Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (12 page)

Z
and I jogged along the Charles River on a route I knew so well I could run it backward with my eyes closed. I had already packed for the Cape and would pick up Susan in Cambridge after her last appointment. The investigation could wait until Sunday. We ran three miles at a fast clip, sprinting at every mile marker and then a full-out race at the end toward the Hatch Shell.

As Z was quite a bit younger than me, I let him win. No reason to embarrass him.

We cooled down with a half-mile walk. We both moved with our hands laced above our heads. It was early, but the morning sun had already started to bake the sidewalk. The Esplanade was busy with runners, walkers, and skateboarders. Early risers drank coffee at the little café.

As we moved toward the bridge over Storrow, I spotted
Vinnie Morris leaning against a large black Mercedes. He was reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee was in his hand.

“Nice suit,” Z said.

“It’s what a life of crime can buy,” I said.

“Something to consider,” Z said.

I nodded. I fist-bumped him in our own private joke and walked toward Vinnie. He had on a navy linen suit with a crisp shirt open at the throat and slip-on loafers. As his watch glinted in the sun, I surmised it was probably worth more than my retirement account.

He nodded at me. “You pull a hamstring back there?”

“I was taking it easy on the kid.”

“Sure,” Vinnie said. “You versus a D-one running back. No contest.”

“You bring me a coffee?”

“Of course,” Vinnie said. “And there’s lobster benedict in the trunk.”

“Just passing through?” I said. I turned my torso back and forth and gripped my right foot behind me in a quad stretch. I did the same with the left. Tomorrow I would be sore. But as I’d be relaxing with Susan, it wasn’t a major concern.

“What the fuck were you thinking, taking on Davey Stefanakos?”

“It was the first time I’d met Davey,” I said. “He seems very nice. Very professional.”

“You bet,” Vinnie said. “After what you and Hawk did to DeMarco’s people last year, he’s invested in more quality. Stefanakos will swallow you whole. He was a pro fighter. Beat the hell out of some Russian guy. Nearly killed him and got banned for life.”

“Not Ivan Drago,” I said. “He brought hope to us all.”

“I’d advise you get out of town for a while.”

“Already in the works.”

“Bullshit.”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with DeMarco,” I said. “It’s Susan’s birthday. I’m pretty sure DeMarco will still be pissed when I get back.”

“You bet he will,” Vinnie said. He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and then shook his head. “He may have put some money down on the deal.”

“The deal?”

“Your head,” Vinnie said. “Your fucking life. You think you’re making buddies with DeMarco like you did Tony Marcus and Gino Fish? You guys shake hands and then start sending each other Christmas cards? Christ, not everyone gets soft.”

“No one ever accused you of getting soft.”

“Damn right,” Vinnie said. “It was take over my own crew or get pushed out. I wasn’t raised like that. No one pushes me out until I’m ready.”

“I agree.”

“So watch your back,” Vinnie said. “I’ll be there if you need me. But I can’t be there all the time. Who else knows where you’re going?”

“Hawk, Z,” I said. “Henry Cimoli.”

“And don’t tell nobody else,” he said. “I’d keep Hawk and Chief Dan George there close. DeMarco thinks you’re trying to frame him for that church fire and all these crazy fires.”

“I made an inquiry,” I said. “Through your pal Tommy Torch.”

“Tommy Torch is no friend of mine,” he said. “He’s a pederast lowlife. Looks like he told DeMarco and his crew what you were up to. Must’ve gone to the highest bidder.”

“I didn’t offer him anything,” I said. “Besides putting in a good word with the D.A. if his info worked out.”

“You know how to go right to the criminal’s heart.”

I nodded. Vinnie offered his hand. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder and then along the Esplanade. Convinced no one was watching, he nodded and got back into the long Mercedes.

I watched him cut up into Beacon Hill as I walked back to my apartment.

Nice to have friends.

D
id you kill him?” Kevin said.

“Would you shut the hell up,” Johnny said. “Jesus.”

“I’m serious,” Kevin said. “You need to let me know. Because that makes me part of it. I’m not going to jail for this shit. I just want to help.”

“You’re already part of it,” Johnny said. He lit up a Marlboro Red and blew smoke out the window. They were stuck in traffic on the Neponset Bridge headed over to Quincy. He mashed his horn and pounded the wheel with his fist.

