Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(21)

“Any details stay within this f*cking building,” he said.

“You bet.”

“If news was to get out—” he said. “With all the shit we been dealing with. You might have seen we’ve been pretty damn busy.”

“I understand. When I worked for the Middlesex DA, I learned to keep things to myself.”

I asked for some more coffee and Cahill stood and left the room. It was not only a stalling technique but also because I wanted more coffee. I patted Galway’s flank, thinking of Pearl aging, and waited until Cahill returned. “Do I have your word?” he said.

I nodded.

“Nobody,” he said. “I mean f*cking nobody is supposed to know about this.”

“Sure.”

He reached for his phone, dialed up somebody, and told them to come into the room.

“How good is the image?” I said.

“Terrible.”

“How terrible?”

“It’s nothing but a freakin’ shadow,” he said. “What the hell can we do with that?”





18


An investigator by the name of Cappelletti leaned over his desk and scrolled through dozens of video thumbnails on his laptop. Cahill had walked me down the hall and introduced us. Cappelletti, who worked as unit photographer, seemed dubious about my intentions. He had buzzed brown hair and wore a red T-shirt with jeans. He kept sunglasses on a loop around his neck and chewed gum.

“You any relation to Gino?” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“Mr. Patriot?” I said.

“What’d I tell you?” Cahill said. “This generation doesn’t speak our language.”

The tech looked like he might have been all of fifteen. His T-shirt read ARSON. I wondered if I might print a few XLs reading GUMSHOE. I could sell them on my website if I only had one. Cappelletti kept on scrolling until he came to the frame he liked and clicked on the box.

Outside, the rain fell along Mass Ave. Cars passed with their headlamps on and windshield wipers working. A white pickup with a battered back end pulled in beside C & L Auto Body. As the truck turned, I noted C & L had their work cut out for them, as the side door had been broadsided.

“This is twenty minutes before the first call,” Cappelletti said.

“Where’d you pull the video?” I said.

“Apartment building across the street,” he said. “I watched it ten times before I spotted the guy. Hold on. You’ll see it.”

I bent down, rested my right hand on the desk, watched and waited. Cahill leaned against the office door like a bouncer, arms crossed over his big chest. Galway had stayed in his office, still snoozing.

The video showed a grainy view of Shawmut Street and several cars parked along the sidewalk. Holy Innocents was a dark old hulk, recognizable only by its heavy front doors. The counter read 19:42 and clicked off the seconds.

“You see him?” Cappelletti said.

“Him?” I said. “I only see cars.”

“Behind those cars across the street,” he said, pointing at the screen with a pencil. “He comes out of the church fast and then turns on Shawmut, heading south. Right at this spot. Hold on. Hold on. I’ll back it up.”

He used his mouse and clicked back the counter. “Five seconds from here.”

Cappelletti was good. It was a bit like spotting a mosquito in a sandstorm. But at one point, a dark shadow did in fact high-step down the dark alley. He paused the image and zoomed in. He lightened the image and pointed at it again with the tip of his pencil. It appeared to be a white male wearing a ball cap and dark clothes. With the pixelation and lack of light, it may have very well been Tom Brady deflating his balls.

Cappelletti clicked the mouse and motion started again. The shadow hit the sidewalk in a sprint and ran out of the frame.

“Like I said,” Cahill said from the door. “Crap City.”

“What’s the time before we see smoke?”

Cappelletti scrolled the video ahead several minutes. “Twelve-point-three minutes.”

“We would have released it if you could see the guy’s freakin’ face,” Cahill said. “But without more, we didn’t want the guy looking over his shoulder. We want him shooting off his mouth.”

“Sure,” I said. “How about the vehicles parked along the curb?”

“All accounted for,” Cahill said. “Christ, you think this is amateur hour?”

“Witnesses?”

“Fourteen,” Cappelletti said. “Not counting responders. Spent two weeks knocking on doors in that neighborhood. It ain’t the best in the South End.”

“And?” I said.

“Nobody knows nothing,” Cahill said. “How about you? You got anything you’d like to share with the group?”

He and Cappelletti stared at me, waiting. Cappelletti blew a bubble until it popped. I shrugged. “The building was in the process of being sold.”

“Yeah,” Cahill said. “Herbie Wu. So what? You think he torched it? Because that’s not how things are done this century. He wouldn’t have gotten half back from the insurance.”

“Maybe someone didn’t like him moving into the neighborhood?”

“From Chinatown?” Cappelletti said. “Pretty diverse neighborhood.”