Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

50

Susan had not kept to her word, keeping me out late and thoroughly taking advantage of me after dinner. Feeling rejuvenated, I returned to my apartment the next morning. I showered and dressed, fried bacon and eggs, brewed coffee, and then drove out to Foxboro to meet with Jeff Barnes fresher than a field of daisies.

As I waited in the Pats’ front office, I studied a helmet and cleats behind a glass case that had once belonged to Gino Cappelletti. I wondered how long it would’ve taken Gino to make five mil. When Barnes showed, I decided to ask him.

“About a century,” he said.

“Sounds about right,” I said.

“Those guys in the old league never got paid,” he said. “They played because they loved it.”

“And now?”

“Depends on the player.”

“Kinjo seems to love it,” I said. “Seems like the money is gravy.”

“You bet,” Barnes said. “Poor guy. Did you know we had six hundred people show up to return Kinjo’s game jersey yesterday? People are calling him a killer. Said he might as well been the one who pulled the trigger on his own son.”

“Lots of that stuff on the radio,” I said. “Reason I turn stations.”

“And in the paper and on the TV,” Barnes said. “Boston has a new pastime of personally crucifying Kinjo Heywood. Hell, I had a meeting this morning with the league commissioner. He was worried about Heywood’s safety when he comes back. Some really nasty stuff online. Lots of it racist. Sometimes it makes you wonder about humanity.”

“I have stopped wondering.”

Barnes smiled. Perhaps this had nothing to do with the vote of confidence from Robert Kraft. I wanted to believe I had won him over with my wit and charm.

“You were a cop, Spenser?”

“Yep.”

“I worked for the Pennsylvania state police before getting into this circus,” he said. “Started off with the Eagles and took this job three years ago. I miss the old job, but there are plenty of perks in the NFL.”

“All the hot dogs and beer you want.”

“And the travel details, the groupies, and endless bullshit, too.”

I followed Barnes out of the reception area and along a few hallways and into the stadium itself. He had a key to the side door and carefully locked it before we rounded the upper level and went into the press box facing the end zone. Barnes palmed a handheld radio but turned it off as he stood facing a large glass wall of an empty stadium.

He was dressed as he always dressed, dark suit, white shirt, and red tie. But there was something uncertain and shifting in his eyes. He seemed to have had all the confidence drained from him.

“Have you spoken to Connor?” he said.

“Should I?”

“He won’t call me back,” he said. “I’ve called him fifteen, twenty times.”

“Maybe he’s styling his hair,” I said.

A few men worked on the field below, moving large stencils over yard markers and NFL logos. The motor on the sprayer hammering away, a delicate hiss as color was applied onto the artificial grass.

“Connor always called me back.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have anything to report.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he said. “That he’s given up. Moved on.”

I stared at Barnes, appraising his comment. Barnes adjusted the NFL pin on his lapel. He looked away and down at the sprawling field. “They pulled out of Heywood’s house this morning.”

“Not much to investigate when that cord is severed.”

“They could wait and see,” he said. “Follow up on every crank and every lead. Giving up is complete absolute bullshit.”

“Just because they left doesn’t mean they’ve quit.”

“Can you find out?” Barnes said. “Can you let me know if you hear anything? Or know what the hell is going on? There is an additional reward being offered by the team.”

“I never left the job,” I said. “I still work for Kinjo.”

“Good,” Barnes said, clasping me on the shoulder. “You need anything checked out or run down, let me know. I will have my people on standby. Whatever you need. Anything.”

“By the way, just who said a good word about me to Kraft?”

“Some guy named Hugh Dixon.”

“Jesus,” I said. “He’s still alive?”

“Apparently so,” he said. “They serve on the same charitable board.”

“Wow,” I said.

Barnes wasn’t listening. He shook his head. “Someone knows something. Someone needs that money.”

“Kinjo said dead or alive.”

“So do we just wait until someone brings in the head of the kidnapper?”

“That’s certainly the idea.”

“This whole thing is barbaric as hell.”

I agreed with him. He let out a very long, very deep breath and took a seat next to me in the press box. We sat and stared out at the empty stadium for a good long while, until his phone rang and he was urgently needed. He walked me to the parking level and offered his hand. I shook it before driving back to Boston and Government Center to see my old pal Tom Connor.