Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(32)

“‘All these fires’?” I said. “Hmm. Are you coming around to the idea of one guy?”

Cahill blew out a long stream of smoke. He shook his head. “Tyler King is a pro,” he said. “He does what he does for money and that’s it. All these f*cking fires. This is something else. It’s the goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Everything started at Holy Innocents?”

Cahill touched his mustache. I drank some beer in the silence. After the second sip, he stared at me and just nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

“How?”

“Some of the new ones look like what we found at Holy Innocents.”

“Which was what?”

“Stuff,” he said. “Similar stuff.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Don’t get too technical with me.”

Cahill shrugged and reached for his beer. He drank a sip. Hot damn. We were making some progress.

He reached for some Bushmills and poured out two shots. “Commissioner would shit a golden brick if I told you this. Nobody wants the public to panic over some nutso. But by my last estimate, we’ve had at least eighty.”

“Yikes.”

“From now on I want to know what you know,” he said. “And I won’t hold back, either. Me and you are working together.”

“In cahoots?”

“Unofficial or official, I don’t give a shit,” Cahill said. “But this f*cking guy is burning up this town. Three of our people are dead, and I know that won’t be the last of it. This guy is getting his rocks off.”

“How do you know it’s a guy?”

“’Cause he sends us letters,” Cahill said. “Don’t you let that get out. Son of a bitch calls himself Mr. Firebug. Sent all that shit over to ATF and didn’t get squat.”

“Mr. Firebug,” I said. “Very gender-specific.”

Cahill raised his eyes at me, put down the cigarette, and stroked his mustache. “Don’t hold back nothing.”

He slid the shot of Bushmills closer. We both reached for the shots and drank them together.





27


Would you mind if I kidnapped you for the weekend?” I said.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Have you forgotten?”

“I’d sometimes like to forget my birthday,” she said. “But I figured you might with all this fire business.”

“How could I forget?” I said. “You wrote it in my DayMinder.”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “Would a birthday kidnapping include champagne and room service?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” she said. She tapped at her cheek with an index finger. “I can be willingly accosted. But are you sure you can afford taking a couple days off?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Trouble will be waiting when I return. We leave Friday. I made reservations. Pearl can stay with Henry.”

“Isn’t that presumptuous?”

“Presumptuous is that I’m not packing a lot of clothes.”

“And what should I pack?”

“The black bikini,” I said. “I’ve bought a few things for you from La Perla.”

“They must love you there,” she said.

“I buy you another getup,” I said, “and they’ll throw in a free pair of knickers.”

Susan drummed her fingers on the table. We’d found a nice corner booth at Alden & Harlow, still finding it hard to believe the space had once been Casablanca. I’d ordered their Secret Burger and Susan asked for a bruised tomato salad. She had a glass of sauvignon blanc while I stayed on my Sam Adams kick from Florian Hall. Continuity was important.

“I like the bandage,” Susan said. “It’s kind of cute.”

I touched my brow, having forgotten, and smiled. And then I showed her my right hand knuckles, purplish and swelling.

“Not so cute.”

“A hazard of the job.”

Susan took a healthy sip. Half the glass was gone.

“And the other fella?” she said.

“Sort of like punching the cab of a Mack truck.”

“Yikes,” Susan said. “Big?”

“I thought of him as Killer Kowalski’s older and more physically developed brother.”

The food arrived. The waitress, a cute young woman with black hair and purple highlights, placed the plates before us with some flourish. She asked if we had everything we needed. I looked to Susan, gripped her hand under the table, and said, “You bet.”

“And would it spoil the surprise if you told me where?”

“The Cape.”

“That narrows it.”

“Hyannis.”

“That narrows it a bit more.”

“Our old place,” I said. “Where we used to go.”

“The old Dunfey’s?” she said.

I took a bite of the Secret Burger and nodded. The burger was spot-on.

“Aren’t you nostalgic,” Susan said.

“It’s been more than twenty years,” I said. “Back then, you were afraid of Hawk.”

“Afraid isn’t the word,” she said. “More like scared shitless for you.”