Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(13)

“Investigators have ruled out most everything,” I said. “Including electrical.”

“Arson?”

“Some believe it was set,” I said. “But there’s no evidence. The worry is that if it was arson, the same person is loose and setting new fires.”

“I don’t know why anyone would set fire to the church,” he said. “Plenty of people were very upset about it being sold. They wanted it protected.”

I nodded and tried to give the impression I’d known that all along. I kept nodding so he wouldn’t suspect.

“The archdiocese had been wanting it shut down for years,” he said. “That church was started by German immigrants, but for the last twenty years was mainly an outreach for the homeless and drug abusers. I’d been there for only three years, but we were growing, bringing in young families in the South End. It was becoming a viable church again. As you know, some parts of the South End transition slower than others.”

“So why would they close it?”

“After all the scandals and our numbers dwindling,” he said, “we needed the money. This isn’t your parents’ Catholic Church. Things have changed a great deal.”

“I had expected to become more devout as I grew older. Somehow that hasn’t happened.”

“A Farewell to Arms,” he said. “The old man playing pool with the young lieutenant.”

“A literate priest.”

“I took an American lit course while at BC,” he said. “Some things actually stick. May I ask, are you Catholic, Mr. Spenser? You look to be of Irish stock.”

“My mother was Catholic,” I said.

“Did she take you to Mass?”

“She died in childbirth,” I said. “Her brothers, my uncles, took me some when we moved to Boston. My father had lost all faith. Except what he found in whiskey bottles.”

He nodded.

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to burn the church?” I said. “Did anyone in the neighborhood hold a grudge or ever make threats?”

“No.”

“May I ask who would want to buy an old church?” I said. “Except another religious group.”

“Holy Innocents was the last piece of a block someone needed for some kind of major redevelopment,” he said. “I guess they thought no one would notice the razing of a hundred-year-old historic structure. Or at least didn’t care.”

“Do you recall the buyer?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those decisions are made by men in pointy red hats.”

“Perhaps you might find out for me?”

He studied my face, seeming to take me more seriously now that he knew I’d been raised Catholic. “That should be fairly easy. If you don’t mind waiting.”

I sat there in the hard pew for a half-hour before Conway returned with a name of a development company and a phone number. I thanked him. “I also appreciate you not asking how long it’s been since my last confession.”

“That long?”

I smiled. “Father, I don’t believe you’d even been born.”





12


Herbie Wu agreed to meet me outside his real estate office near Copley Square. I waited on a park bench next to the turtle statues, well within the shadow of the Trinity Church. I spotted Wu as he walked across the square. Not because he was Asian American, but because he looked like a multimillionaire real estate mogul named Herbie. He had on tan shorts, a light blue dress shirt, and a bright purple jacket. His sunglasses looked like they cost more than my SUV. The shorts-and-jacket combo was a bit disconcerting.

I rose, introduced myself, and shook hands. He was short, with small hands and slick hair. He had one of those soul-patch things under his lower lip.

“You know some important people, Mr. Spenser.”

“A few.”

“Fast Eddie Lee?”

“I knew you did a lot of business in Chinatown.”

“Everyone in Chinatown must do business with Mr. Lee.”

“Traditional?” I said.

“Not really,” he said. “Let’s say necessary.”

I nodded.

“And now you do a lot of business in the South End?” I said.

“Some,” he said. “But not as much as I’d like. The South End has grown too expensive even for me. Property is being held hostage. Too rich. Even with some investors from back in the old country.”

“Where’d you grow up, Mr. Wu?”

He grinned. “Quincy.”

I smiled. Pigeons fluttered away from two young boys chasing them. A man playing an accordion had set up nearby and played the latest pop hits. The man didn’t have much talent but seemed enthusiastic.

“Last year you were about to purchase Holy Innocents,” I said.

“Where did you hear that?” he said.

“From a holy man.”

“Did this holy man tell you they still wanted me to pay after the fire?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t pay for damaged property,” he said. “The contract was still being looked after by lawyers. We had kept it out of public record because The Globe would have had a field day with development on a historic property.”