Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

32

Bright and early the next morning, I paid a social call to my office on the assumption that even offices get lonely. I also had to pay my monthly rent for fear my desk, file cabinets, and framed Vermeer prints might end up on the curb. After urgent checks were written and sealed in envelopes, I congratulated myself with the accomplishment and set my feet at the edge of my desk.

As I gloated, I leaned back in my chair and pondered all that I didn’t know about Cristal Heywood. Which was substantial. Susan and I thought Nicole’s concerns were grounded, Nicole being more forthcoming with Susan than she had been with me. Susan said she’d thought of me as just another one of Kinjo’s yes-men. Susan assured her that agreeing with my employers was not always in my nature.

I listened to the Mr. Coffee trickle on top of my file cabinets. The bay window was slightly open, letting in a cool fall breeze. The sounds of cars, jackhammers, and an occasional siren as comforting to me as a wolf’s cry is to an Eskimo. I planned on running a basic criminal background check on Cristal through the state and AutoTrack of her prior addresses, relationships, debts. Nicole told Susan that Cristal never wanted Akira around and found him a barrier to her running Kinjo completely.

Of course, ex-wives were seldom complimentary of their successors.

It took me about ten minutes to accomplish on the Internet what used to take me a day on foot. I was reading through Cristal Heywood, formerly known as Cristal Jablonski, when a familiar face appeared in my doorway.

I looked up from my laptop. Tom Connor, special agent in charge of Boston’s FBI office, walked into my office and took a seat in front of my desk.

“To what do I owe this dishonor?”

“You fucked up, Spenser,” Connor said. “Again.”

I leaned back in my chair. I could not wait for him to explain.

“This kidnapping of the Heywood boy,” he said. “You can’t just fucking go at it without working with law enforcement. Are you nuts? I don’t know what kind of shit you got hanging over Lundquist’s head, but the same deal don’t apply to me.”

“So the Feds are taking over.”

“Goddamn right.”

“With you gallantly leading the investigation.”

Connor nodded with a lot of pride. He was a fat, florid guy with a big helmet of black hair. He always dressed like he’d just escaped the Men’s Wearhouse. Shiny double-breasted suits and bright-colored ties. His hands were thick and chubby, and on his left hand was an honest-to-God pinkie ring.

“Whew,” I said. “We’re safe now.”

“I don’t want you around Heywood, I don’t want you at the house, and I don’t want you near a part of this. A fucking kid’s life is at stake. Leave it to the pros.”

“And you being so good with looking after kids,” I said. “Why don’t we call up Gerry Broz and see if maybe he can help.”

“Eat shit.”

“For a federal employee, your elocution is excellent.”

“As soon as I got a call from Jeff Barnes, I knew you’d fuck it up,” he said. “I just knew it. It’s your fault your pal Lundquist got shitcanned. You running around South Station playing cop? Then that freak show you beat up in Charlestown? It all landed on Lundquist’s desk like a steaming turd. I don’t need that shit.”

“That’s not up to you,” I said. “I don’t work for the Pats and I don’t need your approval. I work for Kinjo Heywood.”

“I spoke to his agent this morning,” Connor said. “He wants you gone.”

“I don’t work for his agent, either.”

“Fuck me.”

Connor adjusted himself in my client chair. His face looked as if he’d just sucked a lemon. The Mr. Coffee had stopped brewing. I got up, poured a cup, and added a little sugar and milk. I sat back down. I set my feet on the desk. Connor and I sat and stared at each other. He was not an attractive man.

“Aren’t you gonna offer me some coffee?” he said.

“Nope.”

“I want you clear of this, Spenser,” he said. “This is a federal case now. Your involvement will only get his kid killed. If you get in our way, I will have you arrested and put you in lockdown until the kid is home. Be as smart as you think you are.”

I nodded. “Did you hear from the kidnappers?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“So you got something?”

“Jeez,” Connor said. He stood up, turned his back, and made his way to my open door.

“It’s been nearly a week, and the family has heard nothing,” I said. “How many cases start off in radio silence?”

“I can promise you I’ve worked a lot more of these than you.”

“Well, I am flattered that you drove yourself all the way from Government Center on your lunch break to say hello.”

“I’m telling you to get lost,” Connor said. “It’s not a request. I want you clear of my case.”

“Your predecessor was a much more pleasant guy.”

“Epstein is long gone, Spenser,” Connor said. “Get used to it. This is my fucking city. And I don’t need you fucking up the case all over again.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “It’s over.”

He walked from my office. I heard his cheap, shiny shoes clacking on the halls to the bank of elevators. I drank some coffee and looked out across Berkeley Street and listened to the wind whistle against my building. It would blow every few minutes, almost signaling winter, and then would stop for a long while.

I shrugged and started a file on Cristal.