“The conversations were recorded,” I said. “Barros had them in safekeeping in case something happened to him. He got fifty grand and you kept the rest.”

Connor’s face cut into a smile. He jagged a thumb at me and said to Z, “Can you believe this guy.”

Neither of us spoke.

“Something happens to me and they go out FedEx to your predecessor, Epstein.”

“You’re fucking serious?”

“I know you bought me a drink,” I said. “But I’m not that cheap.”

“The kid’s alive,” he said. “What the fuck do you care? These people are filth, anyway. What kind of man plays Russian roulette with his own son?”

“I think you forced his bet,” I said. “Kinjo said you’d been pushing him all along that he wouldn’t see his son again.”

“You did the same.”

“I never asked him to lay down a bounty.”

“This is all bullshit, Spenser, and you fucking well know it,” Connor said.

“Shall we listen to the tapes?”

Z tapped at the side of his jacket. Connor’s face had now turned scarlet. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the Federal Building, his tie crisscrossing in front of him, his fat hand swatting it down, reaching for his badge to show the security guards.

“You really have recordings?” Z said.

“Nope.”

“Phone records?”

“Yes.”

“Not enough to prove he got the money?”

“No.”

“I thought you told me phone records are tough to come by?”

“They are.”

“And even tougher from the private number of a Fed.”

“True.”

“But sources are everything?”

“Crime-buster tip seventy-seven.”

“And the source?”

“Epstein.”

Z nodded. We walked. The red taillights and blur of headlights made beautiful patterns against the gray sky and gray buildings. “So they are onto him?”

“Very much so,” I said. “And have been for a while.”

We walked together across Congress. The snow had picked up to a respectable level. A nice crowd had formed near Faneuil Hall, shoppers bustling about holding many bags, Christmas lights being strung along Quincy Market.

“Is Susan bluffing about cooking?” Z said.

I contemplated his question. “I’m afraid not.”

“But you’ll try and intervene in that, too.”

“I’m a very good meddler.”

“A very lucky thing for Heywood,” Z said, looking up State Street.

A kid about Akira’s age brushed by, walking with his mother and wearing a blue Pats jersey. Number 57. The kid seemed very proud of it.

•  •  •

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