Johnny had to check on a faulty sensor at a packie before they made the rounds tonight and Kevin decided to tag along. Johnny had two places that were perfect in Roxbury and another in Braintree. Johnny had grown up there and knew the streets by heart.

“Just what did Featherstone say to you?”

“Like I said, he saw your vehicle at the warehouse we torched,” Kevin said. “I told him it was probably one of your security jobs. But he kept on pushing it.”

“Did he mention anything about any cops or guys in Arson?”

“Nope,” Kevin said. “I think he kept it to himself. He was just kind of talking out loud.”

“He was sure as hell talking to somebody,” Johnny said. “I fucking know it. He was asking you about me because he’d already decided what to do. He wanted to play the fucking hero and take me down. He thought you’d be his goat.”

“Featherstone wasn’t like that,” Kevin said. “You could’ve talked to him. Maybe let him know what we’re doing and how it was going to help the whole department. He’d get it.”

“Guess we’ll
never know,” Johnnie said. Smiling, smoke leaking out of his
nostrils. The traffic moved to a crawl and Johnny reached
across him to the glove box. He pulled out a business card and handed it to him.

“Ever heard of this guy?”

“A private eye?” Kevin said. He sort of laughed. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Are you
doubting me?” Kevin said. “I been in this damn thing
from the start. So don’t get paranoid that everyone is
turning. I said I’d stick with it and I’ll stick
with it. We got the whole department hopping. Things are
gonna get better for them. The city will take care
of them. Give them what they need. Where’d you get
that card?”

“Found it someplace,” Johnny said.

“On Featherstone?”

Johnny mashed his horn and threw up his hands. The car in front of him at a dead stop, traffic moving along ahead into Quincy. The bright summer sun going down over the river.

“We gotta find him,” Johnny said. “I know this
guy at Engine Eight. He says this guy is a
pal of that fat ass Jack McGee. He’s seen them
together. If this guy knew Featherstone and Featherstone told him
about us, we are royally fucked.”

“And then where does it stop, Johnny?” Kevin said. “This is to do some good. You can’t get nuts on me. This guy doesn’t know shit.”

“He’s not part of the department,” Johnny said. “This snoop is a fucking outsider. We need to let him know he’s not welcome to any of this.”

Johnny moved off the bridge and zipped around the big SUV that had been blocking him for the last ten minutes. He gave an old woman the finger and then reached up with his little hand to puff on the cigarette. He tucked the cigarette back in his mouth as he took a turn.

“And how do we do that?” Kevin said. But already knowing the answer.

“You hit a man where he lives and he’ll
never get back up.”

T
he next morning, Susan and I lay side by side in lounge chairs facing a large, clover-shaped pool. The pool looked very much the same as it had more than twenty years ago. The hotel not so much. The carpet was dated and the restaurant less than spectacular. Back in the glory days, it was Dunfey’s. Now it was just called the Resort and Conference Center at Hyannis.

“Do you think I look that much different?” Susan said.

She wore a strapless black one-piece. Her shoulders and long limbs were toned and tan. Her hair was wet, shiny, and black. Her sunglasses were large and white, looking like something lifted from Audrey Hepburn.

“Not a bit,” I said. “But I think I’m taller. And have more stamina.”

“You did last night.”

“Aren’t you impressed I got us the same room?”

“With the same décor,” she said. “I guess the hotel is into nostalgia, too.”

“Would you rather move to the Chatham Bars?”

“Yes,” she said. “But no. We came here for a reason. And it’s a very good one.”

I had on a pair of black Wayfarers, my Braves cap, and red swim trunks. Sometimes, you don’t mess with the classics. “Shall I sing ‘Happy Birthday’ now or at dinner?”

“Is it just you?” she said. “Or have you arranged for an entire orchestra?”

“The Pops were busy,” I said. “How would you feel about Spenser and the Dropkick Murphys? ‘Happy Birthday, Dear Suze’?”

Susan lowered her sunglasses a hint, raised an eyebrow, and arched her back before settling into the lounge chair. Outside the pool, a couple of men practiced on a small putting green and talked about what little they knew about athletics. I’d been told there was an excellent golf course on the premises. The problem was that I had never played golf or ever intended to play.

