“Maybe that was the plan,” Belson said. “But the tanks are locked tight.”

“Lucky for us, she was found,” I said.

Belson scratched his neck and puffed on the cigar. “You know this girl is Jesus DeVeiga’s half-sister?”

“And that might mean something if I knew who in the hell Jesus DeVeiga was,” I said.

Belson looked to Quirk and Quirk to Belson.

“Get with the times,” Belson said, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. “Biggest fucking gangbanger in Roxbury.”

57

To get up to speed, Quirk suggested I speak to an officer named Carlos Canuto with the gang unit. The gang unit, or what some called the Youth Violence Strike Force, worked out of District A1 in Charlestown. It was a short drive from the crime scene, and not thirty minutes later, I sat with Canuto in his office on the second floor. He was eating at his desk, a tuna sandwich on wheat, and catching up on the earlier shift’s overnight arrests.

“Jesus DeVeiga,” I said.

Canuto was a short, stocky black man, not yet thirty. He wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a backward Chicago White Sox ball cap. The name caught his attention in a big way, although he finished chewing to speak. “You think Jesus DeVeiga kidnapped Heywood’s kid?”

“DeVeiga’s half-sister was just found in a trash barrel in Eastie,” I said. “I’d be a pretty lousy investigator if I didn’t try and find him.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lela Lopes. Also goes by Eva Lopes.”

“Don’t know her.”

“Antonio Lima?” I said. “Victor Lima?”

A smile crossed Canuto’s face. His wiped his mouth with a napkin and put down the sandwich. “Now we’re talking, man.”

“You guys have run-ins?”

“Frequently,” Canuto said. “When Antonio got killed in New York, I remember thinking he’d been headed for that bullet his whole damn life. Should have figured he’d be tied in some way with the Heywood kid.”

“Me, too,” I said. “But it’s taken some time to clarify. I kept checking the angles in New York.”

“That’s how it goes, man.”

“I knew Lima had priors. Some drug dealing. Stolen goods.”

“His report wasn’t nothing,” Canuto said. “You probably didn’t see his juvie record. He was a name on the street, him and DeVeiga, even before his eighteenth birthday. I’m from the same place in the islands, same neighborhood here. I’d have gone the same way if I hadn’t had some people look out for me.”

“What about Victor?”

“He’s an up-and-comer for sure,” Canuto said. “Picked him up a few years ago on outstanding warrants. But I heard he’d moved away with his mother when he turned eighteen. She’s a good lady, tried to do whatever it took for her boys.”

“I thought I found him living near his mother in New York,” I said. “She runs a grocery in Yonkers.”

Canuto nodded. He apologized but said he didn’t have a lot of time. He picked up the tuna sandwich and took a bite, chewing as he thought. A large picture window behind him had a nice view of Bunker Hill and the obelisk monument.

“This kind of stuff is bad for the whole Cape Verdean community,” he said. “Most of us have come here and made good in this country. But it’s only the criminals who make the papers. People hear Cape Verdean and instantly think gangbanger.”

“This won’t help,” I said. “You know where I can find DeVeiga?”

“I wish,” he said. “We’ve been looking for him for three months. There was a man shot at a barbershop in Dorchester in June and he was seen walking away. If you get a lead on him, let me know.”

“Any idea where to start looking?”

“We have the gang unit and the Fugitive guys looking for DeVeiga,” Canuto said, standing. He slipped into a black Kevlar vest and righted his baseball hat with the bill forward. He wiped his mouth again and picked up an energy drink, taking a long swallow.

“But he’s mainly Roxbury.”

“Some believe he’s taken over Roxbury,” Canuto said. “Those kids move a lot of drugs and make a lot of money. I do a lot of community outreach, go and give the kids pep talks in the gymnasiums, do fund-raisers for the Cape Verdean community. But they see a guy like DeVeiga with all that cash and power. Man. They just want to be him.”

I nodded. “Can you check your sources for anything on Victor Lima?”

“Sure,” Canuto said. “Let me see what I can do.”

We shook hands and walked out of the A1 building together. The building was all sharp angles of concrete and glass, very modern for a police station.

“You’re different than Quirk said you’d be,” Canuto said.

“More charming?”

“No,” Canuto said, smiling.

“More witty?”

“Quirk said you were a real pain in the ass,” Canuto said. “And to talk to you or you’d be bugging the shit out of him for days.”

“Dogged,” I said. “Quirk meant dogged.”

58

I returned to my apartment, took a hot shower, and ate a late breakfast of two poached eggs over hash with black coffee. I dressed in a navy button-down, jeans, and lace-up boots. I fitted my .38 on a holster behind my right hip and slipped into my leather jacket and ball cap. It was still raining. It had grown a little cold in the Back Bay. Not cold for Boston but cold for September. When I got to my office, I called Hawk at the Harbor Health Club and told him I needed another favor.

“Of course you do, babe,” Hawk said.

And hung up.

I made a few phone calls, including one to Kinjo, letting him know Cristal was back home. I called Susan and left a message about Nicole.

I then read the Globe and paid particular interest to the sports columnist’s take on the Heywood kidnapping and Kinjo refusing to stop playing. Everyone now knew about the return of Akira’s bloody clothes. The writer’s stance was contrary to all the sports wackos on the air and on the Web. He believed that Kinjo was doing the right thing and showing his respect and love for his child. Kinjo had not spoken to the press since the kidnapping, but it seemed to me he had spoken to the columnist. The title of the column was called “A Beacon of Light.” It was very sad and very powerful, and after reading, I closed the paper and set it aside on my desk.

I made coffee and turned slightly in my chair, to watch the dark skies and grumbling weather over the Back Bay.

I did not like this job or the way it had turned out. I did not like my own performance on letting go of the Limas and the club shooting. I wondered why Victor Lima had been in New York City if he’d been involved in taking Akira in the first place. I needed to find out more about Victor Lima, his time in Boston, and his connection to Jesus DeVeiga. And if I was feeling wildly ambitious, maybe I could find DeVeiga, too.

Before I grew too introspective, Hawk walked in my office door. He removed a black rain slicker and sat down in my client’s chair. The chair creaked with Hawk’s weight and heft. The chair was more comfortable with long, lean females with shapely legs.

Hawk leaned forward in his chair and waited. A few raindrops dotted his bald head.

“I need an audience with Tony Marcus,” I said.

“Okay.”

Hawk leaned forward, picked up the phone on my desk, and dialed a number. He told someone at the other end, presumably Tony Marcus, that we were headed that way.

Hawk stood. I stood. And we drove into the South End and Marcus’s club, Buddy’s Fox.

Most of the South End had now gone high-end, but Marcus was implacable. Buddy’s Fox, with its long, stainless-steel front and elegant red cursive neon, was a beacon to the old South End, gateway to Roxbury. The parking lot was empty, since Buddy’s Fox was not a lunchtime spot. A large black man in a white shirt and white pants had set up a barbecue grill outside. He was turning some ribs and the air was rich with smoke.