Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn

by Ace Atkins

  “That seems to be the consensus.”

  “No, really,” he said. “I’m not kidding. He’s always been crazy. But lately. Holy Christ. He’s got these theories. He won’t let this fire go. Can’t quit running his mouth. Somehow his brains have gotten all scrambled. Can’t believe he made fucking captain.”

  “He lost a close friend.”

  “What about me?” Grady said. “I lost three great friends and broke my freaking back. You don’t see me blaming bogeymen. Shit happens, you know? You think there’s order in this universe, but no one is driving the fucking bus.”

  “Baseball, beer, and existentialism,” I said.

  “You trying to get smart?”

  “Too early in the day.” I sipped the second half of my Guinness. Ortiz hit a ball far and a little too high.

  Grady slapped the bar and said, “Come on. Come on. Come on. How much is that fucking guy making?”

  An outfielder for the Blue Jays snagged it and threw it hard and fast whence it came. Grady shook his head and took a sip of beer. He signaled the bartender for another. He did not seem the least bit drunk or tipsy. It might take a keg or two, as he appeared to be pushing about two-fifty.

  “You never did say,” he said.

  “Say what?”

  “Why McGee sent you.”

  “Jack didn’t send me,” I said. “I just heard you’d been in that church before the flashback. Before your friends were trapped.”

  He nodded. But the look on his face was not pleasant. It turned a bright shade of red as he swallowed hard. He shook his head several times to show his disappointment in me.

  “I hoped you’d tell me what you saw down there,” I said. “I know Mike Mulligan radioed that the fire seemed to have started in two directions. What do you think about that?”

  The bartender took away his pint glass and wiped down the moisture left behind. He laid down a fresh pint as John Grady studied my face. He wore his hair shaggy and long over his eyebrows and covering his ears. “Why? Why does it matter? Arson looked into it. I mean, Jesus Christ. Who the fuck are you?”

  I introduced myself.

  “That name supposed to mean something?”

  “Ever read The Faerie Queen?”

  “Do I look queer to you?”

  “I would never speculate on one’s sexual orientation,” I said. “But your hair is a little long.”

  “You wanna get popped in the mouth?” he said.

  “Not really,” I said. “I need it to drink beer.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “But how about you change the freakin’ channel and quit busting my nuts. Unknown origin means freakin’ unknown. It means you can’t wrap up causes in a neat little package for the insurance companies and the paper-pushers. That church was a hundred years old. Christ. Shit happens.”

  “Shit happens isn’t working for Jack McGee.”

  “Like I said, his head is fucked up,” Grady said. He downed half his glass. “Like I said, no one is at the wheel. It’s the anniversary, you know? Next week. They’re having some kind of memorial. There’s talk of putting up a freakin’ statue or something.”

  “And you’ll be there?”

  He looked at me as if I might be nuts, too. He shook his head. “I’m a Boston firefighter, what the fuck do you think? I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to do. But you start pissing on the memory of these men and you’ll get your ass stomped.”

  “Sometimes, after a while, small details add up.”

  “Leave it alone,” Grady said. “My back doesn’t work on a divine plan, like the sisters used to tell us.”

  “But did you hear Mulligan say the fire had spread independently from two sources?”

  “He said a lot of things before he died,” he said. “That ain’t one of them. I heard his last words. They were about his brothers with him. Not the fucking fire.”

  “But it’s possible?” I said.

  “Pfft,” Grady said. “Crap.”

  “You’re one of the first on the scene,” I said. “Did you hear of anyone running from the building before the fire?”

  “It was late,” he said. “Nobody was there. What are you getting at? Nobody but Jack McGee thinks this was arson and the guy is still running crazy and loose. If that makes him feel better, let him think it. But how about you just let me sit here and watch my team lose. Do you mind? Is that too much to fucking ask?”

  “Not a bit.”

  I placed my business card next to his beer. Grady studied it for a moment, and without looking away from the game, ripped it into several pieces and tossed it down to the floor. He sipped the beer some more. A nameless vet for the Sox was up to bat.

  It didn’t take too long before he struck out, too.

