Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(35)

“A bottle of Tabasco,” I said. “And a couple loaves of crusty bread.”

“I’ll send someone down to the Salumeria Italiana.”

I nodded. “Perfect.”

McGee tossed a very manly white apron to me and I wrapped it around my waist. I grabbed the shrimp and set them to thaw under running water. Placing a chopping board on the counter, I went to work on the onions, peppers, celery, and garlic. “You think they might have some green onions at the Salumeria?”

“We’ll get ’em,” he said. “What can I do?”

“Do you know how to make a roux?”

“What the f*ck is that?”

“A Louisiana gravy.”

“Nope,” he said. “But I can try.”

I found a black skillet the size of a wagon wheel and set it on the burner. I took several sticks of butter from the refrigerator and olive oil and flour from the cabinet. I explained how you kept the burner on medium and stirred in a stick of butter with a little oil with a half-cup of flour. “Keep stirring it until it turns the color of toffee.”

“Whaddya want to talk to me about?”

“I just got back from a wake for Rob Featherstone.”

“Yeah,” McGee said. “I heard about Rob. He was a little odd, but a good egg, you know? He took care of me and the boys. He’d been a Spark for longer than I been a firemen.”

“His wife thinks he knew something about the arsons.”

McGee stopped stirring the butter. I could see it was beginning to burn and made the hand motion for him to continue. The smell of melting butter with the flour and spices wasn’t too bad. I wanted to crack open a cold beer, but drinking at the firehouse was a little frowned upon.

“Okay,” he said. “Are you talking Holy Innocents? Or the others?”

“Cahill admitted the church and these warehouse fires are connected.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Finally, they admit it.”

“The guy calls himself Mr. Firebug and taunts Arson with letters,” I said. “The commissioner doesn’t want anyone to panic or for it to get out to the media.”

“The media would love that shit,” McGee said. He kept dutifully stirring. “Mr. Firebug. Shit. I always felt the church was a revenge thing, but what about these warehouses and abandoned houses? What gives?”

“I would’ve guessed revenge, too,” I said. “But for the first time in my life, it turns out I was wrong.”

“The first time?”

“I know,” I said. “Can you believe it?”

“Nope.”

I walked up next to McGee. He was a thick-bodied guy and took up a lot of space by the stove. I examined his roux. Still not brown enough. “Keep stirring.”

“Okay, okay.”

I went back to chopping. Out the window, there was a nice view of Hanover Street and the Paul Revere statue. Tourists surrounded Paul and took photos with him and his horse while I made fine work of the garlic, chopped onion, green pepper, and celery.

If I’d had more time to prep, I would’ve made shrimp stock with the shells and heads. But the étouffée would stand on its own.

I peered back into the skillet. I scraped the onions, green peppers, and celery into a bowl. I dumped the bowl into the skillet and told McGee to keep it going.

“Cahill must have some physical evidence he’s sitting on,” McGee said. “Right?”

“Between me, you, and the étouffée?” I said. “He has some fragments of some type of device. Same stuff has shown up at some recent fires.”

“And now Rob Featherstone is dead,” he said. His big face shone with sweat while he worked. “You know, we had a fire three days ago on Endicott, near the Greenway. We thought it was an abandoned building but found some guy on the second floor with his damn dog. He’d been sleeping and saw the smoke, but he was afraid to leave. We got him out and had to get up on the roof to put out the third floor.”

“More people are going to get hurt.”

“I’m just saying we get at least one or two of these a week,” McGee said. “You know how many we used to work?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe one like this every six months.”

“You gotta hate prolific psychopaths,” I said. “Mr. Firebug.”

“Any f*cking guy calling himself that should get his nuts handed to him.”

“Keep stirring,” I said. “Don’t burn the roux.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“Me and you both, McGee.”





30


Z and I jogged along the Charles River on a route I knew so well I could run it backward with my eyes closed. I had already packed for the Cape and would pick up Susan in Cambridge after her last appointment. The investigation could wait until Sunday. We ran three miles at a fast clip, sprinting at every mile marker and then a full-out race at the end toward the Hatch Shell.

As Z was quite a bit younger than me, I let him win. No reason to embarrass him.

We cooled down with a half-mile walk. We both moved with our hands laced above our heads. It was early, but the morning sun had already started to bake the sidewalk. The Esplanade was busy with runners, walkers, and skateboarders. Early risers drank coffee at the little café.