Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(15)

Johnny looked at him like he was a freakin’ idiot. “No. I forgot it. Hell, yes, I got it. It’s in the trunk. I made six of them. I figured with three of us working, we could spread them around.”

“What about a security guard?” Kevin said.

“Not tonight,” Johnny said. “Off on Friday night. Besides, they don’t make them here anymore. They ship ’em in from China or somewhere. It’s just a f*cking warehouse now. Ready to burn.”

“How do we get in?” Kevin said.

“Back loading dock,” he said, holding up his crowbar. “A cheap deadbolt on a clasp. Snap, crackle, pop.”

A whoop-whoop siren came from deep down the alley and the men turned. A patrol car rolled by slowly with its lights on, a spot flicking back and forth over the road and up onto the brick warehouse, finally falling on their faces, burning their eyes. “Christ,” Johnny said.

The patrol car stopped, and in the blinding light, a door opened and a shadow of a cop got out. “Show me your hands, f*cknuts.”

“Screw you, Ray,” Johnny said. “You about gave me a f*cking heart attack.”

“You’d have to have a heart first,” Ray said, snorting. “And a dick.”

Ray turned off the spotlight and followed them over to Johnny’s car. Johnny popped the trunk to show six brown paper bags set neat in a row, as if ready for lunchtime. Each of the men grabbed two bags. Johnny ran down the layout of the place where they were most likely to get more bang for the buck. The third floor was pretty much empty, but there was a room with a lot of scraps and trash in it. The fourth floor was gold, with old mattresses stacked ten feet high and ready to burn.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ray said.

“Yes, Officer,” Johnny said, flicking at his badge. “But do you?”

“I just want to do some good,” Ray said, heading toward the loading dock. He was just like the rest of them, would give up his left arm to be a firefighter. If he hadn’t gotten on with the cops first, he’d still be waiting for them to call his number. Instead, you had to be a f*cking veteran, the son of a fireman, or some dummy minority. All of them could add so much to the department. All of them wanting to fight fires since they were kids.

As the big rolling door slid back, Kevin recalled that little room in Lynn where he’d grown up. The stars and the moons on his blanket and the little red fire hat on the hook by the door. She was so sure he’d be part of it someday. The happiest days were after they’d look for fires, both of them coming up smelling like smoke, talking about what they’d seen and heard. Never talk about his father. He was nothing. He could never be a man like those in the department. Not like what Kevin would become.

Kevin carried a sack in each hand and walked into the darkness, a small bit of light shining through the dirty industrial windows. He was to set both on the first floor. Johnny would call them on the walkie-talkie when it was time to set it off.

Two years since he turned in his application. Two years of calling every month to see where he stood on the list. Still fifty ahead of him. None of them ready for the challenge like he was.

Kevin sat on his haunches in the middle of the desolate building. It was warm inside, with trapped heat from the long summer day. He lit a cigarette and smoked a bit, taking in the big, cavelike space that smelled of mold and stagnant water. New boxed mattresses stacked ten to fifteen high as far as he could see. He watched the glowing tip of the cigarette and took a breath. Everything just seemed endless.

“Now,” Johnny said. “Do it!”





13


Some might deem this entrapment,” I said.

Hawk said, “Heard it was Give a Honkie a Donut Day.”

“Is that a thing?” I said.

“Is now.”

I reached into the box from Kane’s and selected a cinnamon sugar. The selection was dazzling. Toasted coconut. Oreo sprinkles. Maple bacon. Since Kane’s had come from Saugus to the Financial District, I’d been unfaithful to my old standby.

“Who eats meat on donuts?” Hawk said.

“It’s not just meat,” I said. “It’s bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

Hawk nodded. We leaned against the brick wall above the marina at Rowes Warf. Hawk selected a coconut, careful not to get any shavings on his fitted T-shirt. It was the kind that wicked away sweat. In the late-afternoon heat, his face and bald head shone with perspiration.

“What’s in it for me?” Hawk said.

“C’mon,” I said. “How’d you know I needed a favor?”

Hawk just looked at me. He reached for a donut and took off a healthy bite.

“Arson case,” I said. “Looks like it’s circling back to Jackie DeMarco.”

“Hot dog.”

“And given our history with Jackie,” I said. “Well. You know.”

“Ha,” Hawk said.

I ate a donut, trying to make it last, and stared out into the harbor. It was late afternoon and the water was filled with motorboats, little speedboats, and yachts. The water ferry from Logan skitted along, churning waves, cutting a path to the Boston Harbor Hotel.

“You think Jackie’s still holding a grudge?”

“I shot two of his best men.”