Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(25)

“Teenyboppers, hell,” Quirk said. “That’s what I say to kindergartners. I guess Tyler King was sick that day.”

I read more and then put the reports back in the envelope.

“Keep ’em,” he said. “That pic is suitable for framing.”

I held it up to the light. Tyler King was not an attractive young man. He had pasty white skin, a stubbly black beard, and the long, thin face of a dope addict with short, unkempt hair. He didn’t look tough. Only mean.

“You like him for torching that church?” Quirk said.

“Perhaps.”

“Good source?”

“Not someone you’d want on the stand,” I said.

“Your people, Spenser.”

I nodded. The rain fell pleasantly in the Burger King parking lot. Smoke puffed from the little chimney that created that great charbroiled taste.

“DeMarco won’t miss the next time,” Quirk said.

“No,” I said. “He won’t.”

Quirk took in a long breath and let it out slowly. His unmarked unit had that new-car smell. “But if he had anything to do with how those firefighters died, you better come straight to me or Frank.”

I nodded.

“Don’t *foot around,” Quirk said. “I don’t want DeMarco to have time to take you out.”

“You really do care, Marty,” I said. “I’m touched.”

“Now get the f*ck outta my car before someone sees us together,” he said.





21


An apartment was never lonely with a hot pizza, cold beer, and a lovely companion. The rain continued to patter against my bow window over Marlborough as Susan took the pizza box from my hands. I’d stopped by Pizzeria Regina in the North End on my way home. Pearl tracked the pepperoni while Susan walked to the kitchen counter.

“Hots only on my half,” I said.

“The ruin of a perfectly good pizza.”

“Have you ever even tried the hots?”

“And never will,” she said. “I’ve never tried anchovies, either.”

“And to think your people eat cold salmon for breakfast.”

Susan shrugged and set out two plates from my good china. Actually, it was my only china.

“A captain in the Arson unit finally agreed to meet with me today,” I said. “He showed me a security video of someone, or something, leaving the scene of the fire.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“A very-fast-moving shadow,” I said. “I think it was a man. But that’s about all I know.”

“There were three fires over the weekend,” Susan said. “Several families lost everything. The ones I saw on the news were Vietnamese and didn’t speak English. Do they think it’s the same person?”

“Arson admitted they had a problem,” I said. “But when I tried to link the church fire and the recent spate, my persistence annoyed him.”

“You do have a gift.”

“Of persistence?”

“Of annoyance.”

“Ah.”

I walked to the refrigerator and fetched a cold Lagunitas. I cracked open the top and sat back at the table. Susan crossed her long, shapely legs and worked on the pizza. She had on her after-work lounging-around clothes: a soft, thin V-neck T-shirt that cost more than my shoes and khaki shorts. I appreciated the muscularity of her legs as she walked over to the couch.

“So what can you do now?” Susan said. “Hang the bad guys by their ankles?”

“Always effective,” I said. “Or find a snitch who needs a favor.”

“Why you were at Walpole.”

“And it’s such a lovely drive,” I said.

I smiled and reached for more pizza. The hots really added the proper punch to the pie. Susan Silverman had great taste in many things, but not in pizza toppings.

“Well, did your snitch do some snitching?” she said.

“I have something,” I said. “A name.”

“Anyone we know?”

“I hope not,” I said. “This guy is a paid killer.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“That in his spare time from committing murder, he enjoys setting fires,” I said. “My snitch referred to him as a ‘yellow prick.’”

“Illustrative.”

“Coming from this guy, it was a compliment.”

From my bow window, I had a decent view of the Public Garden and people walking in the rain. I broke a piece of crust from my pizza and tossed it to Pearl. She caught it in midair.

“Do you think this upstanding individual will speak to you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Do you think you’ll observe him in the commission of lighting a fire?”

“Nope.”

“So what’s the plan?” Susan said.

“When in doubt, bug the crap out of someone until they trip up,” I said. “Spenser’s investigation technique number eleven.”

Susan nodded. “Maybe you should write a textbook?” she said.

“I thought about it,” I said. “But I don’t want to give up my trade secrets so easily.”