Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(34)

“He had both.”

“May I see them?”

She shrugged and looked down at her hands. She twisted the tissue in her fingers. “Cops got all that,” she said. “They came over and took everything last night.”

I nodded again.

“But you’re not with the cops.”

“No.”

“Boston Fire?”

“Nope.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Spenser.”

“And who’s that?”

I pointed to myself, smiled, and again offered my condolences. She stood, walked me from the room, and pointed out Jerry Ramaglia, who was visible through a pair of French doors. Outside, I found him pacing and smoking a cigarette. He had on a ball cap that told me he was assistant chief of the Sparks Association. Soon he might need a new hat.

I asked him about Featherstone talking about the arsons.

“Nah,” he said. “I never heard him say that. He knew something about who torched that church or any of those warehouses and he’d a told me. We spent pretty much every day together. We were at that fire. Worked it all night. Yeah. He knew something about an arson and he’d have called me straight off. Between you and me, the wife is a little . . . you know.”

He swirled his index finger beside his head.

“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?”

“Right.”

“You think she made it up?”

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “But maybe she’s not remembering things right. You know she’s in shock. Maybe she’s trying to make some sense of someone shooting Rob. He’s just a nice guy. No one would want to kill someone like Rob Featherstone. Whoever did it just wanted his wallet. He got jacked. But not ’cause he knows something. That’s really nuts.”

“Did he tell you that I’d stopped by?”

“He only told me he’d met a private investigator at the museum,” he said. “He told me you were looking into the fires and told me to ask around for you.”

“Can you still put out the word with the Sparks?”

“Sure,” he said. “Of course. Whatever it takes to find who did this to Rob.”

“Did he have a computer he used at the museum?”

“Just for business,” he said. “Not personal. We take inventory on it for T-shirt sales, fund-raisers, and all that.”

“Security cameras?”

“Nah,” he said. “But I’ll talk to the boys. We’re going to get together tonight at the museum. He was a good chief. A really good one. A born leader. Did he tell you that a fireman saved his life when he was a kid?”

I shook my head.

“He was on the top floor of a triple-decker and everyone got out except for him and his sister,” he said. “A jake busted open his bedroom window and carried him and his sister out at the same freakin’ time. He never forgot it. Felt he owed it to these guys the rest of his life.”

He crushed the cigarette under the heel of his shoe. He looked up at me. More people had arrived at the cracker-box house. Ramaglia looked in the window and then back to me. “I gotta get back to everyone.”

“Of course.”

“You think he really might’ve been on to something?” he said. “One guy doing all this shit?”

“Police are taking it seriously.”

“Be a hell of a thing if we could stop all this burning. I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep all freakin’ summer.”

“What kind of person would want to set fires every night?”

Ramaglia shrugged and took a deep breath. “Someone good and smart,” he said. “He’s got some sense about how it’s done and how to do it. That takes some kind of genius nutso.”





29


On the way home, I dropped by the Engine 8/Ladder 1 firehouse in the North End. Jack McGee and another firefighter were unloading groceries from the back of a pickup truck. I helped them carry the load up to the second floor, making a couple trips down to the pickup truck on Hanover.

“You caught me at a bad time, Spenser,” Jack said. “I’m supposed to cook tonight.”

“How about I help,” I said. “And we talk.”

“You any good?” he said. “This is a tough crew.”

“Could Bobby Orr skate?”

“Go to it, chief,” McGee said. “I was going to make some hamburger steaks and mashed potatoes. But you can use anything we have in the galley.”

I sorted through the pantry and the commercial-size refrigerator, perused the newly arrived boxes and bags. I found several pounds of shrimp in the freezer, some white rice in the pantry, and many onions and peppers fresh from the store. I stood back, folded my arms across my chest, and nodded at McGee. “Can your boys take the spice?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “And if they can’t, the others will bust their balls.”

“How many?”

“We got eight, maybe nine.”

“You have six pounds of shrimp in the freezer,” I said. “I can add some vegetables and rice and make shrimp étouffée.”

McGee shrugged. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “What else do you need?”