Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (13 page)

I
awoke to a ringing phone and a perky woman at the front desk telling me I had a visitor. Before I could ask who, she hung up. Susan was already in the shower getting ready for dinner.

I slipped on a pair of khakis and a navy blue T-shirt, sliding on a .38 in a holster behind my hip. The T-shirt was long and loose and draped over the outline of the gun. I sauntered down the hallway and into the wide lobby. The lobby was bright and utilitarian, with blue chairs and sofas and a busy carpet that might have impressed Jackson Pollock.

I spotted two women in tennis outfits chatting and the man I’d seen earlier from the putting green. He was busy with two young boys who raced around the lobby. No one was at the front desk, so I ducked into the bar to take a peek.

Hawk leaned against the bar like Alan Ladd in
Shane
. Instead of buckskin, he had on a blue floral jacket, white jeans,
and blue oxford shoes. The floral pattern had been woven in navy upon white material. Underneath, he wore a crisp white linen shirt.

“Does Miss Scarlett know you made a mess out of her drapes?”

“Ha,” Hawk said. “This here is a Billy Reid. What you call couture.”

“Sharper than when I saw you here last.”

“King Powers.” Hawk grinned. He looked to be sipping a gin and tonic. “Folks lookin’ for you in Boston.”

“I know.”

“Had to reason with a couple at the gym.”

“How’d you do?”

“As always.”

“You see Stefanakos?”

“That big-ass Greek?”

I nodded.

“No,” he said. “Been waiting on it. You and him got some unfinished business.”

I nodded and took a seat on the bar stool. Hawk sipped his drink. “You don’t think they’ll come here?”

Hawk shrugged. “Depends on who you told.”

“You, Z, and Henry.”

Hawk nodded. “I guess I made a long drive for nothing.”

“You could’ve just called.”

“No answer,” Hawk said.

“Hmm.” I smiled and scratched my head. “Maybe I turned it off.”

“Just try not to break or pull anything.”

I asked the bartender for a Harpoon IPA on draft. Next to Hawk, I looked slovenly and wrinkled. I had on Top-Siders and I needed a shave. I looked like I might belong on
Gilligan’s Island
. He didn’t seem to mind and ordered another gin and tonic. Extra limes.

“Don’t want to get in the way of your, uh, retreat.”

“Join us for dinner,” I said. “It’s Susan’s birthday. Although I’m not sure she’s thrilled with the prospect.”

“Susan look too good to worry about a number,” he said.

“I think we’re both aware that Z could quite respectably be our son,” I said.

“No way a thick-necked honkie and a Jewish shrink can make a full-blooded Cree Indian.”

“You make an excellent point.”

Hawk drank some more from the glass. I drank my beer and ordered another. By the time the bartender set down the glass, Susan walked into the room. She’d showered and changed into a black maxi-dress. Her hair was in a tight bun, accentuating the diamond studs in her ears. My heart felt like Gene Krupa was practicing in my chest.

“Mm-mm,” Hawk said.

She kissed him on the cheek and took a seat between us.

“Hawk was in the neighborhood.”

“I know what it means,” she said. “Anyone else coming?”

Hawk grinned. “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”

Susan joined Hawk with a vodka gimlet. He began to softly whistle “Happy Birthday.” She slugged him in the arm.

I
showered, shaved, and changed into a pair of crisp jeans and a short-sleeved black polo. Thirty minutes later, we were having dinner at a place called the Naked Oyster on Main Street. The building was long and narrow, with bright, splashy paintings hung on brick walls. An oyster bar ran against the wall with shellfish in ice waiting to be shucked.

We ate outside, directly across from the JFK museum and post office. The night was warm, but a nice breeze came off the water. The air smelled like the sea. Families strolled by eating ice cream and eyeing all the boutiques lit up on Main. Susan ordered tuna tartare, Hawk had the duck confit, and I decided on a plate of haddock tacos.

“What if Hawk had snuck up on you?” Susan said. “Someone could’ve been hurt.”

“Impossible,” I said. “I have a sixth sense. Besides, how’s he going to sneak up in that jacket?”

“I like it,” Susan said. “It looks terrific on you.”

Hawk grinned. He nodded in appreciation of Susan’s style.

“Can you stay?” she said.

“Nope,” Hawk said. “Just came down to warn white boy about some trouble in River City.”

“Helps you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye,” I said. “Bad?”

Hawk shook his head. “Just wind.”

“About the arson?” Susan said.

Hawk shook his head. “More about Jackie DeMarco’s pride,” Hawk said. “Man can’t have anyone questioning what he does.”

“Has he ever met you two?” Susan said. “You question everyone’s pride.”

Hawk looked to me and smiled. “She got a point.”

An appetizer of oysters arrived, French-style, on a bed of salt with a mignonette. Hawk and I split the order. Susan had a rare second gimlet. “Cut it with Rose’s lime,” I said. “Half and with half gin. Terry Lennox says it beats martinis hollow.”

