Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(3)

“Bullshit.”

“Deputy Superintendent Quirk has a nice ring to it.”

“It’s ceremonial,” Quirk said. “I meet with neighborhood groups. Do press briefings and photo ops.”

I saluted him. “Does this mean I can finally meet McGruff the Crime Dog?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell him to hump your leg. After this long on the job, a little boost is appreciated. Might finally be able to retire. Move down to Florida. Get a boat.”

“Not in your nature.”

“Neither was this,” he said. “But it’s what I got.”

“And Belson?”

“Training the new captain in investigative techniques.”

“God help her.”

“Amen,” Quirk said, leaning in to his desk. His hands were as thick and strong as a bricklayer’s. His salt-and-pepper hair looked to have been trimmed that morning. White dress shirt double-starched. Red tie affixed with a gold clip. I knew his wingtips were polished so bright they’d blind me. “So what the hell do you want?”

“There was a fire last year,” I said. “A nine-alarm in the South End at the Holy Innocents Catholic Church.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You worked the deaths?”

“Of course I did,” Quirk said. “You might recall I once ran Homicide. We investigate all fatal fires. You know that.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Jack and shit,” he said, picking up the square plastic picture frame on his desk. He turned it around in his big hands to study his wife, kids, and numerous grandchildren. He waited a few beats and then leveled his gaze at me. If it was at all possible, his face had hardened in the years I’d known him. Not flesh and bone. More like carved granite. “Whattya know?”

“I’d like to see the interviews.”

“It was a fire,” he said. “Go talk to f*cking Fire.”

“I would,” I said. “But it’s an open investigation. I hoped Boston police might have many of the same files.”

“Yeah, well,” Quick said. “We just might.”

“You do.”

“As you said, it’s an open investigation, hotshot.”

I smiled and shrugged. Quirk frowned.

“You working with a jake?” he said.

“Perhaps.”

“A jake who doesn’t want people to know he’s working with the nosiest snoop in the Back Bay.”

“I prefer the most winning profile.”

“If I had a nose like that, I wouldn’t be one to brag.”

“Character,” I said. “Built of character.”

“And plenty of cotton shoved up your schnoz,” Quirk said. He put down the plastic square and pushed back from his desk. He folded his big hands over his chest. “Arson isn’t too keen on a guy like you butting into their business.”

“I will tread lightly.”

“You?” he said. “Yeah, sure. How’s Susan?”

“Charming and gorgeous as ever.”

“Pearl?”

“Getting old,” I said. “Graying around the muzzle. But wiser, like us all.”

“I like Susan,” he said. “She gives you class.”

“I do not disagree.”

“Never understood what she sees in you.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate a one-arm push-up?”

Quirk held his gaze for a while. He then nodded. “I can’t promise anything. But I can make some calls. Ask around.”

I nodded back. But I did not move from the chair. It was new and very comfortable.

“Or do you expect for me to leave the heights of my office and go down and fetch the reports in records like a Labrador retriever?”

“I can wait,” I said. “You now have a secretary. Perhaps she might share a little coffee?”

“My she is a he,” Quirk said. “And he makes terrible coffee.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment,” I said.

“So your client thinks it was arson.”

“Yep.”

“Officially, I’ll tell you I never heard that,” Quirk said. “Unofficially, I’ll tell you we took pictures, asked questions, and stepped away. Looked to be accidental. Did I tell you it was my freakin’ church when I was a kid?”

“No, you did not.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quirk said. “Okay. Okay. You got that look in your eye.”

“Sanguine?”

“Like you’re going to pain my ass until I say okay,” he said. “Give me a call in the morning, Spenser. For Christ’s sake.”

I stood and walked to Quirk’s closed door. It was a nice door, but I missed the old one with the frosted glass over on Berkeley. I opened it wide and waited.

“And, Spenser?”

I turned.

“Your favor meter ran out a long while back,” he said.

I mimed turning a meter backward and winked at him. Quirk did not smile.





3


I took Susan and Mattie Sullivan to Fenway that night. Mattie and I ate at the ballpark while Susan held out for postgame at Eastern Standard. Once seated, she promptly ordered a cocktail called The Thaw made with gin, St.-Germain, lime, Peychaud’s Bitters, and parsley. I simply nodded toward the Harpoon IPA on tap.