Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(41)

“Can I see my place?”

“We got a lot of guys working.”

“I’ll step lightly,” I said. “As will Pearl.”

We walked to Arlington and then back down the Public Alley 421. The back side of the apartment building was damaged worse than the front. Firefighters continued to dampen the roofs and top floors of my building. Smoke broke and scattered in the wind.

Cahill got onto his haunches and showed the alligator-like marks along some siding, stretching several feet higher and toward the basement door.

“Looks like they used some tires to get it going hot,” he said. “You can see the remnants on the asphalt.”

“A white van?”

“Woman in the apartment directly behind you saw it blocking the alley,” Cahill said. He rubbed his walrus mustache. “But didn’t see anyone come or go.”

Pearl looked up at me and tilted her head. She was on high alert for clues, her eyes full of worry and confusion.

“We found a few things,” he said. “ATF will run some tests.”

“And what are the chances it matches with Mr. Firebug?”

“Who needs to run a test?” he said. “But why’d they pick on you?”

“I don’t think it was a secret I talked to Featherstone before he died,” I said. “They may have conflated me, Arson unit, and Homicide. One-stop shopping.”

I ran my hands along the charred siding and looked up at the back of my building. I patted Pearl’s head. Her nubbed tail wagged.

“Got somewhere to stay?” Cahill said.

“Yeah,” I said. “With a friend.”

“Your friend okay with the dog?” he said. “If not, I can take her for a while. Galway likes other hounds.”

“I think my friend likes the dog better than me,” I said. “Is it possible to walk upstairs?”

“Sure,” he said. “But you don’t want to see it. I promise there’s nothing left.”

“It’s important.”

Cahill nodded. We walked into the gaping mouth of the back door to the landing and up a back stairwell dripping with water. Pearl sniffed at the charred carpet and piles of charred wood. The sprinklers had done a lot of damage to the halls and the stairwell. Cahill told me he wouldn’t take responsibility if we fell right through the floor. He took me to my floor and swept his hand toward what had been my apartment. It was hard to tell. There was no door. A large portion of the wall facing Marlborough had dissolved. I stepped through the soggy, blackened mess. A firefighter on a ladder waved to me as he made his way up to a higher floor.

Pearl knew she was home. She turned her mournful yellow eyes on me.

My bookshelf wasn’t just burned. It simply was no longer there. I found a couple half-eaten picture frames and some cast-iron cookware. Tough stuff, forged in flame. Cahill advised me to leave it until the insurance people could take pictures.

“They could have my ass for letting you in.”

I walked back to the bedroom and turned straight around. I stepped carefully around the hole in the kitchen and returned to the fireplace. On the hearth, I found a toppled piece of wood I’d once carved into a horse. It still looked a little like a horse but was much smaller and much blacker. I slipped it into my pocket. Pearl began to whimper. I walked to where the shelving had been to hold the old Winchester. I found the gun a real mess, but the barrel and level held their shape.

“Just what will you need to link all these fires?”

“We have a working theory,” he said. “But it’s very technical.”

“It didn’t sound technical to me the other night,” I said. “You seemed pretty damn sure it was the work of the same person or persons.”

“Sometimes I envy Homicide,” he said. “They have real evidence. We work with nothing but f*cking chemicals and ashes. Unless we get someone to turn, we don’t have much. I’m sorry about your place. But while we were hosing down the Back Bay, someone else touched off another place in the South End. By the time we got a company over there, six of our people were at Mass General for burns and smoke inhalation. We’re pretty sure your place was a diversion.”

“How bad are they hurt?”

“They will be back soon,” he said. “But one guy may be looking at retirement.”

I nodded and swallowed. My apartment and possessions no longer mattered. “Again,” I said. “How do you know it’s the same guy?”

“He’s got a way of doing things,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“You think I’m going to publish a piece in The Globe?”

“If word gets out, he might change things,” he said. “Right now he’s got a system. We upset the system and we upset our case.”

“What’s the system?”

“Found stuff here that looks just like Holy Innocents,” he said. “Okay? Between us, we think he makes a device from a paper grocery bag and plastic Baggie full of kerosene. We found a butt of match at both places and traces of the Baggie. ATF can tell us what kind of accelerant was used.”

“Any new letters?”

“Nope,” he said. “But we will. Or the TV station will. That’s where he sends them.”