Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (4 page)

T
hey’d been burning shit for months now. What surprised them was how easy it had been. Of course, they had rules. You can’t set a fire closer than fifty feet from a building. You can’t set a fire near an occupied building. Nobody wanted to hurt anyone or do any real damage. They basically piled up junk in weedy lots and poured on the gasoline. Dumpsters were fun because they were self-contained and burned big and bold. At the end of January, they’d lit up the alleys off Storrow Drive and drove over the river to watch them burn. A nice orange glow off the trash every few blocks.

For Kevin, it’d been better than the Fourth of July.

“This is chickenshit stuff,” Johnny said one night at the Scandinavian Pastry shop.

“It’s what we wanted.”

“This is like Halloween pranks,” Johnny said. “I know this building in Mattapan. It’s perfect.”

This was back in the winter, and the idea of a nice big fire had sounded just about perfect. The building was an old triple-decker maybe a quarter-mile down from Norfolk Hardware and Home, where Kevin had worked in high school. Johnny brought a crowbar and they whacked themselves inside. Ray found them a couple threadbare tires to lean up against a wall. The whole place was like a spook house, like the Mickey Mouse cartoon where they were ghost catchers.

This was the night they’d come up with La Bomba. The idea for it was part Kevin’s and part Johnny’s. But what came of it was simple, basic, and beautiful. You fill a freaking Ziploc bag with kerosene, slip it into a brown paper bag, attach a matchbook with tape, and slide in a lit cigarette. The cigarette works like the fuse and you can make it long or short. By the time La Bomba went, they were halfway back to the donut shop. By the time the scanners went nuts, they were all tucked in at the back booth, munching on some plain glazed.

Drinking bad coffee as the Sparks Association—guys who were fans of the flame, too—dropped their dicks and grabbed their coats, all asking: “Hey? Hey, what’s going on? Where is it?”

Johnny shook his head, reached for his coat, this one looking official, with fire patches from all over New England on it, and went out to his red Chevy Blazer, and Kevin to his Crown Vic. They all arrived back at the old
triple-decker in Mattapan about the same time. Johnny had even bought a couple dozen donuts to hand out to the boys. He’d jumped in with the boys from Engine 53 and helped them move the hose as they fanned the roof of the building. Neighbors from down the street came to watch. Cops arrived.

Maybe thirty minutes later, Kevin felt Ray in full cop uniform at his elbow. Ray shaking his head. “You crazy fucks.”

Big Ray was smiling. The idea that they’d boosted the game excited the hell out of him.

And it
did for Kevin, too. They were doing something. They were
bringing meaning and attention to Boston Fire. Someday, when he
got on with BFD, he knew things would be different.
The city would give the guys real equipment, proper fire
houses, and the respect they deserved. This wasn’t just about
burning stuff. This was about his own future and the future for Boston.

“Hot, hot,” Johnny said. “Wow. Can you take my picture?”

Kevin took Johnny’s camera and stepped back. Johnny now wearing a firefighter helmet and the patch-covered coat. Ray ambled over and hugged him. In the background, the firemen worked to put out the blaze. They were sweating and breathing hard. But the practice was good for all of them.

Kevin took the shot and gave the boys a thumbs-up. That was the night Mr. Firebug was born.

T
he next morning, I waited at Flour Bakery near the Seaport for the Boston Fire Museum to open. I tried to use my time constructively by polishing off two cinnamon donuts. Simple, elegant, and perfect. At nine, a tall, lanky man with thinning black hair opened up the old brick firehouse and let me inside. He wore pleated khakis with sneakers and a sensible short-sleeved plaid dress shirt. He turned on the overhead fluorescent lights and a portable scanner by a cash register.

Vintage fire engines and horse-drawn pumps shared the wide space with plenty of old axes, and a collection of helmets hung from the rafters.

The man stood behind the counter and plucked a toothpick in the side of his mouth. He studied me through a pair of thick gold metal glasses with the mild manners of a local insurance agent. His name tag read
ROB FEATHERSTONE
.

Rob Featherstone, head of the Sparks Association, was one of the first at Holy Innocents.

I introduced myself. He gave me a skeptical look and said, “What’s a private cop gotta do with any fire business? Fire business is for the fire department.”

“I’m working with the police,” I said. Sort of telling the truth. “Some people believe whoever torched the church is still out there setting fires.”