Susan and Hawk ignored me. Hawk drained the oyster off each shell without spilling a drop on his jacket. Susan drained maybe two teaspoons of the gimlet. Hawk checked out a young woman in a long black skirt and a revealing white tank top.

Hawk could check out a woman so furtively she never knew. Unless he wanted her to know.

We ate and laughed. We talked about old times in Cambridge, Montecito, and Vegas. Not one word was mentioned about our time in Mill River. The food came. We ate and drank. I tipped
the waitress to add a bunch of sparklers atop a large slice of key lime pie.

Susan distributed three forks for the piece. She pointed hers directly at my chest. “Anyone tries to sing and they’ll get hurt,” she said.

Hawk and I did not disagree.

T
wo days later, I was up late watching a movie in which Gary Cooper plays Marco Polo; Susan and Pearl were fast asleep in bed. Just as Marco Polo had discovered gunpowder and spaghetti, Frank Belson called.

“Where are you?” he said.

“Susan’s.”

“You got some trouble at your apartment.”

“I do have a restraining order against Kate Upton.”

“No joke,” he said. “Your buddy McGee and half of Boston Fire are fighting a five-alarm on Marlborough. I’m here. It ain’t pretty.”

Fifteen minutes later, I parked illegally on Arlington by the Public Garden. Several blocks of Marlborough had been closed off by police. Flames shot up high from the row house where I’d lived for years. I walked to the barricade at the corner of Arlington and Marlborough and spotted Jack McGee.

He sat on the back of an ambulance, taking in oxygen. He had soot across his face and hands.

“Everybody out?” I said.

He nodded, still pressing the oxygen mask against his face.

“You sure?”

He took off the mask. “Be my guest to double check.”

McGee told the cops to let me inside the barricade. He had on the heavy black coat and pants with a helmet affixed on his large head. “Call came in about an hour ago,” he said. “We got six companies on this. If we can cool down the walls, we can stop it spreading. Already went into both buildings beside yours. We got it contained.”

“How’s mine?”

“Sorry.” McGee shook his head. “It’s gone, Spenser.”

We walked together toward my building, the street clogged with at least six different engines. Firefighters sprayed through broken windows, arcing water up toward the third floor and roof. My window turret remained, but there was no glass. I could only see blackness inside. The street ran slick with water, flashing lights reflecting in puddles. I swallowed, my insides feeling hollow.

“Maybe I can salvage some underwear and that Duke Snider rookie card.”

“Anything irreplaceable?” McGee said.

“Everything’s replaceable,” I said.

“No one’s dead,” McGee said. “But two of our guys got sent to Mass General.”

My mouth felt dry. I felt selfish for thinking about my record collection, baseball cards, clothes, photographs, oil paintings,
and good china. A Schott jacket Susan had bought me. A woodworking tool given to me by my late uncle Cash. A well-loved Winchester 20-20 that belonged to my father and his grandfather before him.

“I’m sorry, Spenser,” McGee said.

I nodded. “Awfully bold.”

“DeMarco?”

I shook my head. “He’d come straight for me,” I said. “Not like this. He’d just shoot me in the back.”

“If it’s DeMarco, I’ll kill him myself,” McGee said. “This is some kind of fucked-up game.”

On the sidewalk across from my apartment, I saw a youngish woman hoisting a little girl in pajamas in her arms. A man stood close to them talking feverishly on a cell phone. He was crying and yelling at the same time. An elderly woman in a tired red robe who lived on the first floor of my building sat on the curb. Her face was blank as she stared up openmouthed at the flames, her gray hair frizzy and wild as she clutched a shoebox.

“Fucking bastards,” McGee said.

“Yep,” I said.

I could feel the heat like a sunburn on my face, smell the scent of burning hair. I stepped back as more firefighters stepped forward to dampen the whole mess. My apartment appeared to be completely gone. The two buildings that sandwiched it appeared to have been saved. McGee rejoined his men.

Another fire truck drove down the street slow with lights and sirens. Two men jumped from the truck, extended a flat yellow hose, and ran toward a hydrant. Several firefighters scaled a ladder to the roof of my building with oxygen tanks on
their back. I saw Capelletti from Arson get close up the steps to my building and fire off some shots with his camera.

A little while later, Teddy Cahill arrived in street clothes and a ball cap. The men walked inside.

I walked in the opposite direction, past the EMTs, firefighters, and cops to Arlington. My body and brain felt numb. But I was alive. Susan was alive.

“You okay?” said a female cop by her patrol car.

“Yeah.” I stopped and nodded. “Still here.”

W
ith no sleep, some breakfast, and a little coffee, things looked much worse in the daylight.

I stood in the middle of Marlborough Street with Teddy Cahill. I’d brought Pearl with me, and she sat on her haunches as we peered up at the charred mess. Pearl sniffed at the smoky remnants in the air while the apartment building continued to smolder. I was fortunate to always keep several changes of clothes at Susan’s. Sometimes fresh underwear is better than a cup of coffee.