“Enjoy the break,” I said. “Things might get complicated when we get home.”

“Work?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if Susan could even tell, with the big white sunglasses on.

“Anyone particularly mad at you?” she said. “Or too many to count?”

“I may have focused some interest on the wrong man,” I said. “Who is a very bad man. Just not the right man for what I suspected.”

“You made a mistake?”

“I know,” I said. “Can you believe it?”

“And how’d you find out you’d upset him?”

“Vinnie let me know,” I said. “He recommended we leave town for a bit.”

“Did that annoy you?” she said. “That you had already planned this trip and some might infer it was connected?”

“Very much so.”

Susan’s attention drifted for a moment. A young woman in a black top and small white shorts walked around the pool, checking on guests. Susan tapped her index finger on her lower lip, deep in thought. “Is it too early for a cocktail?”

I looked at my watch. It was after eleven a.m. I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

•   •   •

S
usan ordered a mimosa for her and a Bloody Mary for me. I asked for extra celery and olives to keep it as healthy as possible. As we drank and enjoyed the sun and splashing sounds of the pool, I told her more about the case. I started with Captain Collins and wound my way around to John Grady’s confession and on to my recent talk with the arson investigators.

“Cops think whoever is lighting these fires killed Featherstone, the Spark.”

“And what do you think?”

“Not sure,” I said. “But his wife is sure of it. She says it’s the only important thing he’s ever done in his life.”

“Uncover an arsonist?”

“Get killed by one.”

“I once treated a teenager who was obsessed with fire,” she said. “He was a true pyromaniac. Through cognitive therapy, I believe I was able to help him.”

“What does setting a fire do for a person, doc?”

“This boy had a very high IQ,” she said. “But often fire starters aren’t very bright. Fire fascinates them. Some are even mentally challenged. Others find an interest in fire during puberty. They find something almost sexual about it.”

“Fire and sex seems like a bad match,” I said. “The reason I never cook naked.”

“Almost never,” Susan said.

“Does everything always go back to sex?”

“If you’re a shrink?” she said. “You bet it does. I’ve read in medical journals that the adult who gets consumed by setting fires is driven, much like a sex addict.”

“What about us?” I said. “Are we sex addicts?”

“Addiction is only a problem when it causes harm to yourself and those you love.”

“Sometimes I believe we traumatize Pearl,” I said. “The way she wails and claws at the door. Where will it all lead?”

“Pearl is a mature girl.”

“True.”

“Does Jack McGee believe the church fire was set to harm firefighters?”

“Yes.”

“And have there been other church fires?”

“Two,” I said. “But one was proven electrical. Most have been warehouses.”

“Were they both Catholic churches?”

“The electrical was at a Presbyterian church.”

“I guess you have to separate the arsonist who sets fire for so-called legitimate reasons,” she said. “Revenge, extortion. Sometimes a teenager is just seeking thrills. I would venture to guess a true pyromaniac is a small fraction of those who engage in this type behavior.”

“There is some nut sending notes to arson investigators calling himself Mr. Firebug,” I said. “They’ve got dozens of notes. They always send them to the ATF lab, but whoever sent the note, whether authentic or not, seems to know what they’re doing. No fingerprints. Very common household printer.”

“Mr. Firebug?”

“Catchy.”

“If he’s real, he likes power.”

“Of course.”

“And notoriety.”

“Sure.”

“Is he good at his job?”

“Setting fires?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Cahill certainly thinks so,” I said.

Susan drank some of her mimosa. I shook the ice in the Bloody Mary to squeeze out a few last sips. I popped an olive into my mouth and crossed my legs at the ankles. The golfers
had moved on and we were left with the sound of the wind. A few gulls glided over the golf course.

“Has Jack considered the firebug may be one of his own?”

“I have,” I said. “But to Jack, that would be akin to blasphemy.”

“What happened to your Bloody Mary?” she said.

“I needed to replenish my vitamins and minerals,” I said. “You’re not easy, kid. I plan on getting a dozen oysters for lunch.”

Susan lay back, stretched her legs, and gave a soft sigh. She did not speak for a long while as the sun warmed our bodies. I drank another Bloody Mary. A short time later, Susan strolled back to our room, crooking a finger in my direction.