“So you gonna follow him to and from practice and see who’s tailing him?” Ray said.

“That’s the plan.”

“What you do if you find out who they are and where they live?”

“Reason with them.”

Ray laughed. “You don’t look like the kind of man with many reasoning skills.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

An air horn sounded and Belichick called the entire team together to scrimmage. The hitting was very light on the line and the offense went through a series of plays while the linebackers shot the gaps in the line or went into pass coverage. Passes were thrown and caught, the orchestra of the defense and offense working with speed and efficiency.

As the special teams ran onto the field, a man in a dark suit approached us.

“Oh, shit,” Ray said. “This dickhead runs the security for the Pats.”

“Lovely.”

When the man got closer, Ray stood up and said, “Spenser, this is Jeff Barnes.”

We shook hands while the players scrimmaged. The misty rain seemed to make the practice field glow an intense green.

Barnes smiled without warmth, eyes wandering over me. He was a compact man, blue-suited and red-tied, with chiseled features and thick white hair. His lips were thin and his nose hawkish, and he had a superior posture that reminded me of a rooster.

“Nice to meet you,” Barnes said, shaking my hand. “Can’t say I was excited that Steve Rosen didn’t tell me about you.”

“Not everyone can sing my praises.”

“I’m not familiar with some of the local cops, but I did call up a friend with the FBI,” Barnes said, still gripping my hand. “His remarks weren’t kind.”

“Are you taking my fingerprints right now?”

Barnes let go of my hand. A smile remained frozen on his face.

“You must be quite a hot dog to draw the ire of the special agent in charge of the city.”

I wavered my hand in a so-so gesture.

Barnes’s face reddened. His cheek twitched just a bit. The air horn sounded on the field and Belichick called in all the players. Ray stared down at the field where the team had gathered, but Barnes remained splayfooted and cocksure.

“Rosen is a hot-shit agent,” he said. “But I can pull you off the tit fast. When you’re on this property, I am in charge.”

“Yikes.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Yikes.’ It means my knees won’t stop knocking.”

“If you see anything, suspect anything, or spot anyone in or around Gillette, you call me first. Connor said you’re overly fond of your weapon.”

I let that one go and simply shrugged.

“These kids out there don’t have normal problems like you and me,” he said. “Kinjo is probably being followed by a carload of sorority girls who just want to bang him. You make a mistake, and this team looks bad and my entire job is in question. You understand?”

“Un-uh. Go back to the sorority girls.”

“Christ,” Barnes said, shaking his head. He walked away.

I sat back down with Ray. He studied the field and the players fanning out on one knee and listening to the coach talk about their opponent. His chin was lifted as if he hadn’t heard a word. Not looking away, Ray said, “Looks like they got the right guy,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t let that prick get in the way of protecting my brother,” he said. “Kinjo’s a good man. He never wanted Akira to grow up like we did. It’s important to have a father, not just around, but in his life. We never had that. He and that kid go to the zoo, the mall, to movies. Disney World twice a year. That’s why the bad stuff hurts Kinjo. Because that ain’t him. You can talk shit about him on the field, but anyone who tarnishes who he is as a man, that’s about his family honor.”

“A Southern man’s code?”

“And all that Japanese shit he’s into. Man loves his family and he takes care of his people. Look at me. I may be good with money, but I never deserved all this.”

I nodded. “You think it’s really just a carload of girls?”

“Tell you what,” Ray said. “If it is, I’d better be the one you call first.”

5

The next day, I followed Kinjo away from Foxboro and into the city. Akira was to spend the weekend with his mother, and both had agreed to meet at the Quincy Market. This was not my decision, only a stroke of luck, as I had not eaten since early that morning. The Pats had not invited me to partake in their training table for carbo-loading or fruit smoothies.

We parked side by side at a garage with a nice view of the North End. I hung back as Kinjo followed the sidewalk with Akira, the son a little moody about the exchange. He wore an oversized Pats jersey with HEYWOOD written above number 57.

There were a few whispers and sideways glances as they made their way into the market. A couple of people stopped him for an autograph. Akira seemed used to all this. He’d smile up as his father signed a piece of paper or someone’s hat. Inside, I bought a turkey sub and sat down with them at a table in the common area under the rotunda.

“Shit,” Kinjo said. “Nicole’s always late. She can’t help it.”

I unwrapped the sandwich and offered Akira half. He declined. He said his mother was going to take him to the Five Guys in Medford. As I ate, two unsavory-looking men in leather coats walked from the Faneuil Hall entrance. I watched them move past our table, not a flick of recognition, as they headed toward a pizza vendor.

“You ever shoot anybody?” Akira said.

I looked to Kinjo. Kinjo nodded back.

“Yep.”

“Dead?” Akira said.

“As a doornail.”

The kid nodded with that, liking what he’d heard. He was smallish, even for eight, with bright eyes and a warm smile.

“Why’d you kill them?” Akira said.

“Akira,” Kinjo said. “Hush.”

“I just want to know.”

“They were very unpleasant people,” I said.

“Bad men,” Akira said.

“You might say that.”

“And they needed to be dead?”

I looked to Kinjo again. He nodded. I looked to the bright-eyed little boy and shrugged. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Akira nodded.

“Akira goes to Beaver Country Day,” Kinjo said. “Every student got their own iPad. School where I went in Georgia was just a bunch of trailers. Teachers did the best they could. But they couldn’t do much.”

I lifted my eyes and nodded at his flat-billed baseball hat. “What’s that R with the squiggles mean?”

Akira looked at his dad as if I were simple. Kinjo continued to look at the crowded space filled with people eating and talking, coming and going, carrying food from the long food court. I ate more of my sub.

“It’s Rocawear,” Kinjo said.

“Of course,” I said. “Rocawear.”

“Jay-Z,” Akira said. “He owns it.”

“Hat cost a hundred damn dollars,” Kinjo said.

“Daddy never ate in a restaurant till he was in high school.”

Kinjo shrugged.

“And he had three jobs after school when he wasn’t playing ball.”

Kinjo grinned. “Actually, just two.”

“Shining shoes and loading shelves at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Kinjo nodded and put an arm around his son, pulling him tight. “Akira’s gonna work training camp next year. Learn what it’s like to make money.”

“I don’t want to shine shoes.”

Kinjo nodded, grabbed Akira’s sneaker and dusted off some dirt. Akira laughed, but Kinjo looked away and shook his head. “Okay. Here we go. Here comes trouble.”

A woman had walked in from the south end of Quincy Market, splitting the tourists like Moses and the Red Sea. She was diminutive but moved with purpose. Kinjo’s former wife was dark-skinned, with short black hair reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s. She wore a blue-and-white vertical-striped sleeveless blouse and navy pencil skirt. Her heels were brown and tall and her jewelry was simple. As she walked closer I noted a tiny silver necklace with a diamond pendant on her long neck.