss her state of mind,” Susan said. “But she does have the benefit of very solid family support. They’ve flown in to be with her. She’s a very tough, resilient woman.”

“Who hasn’t given up.”

Susan smiled.

“Support is nice,” I said.

“Bet your ass,” Susan said, squeezing my hand as we continued down Berkeley.

50

Susan had not kept to her word, keeping me out late and thoroughly taking advantage of me after dinner. Feeling rejuvenated, I returned to my apartment the next morning. I showered and dressed, fried bacon and eggs, brewed coffee, and then drove out to Foxboro to meet with Jeff Barnes fresher than a field of daisies.

As I waited in the Pats’ front office, I studied a helmet and cleats behind a glass case that had once belonged to Gino Cappelletti. I wondered how long it would’ve taken Gino to make five mil. When Barnes showed, I decided to ask him.

“About a century,” he said.

“Sounds about right,” I said.

“Those guys in the old league never got paid,” he said. “They played because they loved it.”

“And now?”

“Depends on the player.”

“Kinjo seems to love it,” I said. “Seems like the money is gravy.”

“You bet,” Barnes said. “Poor guy. Did you know we had six hundred people show up to return Kinjo’s game jersey yesterday? People are calling him a killer. Said he might as well been the one who pulled the trigger on his own son.”

“Lots of that stuff on the radio,” I said. “Reason I turn stations.”

“And in the paper and on the TV,” Barnes said. “Boston has a new pastime of personally crucifying Kinjo Heywood. Hell, I had a meeting this morning with the league commissioner. He was worried about Heywood’s safety when he comes back. Some really nasty stuff online. Lots of it racist. Sometimes it makes you wonder about humanity.”

“I have stopped wondering.”