“What do we have?” I said.

“Been working all night,” Cahill said. “ATF sent some good people over. We went over your place inch by fucking inch.”

“And?”

“At least we know where this one started,” Cahill said. “Two places. One right by your fucking door and the other on a back
wall in the alley. We got a few witnesses who saw a white van parked out back for a few minutes. But no one saw who went inside.”

“Can I see my place?”

“We got a lot of guys working.”

“I’ll step lightly,” I said. “As will Pearl.”

We walked to Arlington and then back down the Public Alley 421. The back side of the apartment building was damaged worse than the front. Firefighters continued to dampen the roofs and top floors of my building. Smoke broke and scattered in the wind.

Cahill got onto his haunches and showed the alligator-like marks along some siding, stretching several feet higher and toward the basement door.

“Looks like they used some tires to get it going hot,” he said. “You can see the remnants on the asphalt.”

“A white van?”

“Woman in the apartment directly behind you saw it blocking the alley,” Cahill said. He rubbed his walrus mustache. “But didn’t see anyone come or go.”

Pearl looked up at me and tilted her head. She was on high alert for clues, her eyes full of worry and confusion.

“We found a few things,” he said. “ATF will run some tests.”

“And what are the chances it matches with Mr. Firebug?”

“Who needs to run a test?” he said. “But why’d they pick on you?”

“I don’t think it was a secret I talked to Featherstone before he died,” I said. “They may have conflated me, Arson unit, and Homicide. One-stop shopping.”

I ran my hands along the charred siding and looked up at the back of my building. I patted Pearl’s head. Her nubbed tail wagged.

“Got somewhere to stay?” Cahill said.

“Yeah,” I said. “With a friend.”

“Your friend okay with the dog?” he said. “If not, I can take her for a while. Galway likes other hounds.”

“I think my friend likes the dog better than me,” I said. “Is it possible to walk upstairs?”

“Sure,” he said. “But you don’t want to see it. I promise there’s nothing left.”

“It’s important.”

Cahill nodded. We walked into the gaping mouth of the back door to the landing and up a back stairwell dripping with water. Pearl sniffed at the charred carpet and piles of charred wood. The sprinklers had done a lot of damage to the halls and the stairwell. Cahill told me he wouldn’t take responsibility if we fell right through the floor. He took me to my floor and swept his hand toward what had been my apartment. It was hard to tell. There was no door. A large portion of the wall facing Marlborough had dissolved. I stepped through the soggy, blackened mess. A firefighter on a ladder waved to me as he made his way up to a higher floor.

Pearl knew she was home. She turned her mournful yellow eyes on me.

My bookshelf wasn’t just burned. It simply was no longer there. I found a couple half-eaten picture frames and some cast-iron cookware. Tough stuff, forged in flame. Cahill advised me to leave it until the insurance people could take pictures.

“They could have my ass for letting you in.”

I walked back to the bedroom and turned straight around. I stepped carefully around the hole in the kitchen and returned to the fireplace. On the hearth, I found a toppled piece of wood I’d once carved into a horse. It still looked a little like a horse but was much smaller and much blacker. I slipped it into my pocket. Pearl began to whimper. I walked to where the shelving had been to hold the old Winchester. I found the gun a real mess, but the barrel and level held their shape.

“Just what will you need to link all these fires?”

“We have a working theory,” he said. “But it’s very technical.”

“It didn’t sound technical to me the other night,” I said. “You seemed pretty damn sure it was the work of the same person or persons.”

“Sometimes I envy Homicide,” he said. “They have real evidence. We work with nothing but fucking chemicals and ashes. Unless we get someone to turn, we don’t have much. I’m sorry about your place. But while we were hosing down the Back Bay, someone else touched off another place in the South End. By the time we got a company over there, six of our people were at Mass General for burns and smoke inhalation. We’re pretty sure your place was a diversion.”

“How bad are they hurt?”

“They will be back soon,” he said. “But one guy may be looking at retirement.”

I nodded and swallowed. My apartment and possessions no longer mattered. “Again,” I said. “How do you know it’s the same guy?”

“He’s got a way of doing things,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“You think I’m going to publish a piece in
The Globe
?”

“If word gets out, he might change things,” he said. “Right now he’s got a system. We upset the system and we upset our case.”

“What’s the system?”

“Found stuff here that looks just like Holy Innocents,” he said. “Okay? Between us, we think he makes a device from a paper grocery bag and plastic Baggie full of kerosene. We found a butt of match at both places and traces of the Baggie. ATF can tell us what kind of accelerant was used.”

“Any new letters?”

“Nope,” he said. “But we will. Or the TV station will. That’s where he sends them.”

“Which station?”

Cahill told me and we walked out of my apartment and carefully down the steps and back out to the alley. A warm wind blew through the narrow space as we made our way toward the Public Garden. Several news crews had set up for the day along the wrought-iron fencing.

All the cameras pointed directly at my former home.