Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (14 page)

I
met Hank Phillippi Ryan an hour later at Government Center. Hank worked as an investigative reporter for WHBH, the NBC affiliate that had studios nearby on Bulfinch Place. She took a seat with me on a concrete bench with a nice view of the soulless brick piazza. I brought her a coffee the way she liked it. Skim milk with one sugar.

I gave her my best smile, the one that showed my white teeth and dimples. “Help me, Hank.”

She reached out and hugged me. I was careful not to spill the coffee. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can stay with Susan for a while,” I said. “She promises reasonable rent and fringe benefits.”

Hank was a tall woman with ash-blond hair and dark eyes. She had on a black wrap dress and a simple string of pearls. “And then what?”

“I’ll hunt for a new place,” I said. “Living together isn’t an option for us.”

I handed Hank the coffee. She thanked me and we watched a huge gathering not far from the T station. There had been several shootings over the weekend in Roxbury. Many walked to the central plaza with signs reading
BLACK LIVES MATTER
. The coffee and the commotion in the plaza thankfully distracted her.

“I interviewed the family of one of the kids,” she said. “He was only fourteen and ambushed by two older kids. He’d been sent to the corner store by his mother.”

“Never stops.”

“Nope,” she said. “But I wish to God it would. We’ve seen a few things in this city. I guess you wanted to ask me about another neighborhood. Your Mr. Firebug?”

“Yep.”

“I guess I should be flattered,” Hank said. “All the psychopaths adore me.”

“Lucky you.”

“How’d you know about the letters?” she said. “We decided not to report on them. It’s obviously what he wants. It’s our station policy not to give that kind of publicity. We turned them over to Boston Fire.”

“Teddy Cahill told me,” I said. “He says they’re authentic.”

“I know,” Hank said. “But did Teddy tell you that he’s given details of the fire that only the arsonists would know?”

“That he did not.”

“This guy may be a loon, but he’s careful,” Hank said. “No prints. Nothing they can use yet.”

“Do we have to be gender-specific?” I said. “Maybe Mr. Firebug is a ruse. Maybe it’s Miss Firebug.”

“Sounds like an exotic dancer,” she said. “How about the insurance angle?”

“I tried to follow the money trail,” I said. “But that didn’t pan out. In the process, I may have angered some local wise guys.”

“If you don’t piss off a few people each day, what’s the use of getting up?”

I toasted her with my coffee. I leaned forward on the bench. More protesters walked across the plaza to join the rally. A man with a bullhorn began to speak. We listened to what he had to say and it made a great deal of sense. The movement began to march toward city hall. We waited as it passed until we spoke again.

“You know this guy has done dozens of fires,” Hank said. “And he promises much more until he gets what he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“The funny thing about crazies is that he hasn’t really said.”

“Did you keep copies of the letters?”

Hank returned the question with a look that seemed to appraise my intelligence.

“May I see the copies?”

“Of course.”

We sat in the hot, shadeless expanse of Government Center. I’d sweated through my T-shirt as if I’d run a marathon. I did not detect a note of perspiration on Hank. It must be a TV reporter’s trick of the trade.

“I have another favor,” I said.

“Of course you do.”

“Do you think I only come to you when I need something?”

“You know, I was having lunch with Rita Fiore just the other day at Trade,” Hank said. “And we were discussing this very thing.”

“I have done plenty of things for Rita,” I said.

“You know, she was saying exactly the opposite.”

“I can imagine the way Rita would say it.”

“What’s the favor?” Hank said. She absently looked at her phone and then at the thin watch on her wrist.

“I want to look at video of the fires.”

“Which fires?”

“Every fire that is suspect.”

“That’s a lot,” she said. “This guy has been burning Boston since the first of the year.”

“And maybe beyond that,” I said.

Hank raised her eyebrows. I lifted up a hand. “The more I know, the more I can share.”

“You better.”

I crossed my heart and held up my right hand. “I think this all started last year,” I said. “I think Mr. Firebug got started with the old church but got scared and stopped. Now he’s revved back up for the summer season.”

“Arson already went through our video,” she said. “I figured if they’d found something, they’d have asked for copies. They were here for a few hours and then didn’t come back.”

“Maybe I’ll see something they didn’t,” I said. “I do have a keen, appraising eye.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “I can get you a private room to watch the raw footage.”

