Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

25

Nearing midnight, we caught up with Ray Heywood in his silver Mercedes SUV. He’d stopped off at his brownstone apartment in the South End for a few minutes, and we thought perhaps he’d turned in for the night. But thirty minutes later, he was heading up Mass Ave and turning onto Boylston toward downtown. I drove my Explorer with Z riding shotgun. Z tracked the car from his phone.

“I almost feel like that’s cheating,” I said.

“Is there an honest way to tail someone?”

“Maybe not more honest,” I said. “But sporting.”

I hung back five cars. Ray’s tall Mercedes was easy to spot as it slowed and turned down into the Prudential Center parking garage.

We followed him down into the concrete cavern. I drove past Ray and let Z out before finding a slot two sections over. The garage was silent except for the electric buzzing of fluorescent lamps. Every step, every car door echoed loudly deep beneath Pru Center. Z and I waited until he took the elevator to the street level and followed. Out of the elevators, we rounded the corner and watched Heywood take an escalator up to the shopping plaza. Z and I walked together through the empty mall under the darkened skylights, past the Legal Seafood and the food court, all the kiosks in the center of the mall draped with black cloth. Ray never looked back, heels clacking on the marble floors as he punched the button to the express elevators headed to the fifty-second floor.

“Top of the Hub,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“An overpriced bar with a great view.”

“Maybe he wants a drink?” Z said.

“Or was told to meet someone.”

We took the next elevator up the second-tallest building in the city. The elevator rocketed up and soon slowed. When we stepped out, Ray Heywood was standing with his back to us at the hostess stand. I studied the artwork on the walls and glanced back in time to see Ray turning to the right, toward the long bar and the jazz club. A trio had started up before a huge bay window with a view of the city, the waterfront, Logan, and if you looked hard enough, London Bridge and the Eiffel Tower.

“Nice,” Z said.

“You should see the bathrooms,” I said. “They put ice in the urinals.”

Z seemed properly impressed. We both took a seat at the bar, not within sight of Ray, but Ray had to pass us to leave. I had removed my Spinners cap. Z took off his coat and ordered a Coke. I had a Harpoon on draft in an effort to support local commerce.

“You want to walk back there?” Z said. “Or me?”

“He knows us both.”

I drank some beer and shrugged. I walked back to the jazz club and glanced inside. Ray Heywood was seated near the northern windows. He said something to a waitress and then looked down at his cell phone. The trio played “Skylark.”

I walked back to the barstool.

Z looked up from his Coke.

“‘Skylark,’” I said. “In case you were wondering.”

Z nodded.

“Melancholy.”

“Music of the night,” I said.

We did not speak for a long while, occasionally turning back to the bar and waiting for Ray to return. I had been here recently with Susan and Rachel Wallace. We had heard the food had improved a great deal and had heard right. I’d had the spicy lobster soup, followed by scallops as big as a fist. I thought for a long while about what Susan had ordered but came up with nothing in my memory but a garden salad and a gimlet.

After ten minutes, I got up again and looked for Ray. He was still sitting and looking at his cell phone, pressing some keys. The waitress had brought him a tall drink over ice. The trio had moved on to “’Round Midnight.”

I walked back to the barstool.

“‘’Round Midnight.’”

Z nodded. “Good to know.”

“I like to pass on my cultural knowledge with tough-guy talents.”

I pointed at his empty Coke glass. “As long as you’re driving,” he said.

I had not seen Z take a drink since the beating. He did not seem to mind me having a beer but often seemed uncomfortable at the sight of me with whiskey. I sipped the one beer but laid down a nice tip for the bartender so she would not think we were just mooching off the view. Through the shelves of booze bottles, the nightlights of Boston flickered and pulsed in the blackness. Perspective.

“Kid’s out there somewhere,” Z said.

“Yep.”

“Coming up on three days and nothing.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Now what?” Z said.

“Don’t know.”

“Why don’t we just sit down with Ray?” Z said.

“We could,” I said. “But might scare whoever he’s meeting. If he’s meeting one of the kidnappers.”

Z nodded.

“Should we call Hawk?”

I shook my head. “Break glass only when necessary,” I said.

We listened to the music and sipped our drinks. Just another couple of businessmen out for a good time in ol’ Beantown. Z had only recently been able to pass after cutting off his ponytail. If I had my nose fixed, I might be considered midlevel management material.

At one a.m., Ray walked from the club toward the restroom. I followed him inside and saddled up beside him at the urinal. Over the urinals were historic photos of the city. Mine showed a group of mustached men in front of a horse-drawn fire wagon.

“How about that version of ‘Skylark’?” I said.

Ray turned to me. “Shit.”

“I thought it was pretty good.”

“What the fuck you doing here, Spenser?” he said. “Shit. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

“That’s why I didn’t approach you in the lounge.”

“This is nothing to fuck around with,” he said, stepping away. “Besides, I thought you were through with this.”

“According to super-agent Steve Rosen?”

Ray nodded and stepped over to the sink to wash his hands. The bathrooms were very cramped on the fifty-second floor.

“Who contacted you?” I said.

“Don’t know.”

“But it’s the kidnapper?” I said.

“That’s what they say.”

“When did they call?” I said.

“Didn’t call,” Ray said. “They fucking sent a message to Kinjo’s Facebook page.”

“Now everyone knows?”

“I’m the administrator,” he said. “It was a personal message.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “What did it say?”

“Man,” Ray said, turning off the sink and reaching for a towel. “I don’t think I should be talking to you.”

“What did they say?”

“If I tell you, they’ll get rid of me next.”

“Did Kinjo want me gone or Rosen?”

Ray was quiet. He was a rotund man, and the two of us filled the small bathroom. His sky-blue silk dress shirt was stained at the armpits.

“Rosen,” Ray said. “Kinjo’s ass is knocked out. They gave him some sleeping pills so he could rest.”

“Then I’m still on the job.”

Ray walked back to the sink and splashed some water on his face. He wiped his eyes and turned back to me. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They didn’t show.”

I nodded.

“They told me to go to this fucking bar in Newton and so I go to fucking Newton. I get there and the bartender asks if I’m Ray Heywood. I was like the only one in this shithole and said yes. He hands me the phone, and same weird-ass voice as called Paulie and the Gooch come on and tell me to go to the Top of the Hub and wait. So I wait, and not shit so far.”

“Wait some more,” I said. “Z and I are at the bar.”

Ray ran a hand over his face. He was breathing hard out of his nose as he thought, and finally nodded. “Okay.”

I grabbed his arm, and he looked me in the eye. “If someone sits with you, we’ll see them. If you get a message to go somewhere else, just nod at us on the way out. I have a blue Explorer and will follow you out of the garage.”

Ray grabbed my shoulder. “They said if we told the cops, they’d kill Akira,” he said. “I just told Rosen and he and Jeff Barnes thought I should go alone. You know, find out the terms.”

I nodded. Ray left, and I stayed in the bathroom for a minute before leaving.

I sat back at the bar.

Z did not say anything, just stared at the wide expanse of the Boston night. Lights twinkled and pulsed. Over the shadows and the rain. To a blossom-covered lane.

“Waiting on demands.”

Z nodded. Fifteen minutes later, Ray walked past us and gave a slight nod.

We followed him in the next elevator and out of the Pru Center garage onto Boylston. I called Hawk on the way.