Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

42

The ransom demands arrived five minutes after the final whistle blew, via Twitter.

Attached to the message was a photo of Akira. The little boy stood against a concrete wall, staring into the camera with very large eyes. Nearly impossible to trace under the handle TRUPATSFAN. Z called me as soon as the message posted. Z being the one with a Twitter account.

Hawk and I were brought down onto the field by two of Barnes’s men and then walked into the tunnel and under the north stands. Susan drove back to Cambridge with Z. Most of the players, including Kinjo, had gone into the locker room. A few other players finished up interviews on the field. There was a lot of standing around, grim talk, and whispers about the news.

“Fucking Twitter?” Hawk said.

“Yep.”

“Don’t even have the balls to type out a note.”

“I don’t think kidnappers use typewriters anymore,” I said. “Or even craft good ransom notes.”

“Lack of professionalism,” Hawk said.

I nodded.

The Pats had won by three touchdowns. But none of Kinjo’s teammates looked pleased as they passed us, giants with thick necks and limping gaits, bloody knuckles toting their helmets. Heavy cleats echoing through the tunnel. News crews waited like hyenas by the locker room door for Belichick to finish his postgame talk.

“Wanna bet it’s another hoax?” Hawk said.

I shook my head. “Nope,” I said. “It’s time. Same ones from the radio show.”

“Paulie and the Gooch.”

“Boston’s own number-one sports duo.”

“And so we wait some more.”

“Special Agent Connor won’t let us get close to the planning or the drop.”

“Ain’t up to Connor,” Hawk said.

An official-looking guy in a dark suit asked us if we were with the press. Hawk just stared at him.

“Just to let you know, Kinjo Heywood will not be appearing at the press conference or answering any questions,” the man said. “We ask that you respect his family’s privacy at this time.”

His nametag stated his name was Stacy James and that he was vice president of media relations. I told him we weren’t media. As he turned and walked away, Hawk grunted.

“Must’ve mistaken you for a sideline bunny,” I said.

“And you an ex-athlete.”

I’d been inside a lot of arenas, both as a fighter and on other cases. But I’d never heard a postgame crowd so quiet. The smooth concrete tunnel wrapped around to the office elevators, weight room, and coach’s offices. Coaches and players parted the locker room doors and the crowd, heading toward the media room to take questions. Golf carts zoomed past us, loaded down with trainers’ supplies, equipment, and buckets and buckets of water and Gatorade.

Hawk leaned against the expansive concrete wall.

After a long while, I leaned on the wall next to Hawk.

Across the hall, there were faint sounds coming from the press conference. Freshly showered and shaved players in expensive tailored clothes hobbled from the double metal doors and walked into the media room. More downcast eyes. More whispers. The postgame started to feel like a wake. The news that Akira really was being held, this wasn’t some kind of misunderstanding, seemed to just be dawning on Kinjo’s teammates.

Ray Heywood found us before Kinjo walked out.

He was wearing a light gray pin-striped suit, white shirt, no tie. His round face was sweaty and serious when he got to us. Ray was very out of breath.

“Y’all hear that shit?” he said.

Hawk nodded. I nodded.

“Five million,” he said. “Five fucking million.”

“Can it be raised?” I said.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “But depends on how soon they call it in. It’s not like Kinjo stacks it in the freezer or in the trunk of his damn car.”

“His bank will open for him,” I said. “Even on Sunday.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “I guess we been waiting on this. But five million is a lot.”

“One year of play,” Hawk said.

Ray nodded. He ran his hand over his sweating face. The front of his dress shirt was soaked with sweat. “Kinjo wants y’all with me,” he said. “From the bank to the house.”

“What about the Feds?” I said.

“Fuck the Feds, man,” Ray said. “That’s what Kinjo told me and what I’m telling y’all. The Feds officially can’t take part in handing over the money. That doesn’t mean they won’t be around. But they can’t be seen.”

“And have they gotten any closer?” I said.

“Shit, I don’t know,” he said. “You?”

“We have a person of interest,” I said. “Although calling him a person may be a bit of a stretch.”

“Cops know about him?” Ray said.

“Sure,” I said. “They brought him in.” Hawk pushed off the wall.

We walked to the center of the long tunnel with Ray. Kinjo hadn’t come out yet. Maybe sixty reporters had been let into the locker room, with fifty still waiting outside. There were players’ wives and coaches’ wives. Several kids about Akira’s age running in the tunnel, tossing game balls around.

“So y’all come with me,” Ray said. “Get the money. And then watch the money?”

Hawk tilted his head. “Better than watching the action from the stands.”

“When?” I said.

But Ray had already turned around to take a cell-phone call, back turned to us, holding up a finger for us to give him just a minute.

“They want me to guard five mil?” Hawk said.

“Ironic,” I said. “Isn’t it?”