“I never knew you were such a football fan.”

“Lot faster than watching baseball,” she said.

“True.”

“I have to admit, I like the speed.”

“Perhaps dealing with some pent-up aggression?” I said.

Susan stayed focused on the game but smiled. The Bills punted and Kinjo trotted off the field. I checked my phone again. Nothing.

With a minute left in the second quarter, Jeff Barnes appeared at the end of the row. He looked at me and crooked a finger toward the aisle. I did not like when anyone crooked a finger at me. In fact, I had broken many fingers that had performed similar actions.

After Brady threw an incompletion, Susan caught me staring.

“Who’s that?”

“Head of security.”

“Friend?”

“Foe.”

“A casualty of your charm?”

“I’m a casualty of his.”

“Perhaps he has some news?”

I finished my beer and stowed the cup under my seat. “Perhaps.”

I made my way to the steps. I smiled at Barnes and told him what a wonderful surprise it was to see him.

“Cut the shit, Spenser,” he said. “Kinjo told me you were coming. That’s his business, we can’t stop him. But I wanted to let you know my team is aware you’re here and to be on your best behavior.”

The row was narrow, and a Coke vendor had to do some considerable acrobatics to get past our pissing contest.

“What’s the penalty for sticking chewing gum under my seat?”

Barnes flared his nostrils. He was dressed as he’d been dressed every time I’d seen him. Charcoal pin-striped suit, red tie, and a nifty NFL pin on his lapel. I smiled at him some more. His cheek twitched.

“Can you walk up the steps for a moment?” he said.

I turned to Susan. I winked at her and then followed.

We stood out of the sun and in the shadow of the narrow tunnel leading to the second level. Barnes’s steel-gray hair looked as if it had been barbered two hours ago. His face was clean-shaven, with a ruddy glow.

“Listen,” he said. “I want you to know I don’t give a damn who does what. I just want Heywood to get his kid back.”

I nodded.

“So if something happens,” he said, “and you can help . . .”

I nodded again.

“It seems Mr. Kraft is friends with an individual you helped out in the past.”

“And Mr. Kraft, being Grand Pooh-bah of this organization, has changed your mind about me.”

Barnes just stared at me. I smiled. He shook his head and looked away. Something big had happened on the field and the stadium erupted in wild enthusiasm. “The kid used to follow me around at practice,” Barnes said. “He pretended like he was a secret agent or something. Thought what I did was cool.”

I had a comment for that. But I kept it to myself.

“Okay,” I said.

“Six days of this shit,” Barnes said. “Silence? I couldn’t fucking leave my house. And he’s out there playing his guts out.”

The first half was almost over and the fans started to fill the tunnel, pouring past us to the bathrooms and concessions. Barnes turned his back and left without another word.

I returned to my seat just in time to see Kinjo knock a short pass from the tight end’s hands. He gathered the defense before the next play, calling the shots, seeing what’s going to happen before the offense lined up. If only I could do the same.

42

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

FIVE MIL 4 SON. NO COPS, NO TRIX, NO MARKS MONEY. OR THE KID DEAD. DETAILS TO COME

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.”