“Who said the church was arson?”

“Arson doesn’t have an official cause either way.”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with some private cop,” he said. “Those Arson dicks are sharp. Real sharp. Smart as hell. What’s your name again?”

“Spenser,” I said. “With an
S
.”

“Never hearda you.”

“Unfortunate,” I said.

“Why’s that?”

“I’m huge in Japan.”

“I really wish I knew something,” he said. “But I’m just the guy handing out water and coffee to our boys. Like I said, I got no freakin’ idea how that fire got started. I’m just the support team.”

“Perhaps you might have something or someone,” I said. “Even if it seems small.”

“I was there all of two minutes before Pat Dougherty and his crew pulled up.”

“Who else was there?” I said. “Did you notice anything strange about anyone at the scene?”

“You know how many weirdos like to watch fires?” he said. “Present company included.”

He smiled. I kept my mouth shut.

He grinned and used his fingers to feather over his few remaining strands of black hair. “Must’ve been a hundred folks on Shawmut that night.”

“How long did you stay?”

“All freakin’ night,” he said. “Never went home. I saw those boys run into the church and I was there when they brought ’em out. Goddamn it. I’ll never forget that. That’s what those men mean to this city. Running into a building to stop the fire, protect this neighborhood. That’s why we do what we do. These guys give their lives. These aren’t sport stars with million-dollar contracts. They do it ’cause they got honor and respect for this town.”

“Especially this summer,” I said. “It seems there’s a fire every night.”

“This is the most action the department has seen in a while. But most of it is a lot smaller than that church. Lots of Dumpsters. Abandoned buildings. Burning for show.”

“The church was abandoned, too.”

“That was almost a year ago,” Featherstone said. “Christ, Mr. Spenser. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but who thought you could do any better than the department?”

“If it was an accident,” I said, “I can’t help pinpoint the cause. But if it was something criminal, that’s in my line of work. It takes a while to find a pattern in some random acts.”

“Like I said, I don’t think it was set,” he said. “I know what arsons look like. We had like two dozen in the last couple of months. This was an old church and some wire crossed or some dumb bastard left a cigarette in that alley. I mean, who the hell
would burn a church? You don’t go to confession for that kind of crap.”

The dispatcher advised of two minor injuries on Atlantic Avenue near the aquarium. Police were on scene and reported medical attention was needed. I leaned on the display case and looked down at some artifacts from the Cocoanut Grove fire of ’42. I studied the news clippings and a menu from the old nightclub.

Featherstone walked around the table and joined me at the display. He swiveled the toothpick in his mouth and made a sighing sound.

“I once met the man who thought he’d done it,” Featherstone said. “He’d been nothing but a kid, trying to change out a lightbulb. He lit a match to see what he was doing under a paper palm tree and
whoosh
. That fire burned hotter and faster than about anything in history. When the firemen got inside, they found people still sitting at their tables, cocktails in front of them. Bodies in perfect shape. Christ.”

I nodded and let him talk.

“I think he replayed that event in his mind every damn day.”

“From what you’ve heard, do you think there might’ve been two points of origin?”

“Boy, you don’t quit, do you?” Featherstone said. He smiled and thought about it before shaking his head. “I mean, I can’t be sure. When I got there it was mainly smoke. A lot of black smoke. Everything was coming from the basement and out that side alley. I didn’t see anything in the sanctuary. But after Dougherty, Bonnelli, Mulligan, and Grady went in, I could see the big stained-glass window lit up with the fire. The fire had
burned its way upstairs and into the sanctuary. But as far as two fires, I can’t say. I guess we’ll really never know.”

“I hope that’s not the case.”

“I didn’t leave that church until maybe two or three the next day. I was there when Dougherty’s wife and two of his kids showed up. That’s something I didn’t want to see. You ever hear someone scream not out of fright but out of real animal pain? Stuff deep inside?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s what it is,” Featherstone said. He walked back around from the counter. A thick-calved woman in a blue dress and a husky kid in a tricorne hat bounded into the museum. The husky kid tried to crawl under the velvet ropes and onto a horse-drawn pump. “Hold on.”

The husky kid made it as far as the wooden wheels before Featherstone told him to get back behind the ropes. Featherstone wandered back to me.

