Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

47

Two hours later, there was no word from the kidnappers and no word from Kinjo.

I’d left the Heywood household and walked down the hill, away from the Feds, reporters, cameramen, and anonymous weirdos, and returned to my Explorer. A few minutes later, Z pulled in behind me and crawled into the passenger seat.

He had brought a sack from Dunkin’ and two coffees. The bag was heavy. Being a trained detective, I knew something was amiss.

“Breakfast sandwiches,” Z said.

“Is this retaliation?”

He shook his head. “Eggs and ham,” he said. “Some protein to give you some strength today.”

“May not need it,” I said. “Our client has flown the coop.”

Z reached over and turned on the radio, scanning the dial to the Sports Monstah. Paulie and the Gooch were on early, talking about the kidnapping. I reached over to turn it off and Z stopped me, telling me to wait. After a few seconds, I heard a third voice in the studio with them. Kinjo Heywood.

I looked to Z.

“Came into the studio about ten minutes ago,” Z said. “Said he wanted to reach out to his fans through the show. He said his true fans would look out for him because everyone else had failed him.”

“Connor and I had a harsh talk with him and Nicole,” I said. “But now they know the odds of getting Akira back.”

We sat there and listened to a very talkative Kinjo Heywood chatting with Paulie and the Gooch about Boston being a tough city. He talked about the way the city handled adversity, took care of its own. He talked about growing up in Georgia with nothing, coming here as a rookie, and now being part of the Boston sports family.

“I represent this fucking city,” Kinjo said. “With pride.”

“The FCC phone bank just exploded,” I said.

“Spoken from the heart,” Z said.

We opened up our breakfast sandwiches and ate on a fine, chilly fall morning. The sky was thick with gray clouds. Up the hill from us, two Hispanic men with leaf blowers worked to clear the sidewalks. Heywood’s neighbors had not been thrilled about the influx of visitors. Many had posted NO PARKING signs on their front lawns.

“I know whoever took my son will be found and confronted by the city I love,” Kinjo said.

I drank some coffee. I watched the men in my rearview, cleaning the sidewalks and street of debris. They had parked an old truck nearby, loaded with black plastic bags of leaves. The trees were still full of them, still coming down in piles.

“That’s why I need y’all’s help,” Kinjo said. “I need the people of Boston to help me find my son.”

Z and I did not speak. I put down the coffee in the Explorer’s nifty holder.

“My son is only eight,” he said. “He is a good kid. He loves life. He loves to play and have fun. Who took him ain’t even human. Somebody out there knows who’s done this. They know the man or men who have broken into my world and did this, don’t deserve to live. What they have done to Akira and to my family is sick. It’s cowardly and a disgrace to this city.”

Z nodded along as Kinjo spoke. I had not said “right on” in many years. I nearly said it.

“That’s why I’ve come here to speak to this city and those who have supported me and my family since coming to Boston,” Kinjo said. “Whoever you are out there, you cowards who took my boy, you can e-mail me, tweet to me, write it up in the goddamn sky. But we are done. I am not playing any more games. I’m through. Y’all had my child for a week. I have done everything you said. And now you’ve gone away. So I guess now it’s my move.”

I looked to Z. He had quit nodding. The leaf blowers walked closer to my Explorer, making a lot of racket, and I turned up the volume. Two television news trucks passed us in the opposite direction, heading up the hill.

“I have five million dollars cash money in hand,” Kinjo said. “It’s neatly packed and ready to go. I just posted a picture of all that green onto my Twitter account. I wanted the kidnappers to check it out and see what they’re missing. Because this is as close as y’all gonna get to this money.”

I realized that I had been holding my breath, and let it out as I listened.

“I am offering five million dollars to anyone in Boston who will take these bastards out,” Kinjo said. “One of y’all listening knows who did this. You find them, kill them, and I’ll be proud to give up this money. Y’all messed with the wrong man and I’ve now laid down a bounty on your heads. I will not pay a cent—”

Before Heywood finished his speech, I reached over and turned off the radio. The landscapers had tucked away their leaf blowers and equipment into their old truck. The old truck started with a plume of black smoke and puttered into the driveway and then backed out. Another television truck raced up the hill and nearly hit the truck. It had started to rain.

“This is my fault,” I said.

“Kinjo had this in mind,” Z said. “The pictures of his child in the jersey? It was too much. Calling him out as a man. You telling him the score just gave him an excuse.”

I wasn’t so sure. We sat in the car for a long while. Neither of us ate or drank. The rain came on fast and hard, pounding the windshield. I turned on the wipers and sat, waiting for Kinjo to return. Z sprinted out into the weather to his car and back to the gym. He had to work a shift for Henry. Life goes on.