Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(29)

No one spoke for a good thirty seconds. My hand swelled with each breath. The storage room was small and tight. I felt empty and hollow after the adrenaline surge of the fight. I looked down to Tyler and his small, hard eyes.

“Let him go.”

Z didn’t seem pleased. But Hawk held open the door. Light poured into the dark room and Tyler stumbled to his feet.

“Jackie won’t like this,” Tyler said. “Jackie ain’t gonna forget this one goddamn bit.”

After he left, Hawk closed the door. We gathered like bugs under the single warehouse light. Hawk shook his head. “Mmm.”

“You believe him,” I said. “Don’t you?”

Hawk nodded.

I looked up to Z. He shrugged in agreement. “Now what?”

“Wait for the best-laid plans to unravel.”

“Or Jackie DeMarco to shoot your ass,” Hawk said.

“Yes,” I said. “Or that.”





Rob Featherstone was a Spark. He’d been a Spark for maybe twenty years, running the fire museum and handing out coffee when he wasn’t playing with his model trains. He was a tall bald guy, with what hair he had left dyed jet black on his freckled head. “My back,” he’d say. “If I hadn’t screwed up my back, I’d been a Boston firefighter. All I ever wanted since I was a kid in Brockton.”

Featherstone had cornered Kevin at the Scandinavian, right as he was about to hang it up for the night. Two more fires, this time set by Johnny and Big Ray. Kevin had followed the fires, gone back for a cup of black coffee before getting home. He had an early day of work at the Home Depot.

“He’s freakin’ nuts,” Featherstone said. “Crazy as a shithouse rat. I don’t want to say nothin’ bad about him. I just want you to know who you’re dealing with.”

“Who?”

“Who the hell you think?” he said. “Fucking Johnny Donovan. You’re a young guy. Impressionable. What are you, twenty-one? Hadn’t you taken the fire exam?”

“Twice.”

“Yeah,” Featherstone said. “And maybe next time you’ll pass, you know? You don’t want Johnny Donovan anywhere around you. He’s bad, bad news. Tried to join up with us five years ago and we wouldn’t have him. The way he rides around in that red Chevy, misrepresenting himself as a real-life jake. I mean, come on. He’s like a crazy uncle I once had who thought he was Napoleon. Wore military outfits and the whole deal before they sent him off to Bridgewater.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“He’s got the crazy eyes, Kevin,” he said. “I’ve seen it. And that f*cking guy Ray. I know he’s a cop, but the department up there has no use for him. They been wanting to shit-can him for four years. He knows he doesn’t have much time. It just pains me, seeing you sitting there with those two. Bad news.”

“Okay.” Kevin got up to leave. “Thanks.”

Featherstone held up a hand. “Wait,” he said. “There’s more. I want to ask you something.”

Kevin waited.

“Has either one of those two talked to you about all these fires?”

Kevin took a breath. He started to sweat. But kept it cool, breaking off a piece of donut and shrugging. “Not really. Why?”

“Something happened the other night,” Featherstone said. “At that triple-decker fire. Something that got me thinking.”

Kevin studied the man’s face and the ink-black hair sticking out from the side of his head. “I don’t know,” Featherstone said. “As soon as that fire started, there was another one. On Dot Ave. At an old warehouse. You know?”

“I heard something about it.”

“Two set off back to back,” Featherstone said. “Just got me thinking, is all.”

“Thinking about what?”

Featherstone leaned back in the booth. He shrugged and rubbed the top of his bald head before leaning in and saying, “I saw Johnny’s red car at that warehouse the night before. I didn’t think much of it. Isn’t he in security or some shit?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “He’s got a lot of contracts to watch old buildings. It’s what he does.”

“Just doesn’t set right with me, is all,” Featherstone said. “Him being crazy and then seeing his car. I just wanted to warn you before I tip the boys.”

“The boys?”

“Arson,” Featherstone said. “They should talk to him. Even if he didn’t have nothing to do with it, he’d know something about the building.”

Kevin felt his breath catch in his throat. He stopped chewing his donut.

“Just stay clear, buddy boy,” Featherstone said, sliding out. “Don’t get the shit splattered on you.”

Kevin nodded and smiled. Featherstone left the pastry shop, a low buzzing of fluorescent lights overhead. He looked to the cash register to make sure the woman working there was in back. He picked up the phone and called Johnny Donovan. It was nearly two a.m.

He picked up on the first ring.

“What?”

“We got some trouble.”





25


The cops came for me the next morning. Thankfully, I’d just changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans, replacing a butterfly bandage on my right eye. Feeling fine and somewhat dandy, I walked down my steps onto Marlborough and spotted Frank Belson leaning against a black unmarked unit. The rear door was wide open. Belson absently puffed on a cigar and waved me inside.