“I didn’t get real close,” he said. “Most of the fire I was working. I hate what happened to the guys. But shit, I’d do anything I could if some son of a bitch set it. But it’s just a sad day, nothing more. Life sometimes doesn’t make any sense.”

“But if something changes,” I said. I handed him my card.

“I promise,” he said.

Unlike John Grady, he didn’t toss it on the floor. Progress.

F
ive days later, Boston Fire marked the year anniversary that Dougherty, Bonnelli, and Mulligan had died inside Holy Innocents. Outside the blackened shell of what had been the church, the chaplain prayed and everyone dropped their heads. It started to rain. Except for a few politicians, nobody opened an umbrella during the service to the fallen firefighters.

The whole South End went quiet. You could hear the wind and rain hitting the street.

The fire radio clicked on and a dispatcher read the men’s names and time of the fire last year to the minute. Across Boston, sirens wailed. The skies then opened up and covered Shawmut Street in slanted sheets of water.

I pulled up the collar on my jacket and removed my hat. I stood back as the firefighters shook hands and hugged one another. Across the street, TV news trucks had set up, taking video
from a respectable distance. After a few minutes, the fire trucks drove away. Dozens of firefighters lingered. A few of them were walking into a break in the fence line and going into the church.

“You making any progress?” McGee said.

“I interviewed four more first responders,” I said. “And a half a dozen people who watched the church burn.”

“Insurance?”

“Checked that out, too,” I said. “Only one to benefit would be the archdiocese.”

“They’ve done a helluva lot worse.”

“Sure,” I said. “But their payout wouldn’t be even touching the historic value.”

“Yeah,” McGee said. “I guess they might’ve turned it into a steakhouse or something. Like that—”

“Smith and Wollensky,” I said. “Of course the South End is growing that way. Maybe someday it will be a B and B for Labradoodles.”

“First came the gays and all their arty-farty stuff and now the investment bankers with their Mercedes SUVs, complaining about all the city noise and traffic.”

“Leave it to Gary Cooper and gays to clean up Dodge.”

“This property is worth something to somebody,” McGee said.

“Sure.”

“Maybe worth more cleared than as some musty old church.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I’ll bet dollars to donuts,” McGee said.

“Always an unwise bet,” I said.

“Why?”

“I hold one in higher esteem.”

“You tell me what, then,” McGee said. “What else is there but greed? Someone wanted that church gone.”

“Revenge,” I said. “Extortion. An act of God.”

“Revenge is looking good,” McGee said. “But God would never let this happen. Not my God, anyway.”

The rain slackened and I shook the water from my hat. It was a road hat for the Mississippi Braves that a friend down south had sent. Nearly identical to my Boston Braves hat except for the big
M
with a tomahawk through it. I watched the men coming and going from the break in the chain-link fence. I spotted John Grady. He had on a blue windbreaker but no hat. His long hair fell limp and wet over his big head as he gave me a hard stare.

After a few minutes, a tall man with a clipped mustache and wearing a black raincoat walked out.

“Oh, shit,” McGee said.

I looked at McGee.

“Fucking Commissioner Foley,” he said. “He’s going to make a thing. Oh, Christ.”

Foley shook a few more hands and then the commissioner walked on over. He wore a navy suit with a pale yellow tie. As he moved, you could see a small gold shield adorning his lapel. A smaller man in dress uniform walked in stride almost like a shadow.

He patted McGee’s back, shook his hand, and eyed me. “Who’s your friend?”

McGee introduced me.

“Yeah,” he said. “I heard of you.”

“My reputation stretches far and wide,” I said.

“And that you’ve pissed a lot of people off.”

“Yep.”

“And caused a lot of folks in BPD a headache.”

“Also true.”

He put his hands in his pockets, looked down at the wet pavement. He shook his head as he stroked his mustache in thought. His sidekick stood back, eyeing me and Jack McGee with a raised chin.

“But I heard other things, too,” Foley said.

I looked to Jack McGee. And he looked back at me, eyes widened.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said. “You been fucking sneaking around. Asking questions at my firehouses without coming to me first.”

I nodded.

“You know these were good, honorable men?” Foley said. “And they died doing the right thing. They were helping people in this fucking city.”

“I do.”

“Then quit sneaking around,” Foley said, putting a hand on my back. “You want to poke around? Fine. Then do it right. Come on down, I want you to see where they died.”

McGee looked at me and let out a long, steady breath.