“For fear of sounding too domestic, how was your day, dear?”

“I met with a professional football player named after a Japanese emperor,” I said. “His agent hired me to help him.”

“Protection?”

“In a roundabout way,” I said. “The Patriots organization thinks it’s a bad idea if their player shoots or beats up someone.”

“So you’ve been hired to protect the bad guys?”

I nodded. I stirred the chili. I waited to put the corn muffins in the oven. Mel sang “A Stranger in Town.”

“The team also wants me to find out who is following Kinjo and why.”

“Kinjo.”

“Emperor of the gridiron.”

I reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I poured Susan a modest glass.

“Should I know who this is?” she said.

“You should.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

“I thought you only paid attention to baseball and basketball?”

“Sometimes it’s on TV,” I said. “Sometimes I watch it. I played it once.”

“But you prefer baseball.”

“I prefer baseball for the skill and nuance,” I said. “I’m sure a damn good bit of sportswriters could talk to me about the elegant violence of football. But I like the pace of baseball.”

I greased the muffin tin, poured in the batter, and placed the tin into the oven. I finished the beer and opened another.

“How does an investigator, even one of your advanced skill, watch a client and sleuth at the same time?”

“I am hoping the watching will lead to a meeting with the bad guys.”

“As it often does.”

“And if not,” I said, “Z can watch while I sleuth.”

“Nice to have an understudy.”

I nodded. I set the timer. “Of course, I’m not even sure if there are any bad guys.”

“And how is that possible?”

“There is a distinct possibility that his celebrity status is making him a bit paranoid,” I said. “He’s a famous athlete. Some overzealous fans may just recognize him and see where he lives or what nightclub he prefers.”

“Did he seem paranoid to you?”

“You mean did he pace around with some metallic ball in hand and mutter about strawberries?”

“Or something more subtle,” she said. “Was he jittery or nervous? Did he seem on edge?”

“Nope.”

“Yet he felt threatened.”

“Yes,” I said. “But he couldn’t really define it.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s your diagnosis, Doc?”

“Time will tell?”

“What if he tells me the men following him are little and green and perhaps from another planet?”

“Give him my card,” she said. “I have people he should meet.”

I turned back to Susan, pulled her in close, and placed a hand against the flat of her back. I tilted my head toward her open bedroom door. I had missed her a great deal when she’d been away teaching that spring.

“Sometimes I think you use simmering for an excuse,” she said.

“But it’s such a damn good one.”

4

The next morning, I picked up Kinjo Heywood and drove him to Foxboro.

The Patriots kept their training facilities, offices, and practice fields in and around Gillette. Up the hill from the stadium, a sprawling entertainment complex called Patriot Place had recently opened to make sure every dime stayed within a quarter-mile radius. There were shops, outdoor cafés, and a movie theater. Bass Pro Shops, a Renaissance Hotel, and even Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar & Grill made Patriot Place about as unique as a trip to suburban Ohio.

On the south end of the complex, I watched Kinjo go through a series of warm-up drills, stretching and running with the team. They had dressed out in half-pads, helmets, and shorts. It was still early and gray, a misty rain falling. I stood, watching, next to Kinjo’s brother, Ray, who was also his business manager.

“They shouldn’t practice in the rain,” Ray Heywood said. “Somebody is going to get hurt.”

“But if you don’t practice in the elements, how will you play in them?”

“You sound like Coach Belichick,” Ray said. “You see that big metal building behind us? Cost something like twenty million and he’s used it maybe two times. Rain, sleet, snow, the players’ asses are out here.”

“Might ruin Tom Brady’s hair.”

Ray Heywood laughed.

If Kinjo hadn’t introduced me to Ray, I would have never figured them for brothers. Ray Heywood stood a little under six feet and was short-legged and thick around the waist. He had shaved his hair and beard very short and had an earring in his right ear. He wore a pink oxford cloth shirt hanging out over designer jeans and designer sneakers.

“You like working for your brother?”

“I work for him but don’t work for him,” Ray said. “I just look out for his business affairs.”

“So you’re his other agent?”

Ray shook his head. “Un-uh,” he said. “Kinjo has the same agent he’s always had. I only take care of his money while he keeps his mind right. I handle investments, off-season appearances, and endorsement deals. A life in the NFL ain’t forever. He’s got to make that hard cash now and see how it can grow.”

“What did you do before?”

Ray ran a hand over the back of his thick neck and smiled. “Sold cars,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. But it was a dealership in Atlanta, and I am very good with money.”

I nodded and stuck my hands in the pockets of my A-2 bomber jacket. I wore a navy Lowell Spinners ball cap, since I didn’t own anything with an NFL logo. Maybe if I caught the bad guys and forced them to talk, the Pats would comp me a cap.

“You have any theories as to who’s been following your brother?” I said.

Ray shook his head.

The misting rain kept on falling. Kinjo had joined up with the other linebackers and was running his feet with great speed over a row of red blocking dummies. When his foot hit the grass after the last dummy, he darted toward his coach, who zinged him the ball. He ran the ball upfield. The coach blew a whistle.

“Kinjo said you think it has something to do with that shooting?”

“Nope,” I said. “I just asked him what he thought.”

“Two years ago.”

I nodded.

“He didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Have no reason to think he did.”

There were maybe twenty or thirty people perched around the aluminum stands where we now sat. The practice was closed to the public, and most looked to be sportswriters or family of the players. A couple news stations for film at eleven.

“He seemed to think it was a player for another team,” I said. “Maybe wants to rattle him before the season.”

“You read that SI piece?”

“Yep.”

“Calling him the league’s hit man?” Ray said. “That’s some bullshit. They had coaches and players saying he took cheap shots. Someone said he wasn’t no different from the guys on the Saints who worked for a bounty. What’s a linebacker supposed to do to a quarterback? Hug and kiss him?”

“Hardly appropriate.”

“You running at a quarterback on a blitz full-out, man,” he said. “If he let go of the ball a tenth of a second before, how you supposed to put on the brakes? Kinjo start doing that and he’ll fuck up his knees and hips. That story’s told by people who never played the game. Most sportswriters hate athletes ’cause they know they’d shit their pants if they ever stepped on the field.”

Kinjo and the other linebackers had joined up with the rest of the defense and were going through different alignments. The Patriots, like most pro teams, ran a four-three defense, four down linemen and three linebackers roaming the mid-ground. Kinjo was the middle linebacker, the Mike, who was pretty much the quarterback of the defense. He could rush the passer or drop back and cover a receiver.

I’d seen some highlight film of Kinjo. He had aided many players to early retirement. But I saw nothing dirty about his play. No dirtier than a fighter who had a hell of a right.