Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(12)

“Ease off,” Foley said. “Let me see what I can do.”

We walked back out into the light rain and fresh air. I took a deep breath, but could still smell the blackened wood and fire on my clothes. The short, squat man I’d seen before was waiting by a red Ford Explorer, holding a door open for Foley. The front plate had an official BFD tag.

Foley stopped for a moment to stare at McGee. “Is he as good as he says?”

McGee looked to me. “If he’s half as good as his ego, it’ll help.”

“Jack speaks the truth,” I said. “My ego is massive.”

Foley gave me a nod and walked to the car. The car sped away and I was alone in the rain with Jack McGee.

“What the f*ck was that?” he said.

“Cooperation?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Watch your ass. Anytime a jake leaves the ranks, it makes me nervous.”





10


Susan was still in session. I let myself in, took Pearl for a short walk, and as a reward popped the top on a Lagunitas IPA. Z had introduced me to the beer, as it hailed, like him, from the West Coast.

I sat on Susan’s back deck and tossed tennis balls to Pearl. Even though Pearl was aging, she could retrieve better than Irving Fryar. A tennis ball wasn’t quite the pros, but she didn’t seem to mind. I let Pearl back in the house for some water, removed my knit shirt, and started Susan’s push lawnmower. Her diminutive lawn had gotten shaggy.

The whole thing took less than twenty minutes.

After I finished, I helped myself to another beer as a reward and sat again with Pearl on the back deck. I had on Levi’s, a pair of running shoes, and sunglasses. I must have looked rakish when Susan walked onto the back deck and eyed the lawn. Freshly cut grass smelled of summer.

“How much do I owe you?” she said.

“I’ve seen movies that started off like this.”

“How about you prune the bushes and we’ll talk.”

I smirked but restrained comment. Susan only shook her head.

Susan had already changed from shrink garb into a pair of khaki shorts and a lightweight gray T-shirt with a tiny square pocket. She wore her hair on top of her head in a bun and no shoes. Her large, dark eyes were luminous.

“How about an early dinner at Alden and Harlow?” I said.

“Or a later dinner at the Russell House Tavern?” she said.

“Equally enticing,” I said. “Does a later dinner imply we enjoy a matinee?”

She sat with me on the steps, took a sip of the beer, and handed it back. I was pretty sure she was surveying my landscaping skills. “I knew you were angling when you cut the grass.”

“Did you notice the patterns I mowed?” I said.

“Amazing.”

“Out front, I cut a little heart with an arrow through it.”

“What will the neighbors say?”

“It’s Cambridge,” I said. “They find us as eccentric as everyone else.”

“Okay,” she said. “But only on one condition.”

“I wear a lacy thong?”

“Ha,” she said. “Just don’t mess up my hair, big guy.”

I threw the tennis ball long and far for Pearl, stood, and opened the back door wide for Susan. She walked on ahead of me into the coolness of her house and tossed her T-shirt into my face.

“Race you upstairs,” she said.





11


The next morning, I called on Father Conway at the Immaculate Conception Church in Revere. Conway was a youngish guy, mid-thirties, with a long, thin face and close-cropped dark hair. He wore a clerical collar on his clergy shirt and black-framed glasses that we’d called birth-control specs in the service. He looked a lot like a young Fred Gwynne, minus the bolts in his neck.

“At first I was thankful the church was abandoned,” Conway said. “But then they brought those men out in bags. I’ll never forget the firefighters standing at attention as they loaded them in ambulances. It was a horrible morning.”

Up front stood the requisite organ and an all-star lineup of saints along the walls, holy water in a marble baptismal font, and a large wooden cross draped in white. The carpet in the sanctuary was very old, the color of a putting green. The church smelled as fresh as a grandmother’s coat closet.

“I was there yesterday,” I said. “For the memorial.”

“I wanted to attend,” Conway said. “But I had two funerals this morning. And a wake tonight.”

“Plenty of security in your work,” I said.

“And yours,” he said. Smiling. “It’s been a busy and hard summer. When I counsel people I often talk about how our troubles could be much worse. Often it’s the small things that pressure us most.”

“Life,” I said. “Just a temporary condition.”

Conway smiled at me and nodded. I sat in the second row of pews and he sat in the first. His left arm was stretched out lengthwise as he turned around to talk with me. He looked very relaxed and at home in the musty old church.

“Did you ever hear any theory from the arson investigators?”

“No.”

“Any theories of your own?”

“With a church that old, I would assume something electrical,” he said. “I don’t believe anyone ever found out. And it seems now they never will.”