  6

  Being a dogged professional and having zip to go on, I stopped by police headquarters, picked up the Arson file Quirk had left for me, and returned to my office. I set a metal fan on top of my desk, opened the window in my turret over Berkeley, and tried to scatter the warm, stale air. I left my door open and made coffee. I could drink hot coffee in hell itself.

  For the next hour, I read the reports on the Holy Innocents fire. There were interviews with the first responders, including Captain Collins and John Grady. There were interviews with witnesses, including a bartender just coming onto a shift, a taxi driver who’d first seen smoke coming from the basement, and a professional dog trainer named Janet Vera. There were lab tests on the type of char left on walls and support beams. Investigators ruled out electrical. Investigators ruled out accidental. Neither hide nor hair had been inside the building for weeks.

  The coffee was ready. I poured a cup. Thick corned-beef sandwiches, tepid Guinness, and hot days were the trifecta to make me sleepy. I added a spoonful of sugar to my coffee and spun around in my chair. I read the autopsy reports for the men. They died of asphyxiation before being overcome by the flames. There were diagrams and maps showing where they’d fallen.

  The file noted conversations between arson investigators and homicide detectives. The last entry came late last year.

  Across Berkeley, in the new Houghton Mifflin Harcourt building, I watched a lithe woman in a red wrap dress walk from her desk, out her door, and then back to her desk again. Although I admired her commitment to personal fitness, I decided not to guess her age.

  I waved to the young woman. She lifted her head and then quickly shut the blinds. Ah, realize your youth while you have it.

  I finished the coffee and poured another half-cup. I thought about reading back through the file. Or perhaps cleaning my .38 or the .357 I kept in my right-hand drawer. I could open up a bottle of Bushmills. Or I could go to the gym and sweat.

  I chose the latter, and within thirty minutes, I was sparring with Z at Henry’s. We wore protective gear with eighteen-ounce gloves. We forwent the groin padding. That’s how much I trusted Zebulon Sixkill.

  He rocked a couple shots to my ribs. Even through the padding, I felt them.

  “The force is strong with you,” I said. “But you’re not a Jedi yet.”

  “I will be soon,” he said. “With the paper to prove it.”

  We circled each other in the ring. I stepped forward and jabbed while he sidestepped the punch. I leveled a solid right against his head. His head reeled back.

  “He’s still got it,” he said.

  “You bet.”

  He took the opportunity to work out a nice combo on my body and went for the head. I ducked it and came up with a glancing blow in his stomach.

  “What will Boston do without you?” I said.

  “The women of Los Angeles need me,” Z said. “But I’ll finish what we started.”

  “And what if Hawk and I ever need you?” I said.

  “Let’s call L.A. a branch office,” Z said. “I’m under the impression there
’s crime and corruption on the West Coast, too.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

  Z dropped his gloves a bit. Jab, cross, left uppercut, cross. The second cross connected with his head. Harder than he or I had expected. He stumbled back a couple steps. I backed up and circled. He smiled, shook his head, and came back for me. We’d trained for years and I’d miss him a great deal.

  “Hawk said if you can’t beat ’em, shoot ’em,” Z said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “However, I’ve never known anyone who could beat Hawk.”

  “Or you?”

  “Living?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nope.”

  “So when do you use a gun instead of your fists?” Z said.

  “Only when necessary,” I said. “Don’t pull your gun if you’re not willing to kill.”

  Z nodded. He stepped in and jabbed twice, shot a cross, and then followed with a hook. The hook shaved my ribs but, had it connected, might have proved painful.

  “Sell the punch,” I said. “Always sell the punch.”

  The timer buzzed, and we both grabbed the water bottles where we’d left them. We were both breathing hard and our T-shirts were soaked in sweat. Z took off his headgear and poured water over his black hair. He spit in a bucket and we both waited for the buzzer.

  “One more round,” I said. “Keep your hands up.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “The hardest lessons are the easiest to forget.”

  The buzzer sounded and again we circled each other.

  They’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 firehouses, 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.

  7

  The 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, protec
t 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.”