“You mind if I sleep there, too?”

“I’m sure Susan won’t place a time limit on you,” she said. “But if she does, I know Rita would make room in her bed.”

“You know, she’s only bluffing.”

“You really believe that?” Hank raised her eyebrows again. We stood and shook hands, and she walked off without saying good-bye.

A
lthough he wouldn’t remain under my tutelage for long, I knew watching endless hours of video was the perfect training exercise for Z. At first, he seemed skeptical. But I enticed him with the promise of grinders from Quincy Market and free coffee from the TV station canteen.

“Yippee,” he said.

“A dream come true.”

“You think it’ll be more glamorous in Los Angeles?”

“City of Angels,” I said. “What do you think? It’s probably a law you get a massage on a stakeout. Herbal tea during a car chase.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” he said. “They must be true.”

“How many hours have we logged?” I said. The room was dark and cold. It seemed as if we’d been there since the early 1970s. I had not seen Hank, but one of her producers had
checked on us twice. One brought coffee. Another donuts. God bless them.

“Eighteen fires,” he said. “We’ve been here for six hours.”

“Keep track of time for your invoices.”

“Are you invoicing Jack McGee?” Z said.

I shrugged, took a sip of coffee, and asked him to continue on with the video. Even though it wasn’t tape anymore, it was a digital image housed on a TV station server. I was a long way from watching Super 8 with my football coach and the whir and click of the machine. Z worked a mouse to stop, freeze, and zoom in. After a while, everything looked the same. Not every fire had been filmed by WHDH, only the nastiest ones. Most of the footage showed the firefighters doing their thing and then a standup from the public-information guy, Steve MacDonald. Sometimes Commissioner Foley would take questions from reporters. We fast-forwarded through all the talk. We were looking at the onlookers. I hoped that somewhere the arsonist would show his face and return to do so again. If we could spot a face in the crowd more than once, we might just have a pattern.

“That guy,” Z said. “I saw him from an earlier fire. Tall, goofy guy. Kind of balding.”

He backed up the video. It was Rob Featherstone.

“He’s dead,” I said. “But let’s see who he’s with.”

Z ran it for several seconds and then froze the frame. I asked Z to make a screen grab of the image. It was Featherstone and two other men handing out bottles of water. Featherstone and other men who must have been Sparks appeared at several of the fires. At first glance, they would have been
dismissed by anyone familiar with fire scenes. But now, with Featherstone dead, it was worth taking another look at the company he kept.

“So they are like fans,” Z said, “only for firemen?”

“Yep.”

“And they go to fires and try to assist.”

“Yep.”

“When I played football, we had many women who wanted to assist us.”

“I bet.”

“My girlfriend wanted to assist me morning and night until I got benched,” he said. “And then she wanted to assist someone else.”

“That’s why sometimes one must assist oneself.”

“Are you always filled with such wisdom?”

“How will you make it without me?”

The video moved ahead, showing a warehouse in flames and firefighters shooting water into the guts of the building. Z clicked on another thumbnail image for an apartment fire from March. He let the unedited video run. He skipped through the standup and moved on from the tight footage of the burning building, firefighters, and EMTs. Nothing new. We skipped a couple fires, as they did not match those suspected by Cahill. I wanted to see only fires considered for arson. Several fires, including one where six people died, were accidental. If we didn’t get what we needed, we could go back and look at those, too.

I got up and stretched. Z and I walked over to Quincy Market for some coffee and grinders. The donut talk had really gotten our appetites going. We watched another three hours of
footage, walked to the Harbor Health Club, and worked out on the heavy bag and with mitts.

I drove back home and had dinner with Susan.

The next morning, we were at it again.

An hour into the last several months, Z stopped a quick pan to a crowd. The shot was only two or three seconds. But with the digital video, we could zoom in tight. Z stood up and stretched and pointed at the large computer monitor. “You see that?”

“See what?”

“The man pointed a gun in the air.”

I looked closer and saw just the glint of a metallic object flash and then disappear. Z pressed slow forward and it became clear it was a gun. A man brandished a pistol for a second, a large smile crossing his face. It appeared the two men with him were laughing and smiling.

“They’re celebrating,” I said.

“Yep,” Z said. “Eight families out of an apartment in Southie. They may not be arsonists, but they are guilty of being assholes.”

