“If it’s just money,” I said. “The kidnappers just want Kinjo to sweat a bit. And to throw off the cops.”

“And once they’re paid in full?” Susan said. She picked at the pizza, taking in little nibbles in a distinctly Susan Silverman way. Pearl seemed frustrated and annoyed by this. Gobbling was the appropriate course of action.

“Do you really want to know?” I said. I drank some beer and reached for another slice of pizza.

Susan waited, noticing something in my face with her large brown eyes. She wore a thin silver chain around her neck.

“There is a fifty-fifty shot whether they get the kid back. Even if they pay.”

“A brutal perspective,” she said.

“But true.”

“Cops say the same?”

“Cops know the same,” I said. “Only the child can identify who took him.”

“Are you going to tell the family this?” Susan said.

“Not my job.”

“I think you should tell them.”

“They have hope right now,” I said. “And knowing the odds will only take that away. We’ll talk when the time is right. When we know more about the people who took him.”

“Any other theory besides just greed?” Susan said.

“I thought I had one,” I said. “That’s why I went to New York.”

“And now?”

“I’m not so sure,” I said, shaking my head. I told her about the Limas and my conversation with Kinjo’s teammates. I had spoken to Robey in Miami an hour earlier and came up with identical answers as those of Logan Wheeler. There was a scuffle, it was broken up, and they went back to the Trump.

I mentioned to Susan that I had confronted Kinjo about the payoff to the family.

“And what do we know about Akira?” she said.

“I only met him briefly,” I said. “Smart. Curious. Seems to idolize his father. Had a lot of astute questions about my chosen profession.”

“And scared to death.”

I nodded.

“He’s old enough to know exactly what is going on and is probably wondering if he’ll live through it. Can you imagine being that age and contemplating death? Or wondering if you’ll ever see your parents again? We create these safe, warm places for children. Despite a divorce or animosity with the parents, his world is probably a good one.”

“And so we wait.”

I checked my phone again.

Susan moved in next to me. I put down my pizza and my beer and wrapped my arm around her. She rested her head on my shoulder. Her curly hair was very shiny and black. She smelled like lavender and the lightest trace of perfume mixed with lovely sweat.

“Call if you need me,” Susan said.

I pulled her in closer and kissed the top of her head. As I did, I saw her drop a pepperoni slice for Pearl.

24

The Heywood house was jumping later that night. Food had been catered, bushels of flowers unloaded, and two big coffee urns set up in the kitchen. Cops drink a lot of coffee. Grief-stricken people need flowers and food.

Lundquist and I waited in a sitting room that faced the driveway. From there, we could see reporters milling under camera lights. The room had white carpet and white leather furniture and a very large oil painting of Kinjo in his college uniform, delivering a bone-jarring tackle on a quarterback.

“You think someone might want to paint me in action?” I said.

Lundquist shook his head. “Sarcasm is hard to capture on canvas.”

Across the hall, I could hear the scanner for Brookline PD, which had set up roadblocks around the house. The Heywoods’ neighbors had not been pleased with the influx of traffic and gawkers. I’d been there for two hours and had spoken to Kinjo and talked to two Brookline cops about a man they had detained but later let go. The man apparently had a knack for showing up at crime scenes and confessing. Not only to being the Boston Strangler but also to shooting Lincoln.

“What’d you think of the guy who called in to Paulie and the Gooch?” Lundquist said.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Depends on if he or she follows up.”

“Very PC of you to think our kidnapper may be female.”

“But probably a guy,” I said.

“Most often is.”

Lundquist removed his sport coat and loosened his red tie. There was reddish-blond stubble on his face and dark circles under his eyes.

“How long have you been here?” I said.

“Two days straight,” he said. “I slept for two hours earlier in a guest room.”

“Can you go home?”

“Not until we hear something,” he said. “I want to be here when the call comes through.”

I nodded. I watched a grouping of reporters on a hill. A large bloom of light encircled a male reporter as he stood with his back to Kinjo’s house. Every few seconds he would gesture down the hill and then turn back to the camera. Except for some dotted points lighting a brick walkway, everything was stark black. The reporter turned and pointed a final time, holding the pose. The bloom of light extinguished, and it was dark again up the hill.

“Susan thinks we should tell Kinjo the odds.”

“You want to have that conversation?”

“He should know,” I said.

“I don’t want to tell him anything until we even understand what we’ve got.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But what do we have? A trophy wife with a sordid past? A family who believes Kinjo is guilty but took cash instead of court?”

“I guess we’re dealing with pros.”

“How many pros leave a victim behind?”

“There have been some.”

“But not a child old enough to ID them.”

Lundquist’s head sagged. He patted his shirt pocket for some cigarettes and came out with a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a Zippo. He stood and stretched. He walked to the door, and as he rounded the corner, he nearly ran into Steve Rosen and Jeff Barnes.

“Spenser,” Rosen said. “You got a few minutes?”

“For you, Steve?” I said. “Always.”

Lundquist hung back for a second over the men’s shoulders. He looked at me, shook his head, and headed for the front door.

Rosen grinned, exposing his eyeteeth in a way that did not make me feel comfortable. Jeff Barnes followed him.

Barnes looked as if he’d just started his day. His flawless double-breasted gray suit matched his flawless gray hair. He was clean-shaven and bright-eyed, and if he’d been maybe six inches taller, he might’ve even pulled off the glare he was giving me.

“We appreciate all you’ve done,” Rosen said. He kept grinning, and I wished he’d stop.

“Sure.”

“And this has nothing to do with you going to New York on your own.”

“Of course not.”

“But this whole thing has been shot to hell,” Rosen said. “This isn’t what we hired you for, and with the police involved . . . we think . . .”

I tilted my head. “That we need to see other people?”

Barnes stepped up at the same line as Rosen. He had been standing a few paces back, and I had been waiting for him to hit his mark. “Do you have to be so goddamn glib, Spenser?” Barnes said. “Do you even understand what is at stake here?”

I stood up. I smiled. “Glib?” I said. “I assure you my words are fraught with meaning.”

“This thing is way above your head,” Barnes said. I was pretty sure he was standing on his tiptoes when he said it. I looked down at his feet to see if he’d let his heels touch the ground. “You what? Work divorce cases? Maybe payroll theft?”

“Wow,” I said. “You do your research, Barnes. You have me pegged. Peepholes R Us.”

“I wouldn’t hire you to take tickets at Gillette,” he said. “This is professional business. We don’t have time for amateurs.”

“Now that you’ve thoroughly deflated my ego,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down and shut up.”

“Excuse me?” Barnes said.

Rosen took three steps back. Barnes approached me. He was maybe a foot in front of me, nose to nose, or, more accurately, nose to chest.