“I can squat down if you like,” I said. “It would make it easier to stare me down.”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he said. “What Mr. Rosen is telling you is that you are fired. You’ll be paid for your time, but it’s time to pack up and head back to wherever you crawled out from.”

“I’m still waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to sit down and shut up,” I said. “Rosen. Call in Kinjo. If he wants me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“He wants you to leave,” Rosen said.

“Okay,” I said. “Have him tell me. And I will.”

“He’s asleep,” Rosen said. “He’s broken down. Don’t make it worse.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I hired you,” Rosen said. “And I handle his affairs.”

I shot a look at Rosen and held it. He swallowed and disappeared from the room.

Barnes laughed out of his nose. “You came just as advertised, Spenser.”

“By your friend with the Feds?”

“Yep.”

“Surprised he had time to call you with all the payoffs he’s been taking in Southie.”

“Keep talking,” Barnes said. “Wouldn’t take much from him to pull your license.”

“Eek.”

Z had wandered in, replacing Rosen, and stood wide in the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to me.

“This isn’t over,” Barnes said. “Not by a fucking long shot.”

“Z, have you met my friend, Jeff Barnes?” I said. “Million-dollar personality.”

“Don’t bother coming back,” Barnes said. “I’ll notify the police.”

“And witty, too,” Z said. His dark face showed no emotion. Black eyes steady on Barnes.

I winked at Barnes as I followed Z into the hallway and down into the big kitchen. It was late and the kitchen was empty. Coffee mugs and empty plates crusted with food littered the room. I checked the time and poured some more coffee.

“Have you talked much to the brother?” Z said.

I took a sip. “Some.”

“And?”

“And something isn’t right.”

“Two hours ago, we were outside talking, and Ray Heywood left pretty quick,” Z said. “He was inside the house for maybe an hour, talking with Kinjo. An hour ago, he passed me on the road and did not speak.”

“Rude.”

“His face was sweating and he was out of breath.”

“He’s overweight and not in good shape.”

“I followed him.”

I put down the coffee.

“He drove to a bar in Newton, stayed five minutes, and sped out of the lot.”

“And where is he now?”

“I put a GPS tracker on his car,” Z said. “Looks like he’s in Boston. What was that about, anyway?”

I nodded. “Mutt and Jeff wanted to put us on waivers.”

“They say why?”

“Strongly suggested they were handling matters,” I said.

“Looks like Ray Heywood is deep into whatever it is tonight.”

25

Nearing midnight, we caught up with Ray Heywood in his silver Mercedes SUV. He’d stopped off at his brownstone apartment in the South End for a few minutes, and we thought perhaps he’d turned in for the night. But thirty minutes later, he was heading up Mass Ave and turning onto Boylston toward downtown. I drove my Explorer with Z riding shotgun. Z tracked the car from his phone.

“I almost feel like that’s cheating,” I said.

“Is there an honest way to tail someone?”

“Maybe not more honest,” I said. “But sporting.”

I hung back five cars. Ray’s tall Mercedes was easy to spot as it slowed and turned down into the Prudential Center parking garage.

We followed him down into the concrete cavern. I drove past Ray and let Z out before finding a slot two sections over. The garage was silent except for the electric buzzing of fluorescent lamps. Every step, every car door echoed loudly deep beneath Pru Center. Z and I waited until he took the elevator to the street level and followed. Out of the elevators, we rounded the corner and watched Heywood take an escalator up to the shopping plaza. Z and I walked together through the empty mall under the darkened skylights, past the Legal Seafood and the food court, all the kiosks in the center of the mall draped with black cloth. Ray never looked back, heels clacking on the marble floors as he punched the button to the express elevators headed to the fifty-second floor.

“Top of the Hub,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“An overpriced bar with a great view.”

“Maybe he wants a drink?” Z said.

“Or was told to meet someone.”

We took the next elevator up the second-tallest building in the city. The elevator rocketed up and soon slowed. When we stepped out, Ray Heywood was standing with his back to us at the hostess stand. I studied the artwork on the walls and glanced back in time to see Ray turning to the right, toward the long bar and the jazz club. A trio had started up before a huge bay window with a view of the city, the waterfront, Logan, and if you looked hard enough, London Bridge and the Eiffel Tower.

“Nice,” Z said.

“You should see the bathrooms,” I said. “They put ice in the urinals.”

Z seemed properly impressed. We both took a seat at the bar, not within sight of Ray, but Ray had to pass us to leave. I had removed my Spinners cap. Z took off his coat and ordered a Coke. I had a Harpoon on draft in an effort to support local commerce.

“You want to walk back there?” Z said. “Or me?”

“He knows us both.”

I drank some beer and shrugged. I walked back to the jazz club and glanced inside. Ray Heywood was seated near the northern windows. He said something to a waitress and then looked down at his cell phone. The trio played “Skylark.”

I walked back to the barstool.

Z looked up from his Coke.

“‘Skylark,’” I said. “In case you were wondering.”

Z nodded.

“Melancholy.”

“Music of the night,” I said.

We did not speak for a long while, occasionally turning back to the bar and waiting for Ray to return. I had been here recently with Susan and Rachel Wallace. We had heard the food had improved a great deal and had heard right. I’d had the spicy lobster soup, followed by scallops as big as a fist. I thought for a long while about what Susan had ordered but came up with nothing in my memory but a garden salad and a gimlet.

After ten minutes, I got up again and looked for Ray. He was still sitting and looking at his cell phone, pressing some keys. The waitress had brought him a tall drink over ice. The trio had moved on to “’Round Midnight.”

I walked back to the barstool.

“‘’Round Midnight.’”

Z nodded. “Good to know.”

“I like to pass on my cultural knowledge with tough-guy talents.”

I pointed at his empty Coke glass. “As long as you’re driving,” he said.

I had not seen Z take a drink since the beating. He did not seem to mind me having a beer but often seemed uncomfortable at the sight of me with whiskey. I sipped the one beer but laid down a nice tip for the bartender so she would not think we were just mooching off the view. Through the shelves of booze bottles, the nightlights of Boston flickered and pulsed in the blackness. Perspective.

“Kid’s out there somewhere,” Z said.

“Yep.”

“Coming up on three days and nothing.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Now what?” Z said.

“Don’t know.”

“Why don’t we just sit down with Ray?” Z said.

“We could,” I said. “But might scare whoever he’s meeting. If he’s meeting one of the kidnappers.”

Z nodded.

“Should we call Hawk?”

I shook my head. “Break glass only when necessary,” I said.

We listened to the music and sipped our drinks. Just another couple of businessmen out for a good time in ol’ Beantown. Z had only recently been able to pass after cutting off his ponytail. If I had my nose fixed, I might be considered midlevel management material.

At one a.m., Ray walked from the club toward the restroom. I followed him inside and saddled up beside him at the urinal. Over the urinals were historic photos of the city. Mine showed a group of mustached men in front of a horse-drawn fire wagon.