“Probably should have explained it better to Heywood.”

“He wants us to hunt them.”

“He wants me to hunt them,” I said.

“He offer you the five mil?”

“Yep.”

“If you get the guy, will you take it?”

“Nope.”

Connor tapped at his glass and waited for it to be filled. He smiled to himself some more in that kind of off-kilter, alcohol-infused way. The bartender let us know that happy hour would begin soon. “No, thanks, sweetheart,” he said.

Connor laid down enough money to cover us both and a handsome tip.

“You see Kinjo?” he said.

“Right after it happened.”

“Have you spoken with him today?”

“Won’t talk to me.”

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Connor said, draining the rest of the whiskey and patting his lips with a cocktail napkin. “But we have had developments not known outside the Bureau. Certainly by the press. You won’t tell the press, will you?”

I made the universal symbol of turning the key in my closed mouth. I stopped just short of throwing the imaginary key over my shoulder.

“We got some clothing sent to Heywood’s house,” he said. “Kid sizes. Sizes to fit Akira.”

I took in some air. I shook my head.

“Clothing was bloody and torn,” he said. “We got it at the lab right now to test blood types, hair, and all that CSI shit. But when we showed him the T-shirt, Kinjo broke down. He knew the clothes, IDed it as what the boy had on the day he’d been taken. I’ve seen a lot of people lose it before. But I’ve never seen something tear loose in a man like that. His brother and a couple lackeys had to hold him down. Four fucking men to hold one. I think he would have ripped down that mansion brick by brick if he could.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Been asking for Jesus a lot around the Heywood house,” Connor said, turning to leave. “Looks like he never showed up.”

I stayed at the bar and could see Connor dodging cars as he crossed the street to the wide brick expanse of Government Center.

52

When I returned to my office, I was surprised to find Z sitting in my client chair. And I was even more surprised to see Ray Heywood sprawled out asleep on my leather couch. His snoring sounded like the approach of the 20th Century Limited.

I closed the door and walked to the filing cabinets to start to make coffee. I had some Red Barn dark roast. I filled water into the carafe, added several heaping spoonfuls, and then sat at my desk. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my feet at the ankles.

“I still had the GPS on his car,” Z said. “Didn’t have anything else to do, so I tracked him.”

“Initiative.”

“Well, you told me to keep an eye on him,” Z said. “I found him at a bar in the South End called Slade’s.”

“And he was well on his way.”

“Yep,” Z said.

“Talkative?”

“Not much I could understand,” Z said. “But he said he wanted to see you. Said he had something important to say.”

The coffee made gurgling sounds and filled the office with a pleasant, homey smell. “He give you any hint?”

“Nope,” Z said. “I tried. Mainly he talked about Kinjo. He’s very upset at Kinjo for what he did. Said Kinjo was going to have to answer for what he’d done.”

“He’ll have to get in line,” I said. “I just came from Foxboro and talked to Barnes. His fan base is diminishing.”

“Can’t get worse,” Z said.

I tilted my head and watched Ray’s thick body inflate and deflate. His snoring threatened to disrupt the entire office building. I turned back to Z and took in a breath. “It’s gotten worse.”

Z looked to me. And I told him what Connor had said about the clothes.

“Explains why Ray went off the rails,” Z said. “But he didn’t tell me about the clothes. He just kept saying the kid was dead and they were to blame. He was drinking Courvoisier and milk.”

“Eek.”

“With a Rumple Minze chaser.”

“Double eek.”

Z nodded. “Had the bartender help me get him into my car,” Z said. “Man is a lot heavier than he looks.”

Ray Heywood snorted a bit, his red polo shirt untucked, his designer jeans loose and baggy on his stumpy legs. His snoring grew so intense that his breath stopped, and he gurgled awake for a moment. I looked to Z. Z shrugged as Ray went back to sleep.

I kept a medical kit in the bottom-right drawer of my desk for cuts, bruises, snakebites, and the occasional bullet hole. In the kit, I found a handful of smelling salts I’d got from Henry Cimoli in case any female clients were so overcome that they got the vapors. I cracked open one and slid it under Ray Heywood’s nose.

He awoke with a start, a wide-eyed and very large, very round flopping fish on the couch. His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at me as if trying to get me into focus.

“Where the fuck am I?” he said.

Z and I remained silent. He glanced around the room, realizing he was no longer at Slade’s in the South End. He pushed himself up on the couch, steadying himself with a thick hand on the leather arm. He hiccupped very loudly.

I walked over to the filing cabinet and poured coffee into a thick ceramic mug from the Agawam Diner.

“How’d I end up here?” Ray said, rubbing his face. He took the coffee.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

Ray turned to Z, who had scooted the client chair around to face him. Z nodded his approval of what I’d said.

“I’m fine,” Ray said, trying to stand.

He was very wobbly on his feet and sat back down.

“Drink the coffee,” I said. “There’s a wash basin in the corner if you don’t mind the frilly towels. And a bathroom down the hall.”

“I’m fine.”

“Why’d you want to see me?”

“I didn’t—”

But the statement was cut off when he turned to Z. Z had become very good and very practiced at what we call in the biz the “hard look.” Sometimes he made Geronimo look like Norman Vincent Peale.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Z stood and walked toward my office door and brought back a wastepaper basket. He sat it at Ray’s feet and then Z sat back down. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Z’s eyes were obsidian and flat and hard.

He retched a few times but fortunately did not sully my basket. The basket was mainly used for overdue bills and parking tickets.

“Someone sent Akira’s clothes,” Ray said. “They had blood on them.”

He looked to me as he spoke, seeming to find more understanding. I leaned back and listened. He tried some coffee and made a face as if it were not to his liking. But since this was from a man who drank brandy with milk and a Rumple Minze chaser, I was not offended.

“You know?” he said.

I nodded.

“Jesus God,” Ray said. “He’s probably dead.”

I didn’t say anything. The room was very still and very quiet. There were slight traffic sounds, horns and motors, out on Berkeley. The night was coming on, and oblong shadows formed on my desk, stretching into the far corners of the office.

“What did you want to tell me, Ray?” I said.

“Does it matter now?”

“It always matters.”

Ray swallowed. He seemed to stifle being sick again. He held the coffee but did not touch it. He nodded along with his thoughts. Z and I stayed silent, eyes on Ray, air seeming to be sucked from the room.

“Okay?” I said.

Ray stared at me.

“You can say what you want to say, or you can continue trying to embalm yourself for as long as it takes.”

In such situations, an entire minute of silence was a very long time.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Ray said. “Fuck.”

“Okay what?” I said.

“Antonio Lima’s fucking family,” he said. “Rosen thought we could throw some money at them and all this shit would go away. But they never forgave Kinjo. They always believed he killed their son. He never would kill nobody. And now those fucking people have something to do with Akira. It’s all gone. It’s all over. Everything. Kinjo won’t ever come back from this. That boy was his heart, man. He’s done.”