“Why would anyone celebrate a fire?”

Z captured several still images. He zoomed in very close to the men’s faces.

T
he late Rob Featherstone’s second-in-command, Jerry Ramaglia, met me across from the Boston Fire Museum at Flour Bakery. I bought us two coffees and found a somewhat secluded table by a picture window fronting Farnsworth. It was late. The light had turned a soft summer gold on the old warehouses and garages.

“I heard what happened to your place,” Ramaglia said. “I’m sorry. If we can do anything. Or help any of the tenants.”

I thanked him. Between us sat a lemon meringue pie to share with Susan tonight in lieu of rent. She, too, recognized Joanne Chang’s particular genius. My Braves cap rested on the box to stake my claim.

“Someone believes Rob left his suspicions with me,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Rob’s wife is screwy, but I think she’s right about this. He got shot in the back and dumped off a bridge.
What’s the matter with this city? The man only wanted to help others. He was a freakin’ saint.”

I resisted the urge to open the box and start in on the pie with both hands. Restraint.

“How long have you been a Spark?” I said.

“Twenty-two years,” he said. “Loved every minute.”

I slid the stills from a large manila mailer and set them on the table between us. “Recognize these men?”

Ramaglia reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of cheaters. Had I not been in public, I might have reached for mine. He studied the first photo for a while and then flipped through the rest. He shuffled them in a neat pile and placed them on the envelope. “Jesus Christ.”

“Know them?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Afraid I do.”

“Are they Sparks?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “Thank God. The young guy’s name is Teehan. I don’t know his first name. He runs with this guy Johnny Donovan who’s a bad seed. He tried to join the association for at least ten years. About three years ago, he came to our meeting unannounced and basically told Rob that he was a fucking asshole. I hadn’t seen him much since, but I know he’s still out there, trying to say he’s a Spark. He drives a big red Chevy SUV, pretending he’s official or something. A first-class Froot Loop. Someone should bring him up on charges.”

“Is he violent?”

“I don’t think so,” Ramaglia said. “Just a nut. Why? You think these are the guys?”

“They were observed acting very strange at a few fire scenes.”

“They are strange,” Ramaglia said. “But I don’t see them shooting Rob in the back. Teehan is a blowhard. But he loves firefighters. He wouldn’t torch a building and put the boys in danger. The guy who killed Rob lit those fires and burned you out, too.”

“You know where I can find them?”

“Donovan runs some kind of security business in Southie,” Ramaglia said. “I know he’s a rent-a-cop of some sort. Always has a badge and a gun.”

“What about Teehan?”

“He’s just a kid,” Ramaglia said. “Jesus, I don’t know. Probably still lives with his mother. I can ask around.”

“Is he friendly with any of the Sparks?”

“A few,” Ramaglia said. “You know, he’s a good kid if he kept different company.”

“Can you ask around without mentioning me or that anyone is asking about him?”

“Sure.”

I drank some coffee. I continued to resist the urge to eat part of the pie. I even had silverware within reach. If I worked out a sliver, Susan wouldn’t even notice. It had been a hard week. I deserved some pie.

“What about the third man?” I said. “Do you know him?”

Ramaglia shook his head. “I may have seen him hanging around,” he said. “Can I keep one of those pictures?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “But keep this circle tight.”

Ramaglia drank some coffee. It felt very good to be in the air-conditioning and drinking hot beverages. I planned to stop back by the new farmers’ market again tonight. That place was
the best thing to hit Boston since Carl Yastrzemski. I also could use several new shirts, khakis, and jeans. Underwear, socks, bullets.

“Rob’s wife’s not doing so good,” Ramaglia said. He looked out the window at a group of children from a summer day camp jumping and jostling. “She held up good for the wake and all. But now it’s over, she’s a fucking mess. They were together a long time.”

The kids continued to make a lot of noise, like a crazy parade, and continued toward the waiting doors of a school bus. Everyone waited in a neat and orderly line for the bus to let them inside. A few of them pounded on the side of the bus; others took in the scenery around them.

“Call me if you can find out about the third guy,” I said. “Or get a first name on Teehan that I could check out.”

“Rob was good people. Ain’t nobody deserves to die like that. Whoever did this and torched your apartment is a real coward. I sure hope you can help.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”