Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(22)

“Maybe someone leaned on him to do business so close to Southie.”

“Did he pay?”

I didn’t want to sell out Wu. But I shook my head.

“And who did the asking?” Cahill said.

“Working on the details,” I said. “It may be nothing.”

“Don’t screw us, Spenser,” Cahill said. “I wasn’t real thrilled with you coming down here. If you know someone was leaning on Herbie Wu—”

“Would be better if we could ID the man in the alley.”

Cahill and Cappelletti looked at each other. Cahill said, “And you’re working on the other thing?”

I nodded.

“Who?”

“Working with the League of Unextraordinary Gentlemen,” I said. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cahill said.

“I did want to ask you about this and its possible connection to all the new fires,” I said. “I am a subscriber to The Globe. You guys have a bug.”

Neither of the men spoke. Cappelletti shut the laptop.

“It’s possible all of this is connected,” I said. “Right?”

“You and Jack McGee.”

“Busted flat in Baton Rouge,” I said. “Waiting for a train.”

“What the hell’s he talkin’ about?” Cappelletti said.

“I’d like to see the addresses and owners of all the new fires you believe are arson,” I said. “Maybe I can spot a pattern.”

“Right now, we have a real problem. But there’s no reason to believe they’re connected to Holy Innocents. We’re talking about someone with a cracked head, not a professional criminal. But if you want to read this shit till you’re cross-eyed, be my guest.”

Galway trotted up and I patted her on the head. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

“Me or the dog?” Cahill said.

I simply smiled. Cahill just looked at me and shook his head before showing me the way out. As we walked down the steps, he said, “Me, Dougherty, and McGee were at the fire academy at the same time. We did three years together on Engine Thirty-three. I drove his wife home after the wake. She was so medicated, she didn’t know what planet she was on. Kids still can’t make sense of it.”

“I’d like to help.”

“Whatever it takes,” he said. “I haven’t slept in a long while.”





Johnny ran away from a couple of condemned triple-deckers on Dot Ave with a big shit-eating grin on his face. Kevin was driving his Crown Vic that night, windows down and headlights off. He’d parked around the corner and listened to the scanner on low. Johnny opened the passenger side and slammed the big door. He was laughing. The night was hot, and Johnny’s face shone with sweat.

“This one’s gonna be a pissah,” he said. “You see those old shingles on the roof?”

“Yeah?”

“They turn pink from wear,” he said. “They’re made out of gasoline. Those two buildings will burn like crazy. You’ll see this thing for miles.”

“You sure no one’s inside?”

“Does it f*cking look like anyone would live in that shithole?” he said. “Or you afraid we’re going to burn up some rats? Don’t be getting soft on me.”

“I just thought we were going to burn that building on E Street. You know, that old warehouse?”

“We are,” Johnny said. “But we burn this and it’ll tie up a couple engine companies. That way we can set up shop and work on that building. We don’t and they’ll put it out before it really gets going.”

“I don’t know,” Kevin said. “They can’t handle all this.”

“If it’s not a mess, then we ain’t doing any good.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know dick,” Johnny said. “Just drive. Everything’s all set. Me and Ray already stacked some tires by the wall. He said it’s covered in scrap wood and oil drums. It’s all ready to go.”

“Do we wait for the call on Dot Ave?”

“You worried it won’t burn or somethin’?” Johnny said. “Christ.”

They drove through Dorchester and up into Southie. The scanner crackled to life: Engine 21, Ladder 17, and Ladder 7. Multiple calls for a fire at 848 Dorchester Avenue. Box 7252 is being transmitted.

Kevin drove. Johnny smiled, hot wind blowing through the open windows. “What’d I f*ckin’ tell you?”

Johnny wore rose-tinted sunglasses that night. They were prescription, the kind that reacted to light. When he’d light up La Bomba, they’d change his eyes. He reached into the front pocket of his security guard uniform and pulled out a cigarette. He smoked it while Kevin followed the streets over to an endless warehouse on E Street. Almost all of it looked to be corrugated tin, and Kevin wondered how the hell they’d light up this beast.

Kevin had already sweated through his T-shirt. He reached for the hem and wiped his face. Driving with one hand, he slowed the Crown Vic and parked in an alley. Johnny already had La Bomba in his lap, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Here. You get the freakin’ honor.”