Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

24

The Heywood house was jumping later that night. Food had been catered, bushels of flowers unloaded, and two big coffee urns set up in the kitchen. Cops drink a lot of coffee. Grief-stricken people need flowers and food.

Lundquist and I waited in a sitting room that faced the driveway. From there, we could see reporters milling under camera lights. The room had white carpet and white leather furniture and a very large oil painting of Kinjo in his college uniform, delivering a bone-jarring tackle on a quarterback.

“You think someone might want to paint me in action?” I said.

Lundquist shook his head. “Sarcasm is hard to capture on canvas.”

Across the hall, I could hear the scanner for Brookline PD, which had set up roadblocks around the house. The Heywoods’ neighbors had not been pleased with the influx of traffic and gawkers. I’d been there for two hours and had spoken to Kinjo and talked to two Brookline cops about a man they had detained but later let go. The man apparently had a knack for showing up at crime scenes and confessing. Not only to being the Boston Strangler but also to shooting Lincoln.

“What’d you think of the guy who called in to Paulie and the Gooch?” Lundquist said.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Depends on if he or she follows up.”

“Very PC of you to think our kidnapper may be female.”

“But probably a guy,” I said.

“Most often is.”

Lundquist removed his sport coat and loosened his red tie. There was reddish-blond stubble on his face and dark circles under his eyes.

“How long have you been here?” I said.

“Two days straight,” he said. “I slept for two hours earlier in a guest room.”

“Can you go home?”

“Not until we hear something,” he said. “I want to be here when the call comes through.”

I nodded. I watched a grouping of reporters on a hill. A large bloom of light encircled a male reporter as he stood with his back to Kinjo’s house. Every few seconds he would gesture down the hill and then turn back to the camera. Except for some dotted points lighting a brick walkway, everything was stark black. The reporter turned and pointed a final time, holding the pose. The bloom of light extinguished, and it was dark again up the hill.

“Susan thinks we should tell Kinjo the odds.”

“You want to have that conversation?”

“He should know,” I said.

“I don’t want to tell him anything until we even understand what we’ve got.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But what do we have? A trophy wife with a sordid past? A family who believes Kinjo is guilty but took cash instead of court?”

“I guess we’re dealing with pros.”

“How many pros leave a victim behind?”

“There have been some.”

“But not a child old enough to ID them.”

Lundquist’s head sagged. He patted his shirt pocket for some cigarettes and came out with a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a Zippo. He stood and stretched. He walked to the door, and as he rounded the corner, he nearly ran into Steve Rosen and Jeff Barnes.

“Spenser,” Rosen said. “You got a few minutes?”

“For you, Steve?” I said. “Always.”

Lundquist hung back for a second over the men’s shoulders. He looked at me, shook his head, and headed for the front door.

Rosen grinned, exposing his eyeteeth in a way that did not make me feel comfortable. Jeff Barnes followed him.

Barnes looked as if he’d just started his day. His flawless double-breasted gray suit matched his flawless gray hair. He was clean-shaven and bright-eyed, and if he’d been maybe six inches taller, he might’ve even pulled off the glare he was giving me.

“We appreciate all you’ve done,” Rosen said. He kept grinning, and I wished he’d stop.

“Sure.”

“And this has nothing to do with you going to New York on your own.”

“Of course not.”

“But this whole thing has been shot to hell,” Rosen said. “This isn’t what we hired you for, and with the police involved... we think...”

I tilted my head. “That we need to see other people?”

Barnes stepped up at the same line as Rosen. He had been standing a few paces back, and I had been waiting for him to hit his mark. “Do you have to be so goddamn glib, Spenser?” Barnes said. “Do you even understand what is at stake here?”

I stood up. I smiled. “Glib?” I said. “I assure you my words are fraught with meaning.”

“This thing is way above your head,” Barnes said. I was pretty sure he was standing on his tiptoes when he said it. I looked down at his feet to see if he’d let his heels touch the ground. “You what? Work divorce cases? Maybe payroll theft?”

“Wow,” I said. “You do your research, Barnes. You have me pegged. Peepholes R Us.”

“I wouldn’t hire you to take tickets at Gillette,” he said. “This is professional business. We don’t have time for amateurs.”

“Now that you’ve thoroughly deflated my ego,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down and shut up.”

“Excuse me?” Barnes said.

Rosen took three steps back. Barnes approached me. He was maybe a foot in front of me, nose to nose, or, more accurately, nose to chest.

“I can squat down if you like,” I said. “It would make it easier to stare me down.”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he said. “What Mr. Rosen is telling you is that you are fired. You’ll be paid for your time, but it’s time to pack up and head back to wherever you crawled out from.”

“I’m still waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to sit down and shut up,” I said. “Rosen. Call in Kinjo. If he wants me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“He wants you to leave,” Rosen said.

“Okay,” I said. “Have him tell me. And I will.”

“He’s asleep,” Rosen said. “He’s broken down. Don’t make it worse.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I hired you,” Rosen said. “And I handle his affairs.”

I shot a look at Rosen and held it. He swallowed and disappeared from the room.

Barnes laughed out of his nose. “You came just as advertised, Spenser.”

“By your friend with the Feds?”

“Yep.”

“Surprised he had time to call you with all the payoffs he’s been taking in Southie.”

“Keep talking,” Barnes said. “Wouldn’t take much from him to pull your license.”

“Eek.”

Z had wandered in, replacing Rosen, and stood wide in the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to me.

“This isn’t over,” Barnes said. “Not by a fucking long shot.”

“Z, have you met my friend, Jeff Barnes?” I said. “Million-dollar personality.”

“Don’t bother coming back,” Barnes said. “I’ll notify the police.”

“And witty, too,” Z said. His dark face showed no emotion. Black eyes steady on Barnes.

I winked at Barnes as I followed Z into the hallway and down into the big kitchen. It was late and the kitchen was empty. Coffee mugs and empty plates crusted with food littered the room. I checked the time and poured some more coffee.

“Have you talked much to the brother?” Z said.

I took a sip. “Some.”

“And?”

“And something isn’t right.”

“Two hours ago, we were outside talking, and Ray Heywood left pretty quick,” Z said. “He was inside the house for maybe an hour, talking with Kinjo. An hour ago, he passed me on the road and did not speak.”

“Rude.”

“His face was sweating and he was out of breath.”

“He’s overweight and not in good shape.”

“I followed him.”

I put down the coffee.

“He drove to a bar in Newton, stayed five minutes, and sped out of the lot.”

“And where is he now?”

“I put a GPS tracker on his car,” Z said. “Looks like he’s in Boston. What was that about, anyway?”

I nodded. “Mutt and Jeff wanted to put us on waivers.”

“They say why?”

“Strongly suggested they were handling matters,” I said.

“Looks like Ray Heywood is deep into whatever it is tonight.”