Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(20)

“That’s not your fault,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said. “It’s in a report. But it was kept quiet.”

“McGee doesn’t want you,” I said. “He wants the men who set this. He thinks it’s this firebug who’s driving the department crazy.”

“That’s it?” Grady said.

I nodded. He wiped his face and blew his nose. It sounded like an out-of-tune trumpet. “What’d Arson tell you?”

“Zip,” I said.

Grady rubbed his face. He nodded. “But you know they got a tape?” he said. “A surveillance tape of some bastard running from the church. Christ. I know for a fact they been sitting on that for a year.”





17


The Arson squad kept separate offices from headquarters in an old firehouse on Mass Ave, blond brick with twin bay doors for investigators’ vehicles. I found a battered red door and took the stairs up to the second floor. The captain knew I was coming and he buzzed me in.

He was a big man, bigger than me, with gray hair and a drooping Sam Elliott mustache. He met me at the landing with a panting yellow Lab at his side. I liked him right away. His name was Teddy Cahill. His dog’s name was Galway.

“Did I mention I can do an amazing rendition of ‘Danny Boy’?”

“I’m glad someone can,” Cahill said. “Went to a wedding this weekend and none of the kids knew the words. It broke my heart.”

“Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but religiously follows the new.”

“You ain’t f*cking kidding.”

We stood in the kitchen and he poured coffee into two mugs. We walked back through a long hall to a cluttered office. Arson headquarters was a collection of beaten desks set end to end with outdated computers and so many file cabinets they lined the outside halls. Galway lay down and sighed.

“How old?”

“She’ll be twelve this year,” he said. “She was a real worker. Now she sticks to the office.”

“Good nose?”

“The best,” he said. “She could lead you right to any accelerant. Now it’s tough to get up these steps.”

I patted the dog’s head. We were kindred spirits. I’d needed a knee replacement last year. Now I’d regained the spring in my step.

“You’re a persistent man,” Cahill said. “You left ten messages. And then got Commissioner Foley on my ass.”

I smiled and sipped my coffee. “I guess I’m not easily deterred.”

“I wasn’t sure what to make of it,” he said. “You being a private snoop and all. But the commissioner said you were okay.”

“High praise?”

“From the commissioner?” he said. “You bet. But I have to wonder, what in the hell do you think you can do that we haven’t tried already? Jesus. This thing has been top priority. We’ve worked every damn angle. And when that wasn’t enough, we called in ATF.”

“And where did that get you?”

“Crap City.”

Galway lifted her head. She scratched at something inside her ear and then lay still.

“I’m not here to critique your work,” I said. “I only promised to look under a few rocks.”

“Heard you might have connections?”

“Some,” I said. “With bookies, leg breakers, and assorted low-lifes. The guards at Walpole and I are on a first-name basis.”

“It’ll take a snitch to lead us somewhere,” Cahill said. “All this high-tech crap we got: photographs, video, lab results. What it’ll really take is one crook turning on another. We weren’t left with much. It’s been tough. Tough on the department and tougher on the families. We all want to know what happened.”

I nodded.

“We’ve ruled a lot out.”

“Of course.”

“And to be honest, I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Some people, I know, have some theories. But all that shit is just talk. I need facts.”

“But there’s a tape?” I said. “Or a digital image? Or whatever you have these days of someone running from the alley by Holy Innocents.”

Cahill sighed and studied me. He was silent for a moment and reached for his coffee mug. Galway was in a gentle snooze, so comfortable she began to snore. Her rib cage expanded and fell with each breath. It had started to rain, a gentle patter on the windows. Thunder broke outside.

“I’d like to see it.”

“Where’d you hear about it?”

“A little bird flew in my office,” I said.

“Jack McGee is a big f*cking bird.”

I shrugged. “You and I both know I work for Jack McGee,” I said. “But I do have other sources.”

“Commissioner didn’t want that out,” he said. “I don’t like it, either.”

“It didn’t come from Jack,” I said. “And I don’t work for The Globe. But a pair of fresh eyes on an old case never hurts.”

Cahill sipped some coffee. I sipped some coffee. The rain fell and Galway snored. She had a vigorous snore. He said, “The investigation is ongoing.”

“As it should be.”