“How long?” Susan said.

We stood at the bar. I ordered a Blue Moon ale. Susan ordered a gin martini and waved at Catherine.

“Sari says the end of the year,” I said. “He says there will be a big going-away party.”

“Hard to envision Brattle Street without Casablanca.”

“Or downtown without Locke-Ober.”

Susan nodded and smiled a bit. The bartender served my beer. He started work on Susan’s concoction. I did not touch my beer.

She nudged me. “Go ahead, big guy.”

“I can wait,” I said. “Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t salivate at the sound of a cracking bottle top.”

“What do you think they’ll do with all the murals?” she said. “I’ll miss the murals.”

“They’ll be ripped out with the rest of it,” I said. “Progress.”

The bartender presented the martini. Susan lifted it in a toast and said, “May it pass us by.”

We clicked drinks. Sari nodded and waved to us. We waved back. Susan cocked a hip and leaned into the bar. She wore a pair of very tight dark jeans and a green scoop-necked cashmere sweater. Her shoes were high-heeled and très chic. I bet I could not pronounce their maker.

“Before we’re seated,” I said. “Do you mind talking shop?”

“Do you know how much you would owe me if you had to pay for my professional services?”

I smiled and tilted my head. “Perhaps I could work it off?”

“Shrinkage for sexual favors?” she said. “A slight ethical dilemma we have discussed many times before.”

“This is nothing solid,” I said. “Just some general advice.”

“On?”

“Paranoia.”

“That’s a very wide topic,” she said. “Aren’t you the one that said paranoia was very healthy in your business?”

“I said that?” I said. “My wisdom occasionally astounds me.”

Susan rolled her eyes. She toyed with her drink, taking a short sip.

“How might I recognize someone suffering from unhealthy paranoia?” I said. “When people come to me and need help, I often believe them. But what if the only trouble was in their head?”

“Something new with your client?”

I turned beside me to make sure no one was within earshot. I gave a small nod. I took a sip of beer. Sipping beer fueled the thinking. The thinking would lead to the right path.

I shrugged. “A couple of guys approached him at the Quincy Market for an autograph and he nearly ripped their heads off.”

“What did you think?”

“Maybe it’s contagious. I nearly slugged one of them.”

“What stopped you?”

“A Bic pen looks very different than a .44 Magnum.”

“How does Kinjo treat you?” Susan said. “Does he confide in you or is he standoffish?”

“Straight ahead.”

“Besides people following him,” she said, “has he said anything that seems irrational?”

“He thinks it may be another player who wants him hurt.”

“Is that plausible?”

“Sure.” I smiled. “Anything is plausible in the NFL.”

“Lots of money at stake.”

“Money, power, ego. Take your pick.”

I drank some beer. I thought. I drank some more beer and waited for enlightenment. “Something is off about what he’s told me. Something doesn’t ring true.”

“But he’s your client,” she said. “You’ve given your word to help, and you must trust his.”

“Yes.”

“Could he just want attention?” she said.

“Why would a football hero need more? His picture is on soda cups.”

“Maybe he has a head injury,” she said. “The man does use his head as a battering ram professionally.”

“I was told that would only hone your intellect.”

“Yes,” Susan said. “Of course.”

“Time will tell if someone is trying to kill him,” I said. “And I’ll try to protect both him and his reputation.”

“A noble goal.”

“If they don’t shoot me in the process.”

We clicked drinks. I took a swallow of beer.

“And what will you be having for our last supper?” I said.

“Tapas,” she said. “I’m very fond of their deviled eggs and fried green tomatoes.”

“Chicken seems fitting to me,” I said. “Fries, collard greens, and more beer.”

She nodded and turned back to the wide-open space of Casablanca. She looked at the Bogart mural and then up toward the staircase leading down from Brattle Street. “Have you confronted Kinjo with your doubts?”

“Nope.”

“But your normal bullshit detector has sounded, you’re just not sure why.”

“Don’t talk too shrinky to me,” I said. “All that medical jargon is confusing.”

“When does he get back?” Susan said.

“Sunday night after the game.”

“Is it football season already?” she said.

“Sort of,” I said. “Preseason.”

“And you are to guard the Emperor of the Gridiron all season, if that’s what it takes?”

“Or until he cracks.”

“The unknowing is frustration,” she said.

“Speaking from experience?”

She toasted me with the drink. “You better believe it.”

8

I had spent the weekend reading up on Kinjo Heywood. Since the bad guys were still theoretical at this point, I needed to learn about potential enemies.

There was a lot written about the nightclub shooting in Manhattan. A twenty-two-year-old man named Antonio Lima had died. A couple witnesses said Kinjo and Lima had been fighting earlier. He denied it. The witnesses later recanted. There was a civil suit from the family for wrongful death, but it was quickly dropped. No murder weapon. No physical evidence. If it came down to it, I’d pull the file and make some calls. But at this point, I had nothing to suspect Kinjo’s problems and the incident were tied.

I sat parked for an hour outside Gillette until the team bus arrived. It was past midnight by the time Kinjo sat in the passenger seat of my Explorer. We drove north on 95. It was early Monday, with no traffic. The ride was easy and pleasant. I turned down The Jordan Rich Show so we might talk.

“Congratulations.”

“We won,” Kinjo said. “But it was an ugly win.”

“Better to win ugly than lose pretty.”

“Who said that?”

“Bobby Bowden,” I said. “I think.”

“His son coached at Auburn,” Kinjo said. “Long time before I got there.”

“Is that where you met Nicole?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You don’t like to talk about her.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “Met her freshman year. She got pregnant with Akira sophomore year. We were in love and now we’re not.”

“She drop out?”

“For a while,” he said. “But she finished school. I still got a year to go.”

“What’s she do now?”

“Works at a bank in Medford,” he said. “She’s a loan officer.”

“Business degree?”

“MBA, too,” he said. “I don’t know why she wants my money. She don’t need it. She knows how to get it.”

“Maybe it’s on principle.”

“Or to prove something to me.”

“Or herself.”

Kinjo was silent. I had overstepped. My headlights brightened a large swath of the interstate. We rode on an elevated platform over the triple-deckers, boarded-up storefronts, and housing projects.

“You mind me asking what happened?”

“Not much to know,” he said. “She caught me fucking another woman.”

“Ah,” I said. “That will put a damper on a marriage.”

“You married?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m in a monogamous relationship with the love of my life.”

“Kids?” Kinjo said.

“Sort of.”

“What’s a ‘sort of’ kid?”

“I helped a boy raise himself when he was fifteen,” I said. “Now he’s family.”

“How old is he now?”

“Old enough to be a very successful adult,” I said. “He teaches dance in New York. When did we switch roles? Didn’t you see investigator printed on my business card?”

“I’m just saying it’s tough for a man hadn’t been married to understand,” he said. “I stepped out because she’d given up on me, us, the whole thing. I wasn’t out just fucking. I needed someone in my life who needed me.”