Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(42)

“Which station?”

Cahill told me and we walked out of my apartment and carefully down the steps and back out to the alley. A warm wind blew through the narrow space as we made our way toward the Public Garden. Several news crews had set up for the day along the wrought-iron fencing.

All the cameras pointed directly at my former home.





36


I met Hank Phillippi Ryan an hour later at Government Center. Hank worked as an investigative reporter for WHBH, the NBC affiliate that had studios nearby on Bulfinch Place. She took a seat with me on a concrete bench with a nice view of the soulless brick piazza. I brought her a coffee the way she liked it. Skim milk with one sugar.

I gave her my best smile, the one that showed my white teeth and dimples. “Help me, Hank.”

She reached out and hugged me. I was careful not to spill the coffee. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can stay with Susan for a while,” I said. “She promises reasonable rent and fringe benefits.”

Hank was a tall woman with ash-blond hair and dark eyes. She had on a black wrap dress and a simple string of pearls. “And then what?”

“I’ll hunt for a new place,” I said. “Living together isn’t an option for us.”

I handed Hank the coffee. She thanked me and we watched a huge gathering not far from the T station. There had been several shootings over the weekend in Roxbury. Many walked to the central plaza with signs reading BLACK LIVES MATTER. The coffee and the commotion in the plaza thankfully distracted her.

“I interviewed the family of one of the kids,” she said. “He was only fourteen and ambushed by two older kids. He’d been sent to the corner store by his mother.”

“Never stops.”

“Nope,” she said. “But I wish to God it would. We’ve seen a few things in this city. I guess you wanted to ask me about another neighborhood. Your Mr. Firebug?”

“Yep.”

“I guess I should be flattered,” Hank said. “All the psychopaths adore me.”

“Lucky you.”

“How’d you know about the letters?” she said. “We decided not to report on them. It’s obviously what he wants. It’s our station policy not to give that kind of publicity. We turned them over to Boston Fire.”

“Teddy Cahill told me,” I said. “He says they’re authentic.”

“I know,” Hank said. “But did Teddy tell you that he’s given details of the fire that only the arsonists would know?”

“That he did not.”

“This guy may be a loon, but he’s careful,” Hank said. “No prints. Nothing they can use yet.”

“Do we have to be gender-specific?” I said. “Maybe Mr. Firebug is a ruse. Maybe it’s Miss Firebug.”

“Sounds like an exotic dancer,” she said. “How about the insurance angle?”

“I tried to follow the money trail,” I said. “But that didn’t pan out. In the process, I may have angered some local wise guys.”

“If you don’t piss off a few people each day, what’s the use of getting up?”

I toasted her with my coffee. I leaned forward on the bench. More protesters walked across the plaza to join the rally. A man with a bullhorn began to speak. We listened to what he had to say and it made a great deal of sense. The movement began to march toward city hall. We waited as it passed until we spoke again.

“You know this guy has done dozens of fires,” Hank said. “And he promises much more until he gets what he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“The funny thing about crazies is that he hasn’t really said.”

“Did you keep copies of the letters?”

Hank returned the question with a look that seemed to appraise my intelligence.

“May I see the copies?”

“Of course.”

We sat in the hot, shadeless expanse of Government Center. I’d sweated through my T-shirt as if I’d run a marathon. I did not detect a note of perspiration on Hank. It must be a TV reporter’s trick of the trade.

“I have another favor,” I said.

“Of course you do.”

“Do you think I only come to you when I need something?”

“You know, I was having lunch with Rita Fiore just the other day at Trade,” Hank said. “And we were discussing this very thing.”

“I have done plenty of things for Rita,” I said.

“You know, she was saying exactly the opposite.”

“I can imagine the way Rita would say it.”

“What’s the favor?” Hank said. She absently looked at her phone and then at the thin watch on her wrist.

“I want to look at video of the fires.”

“Which fires?”

“Every fire that is suspect.”

“That’s a lot,” she said. “This guy has been burning Boston since the first of the year.”

“And maybe beyond that,” I said.

Hank raised her eyebrows. I lifted up a hand. “The more I know, the more I can share.”

“You better.”

I crossed my heart and held up my right hand. “I think this all started last year,” I said. “I think Mr. Firebug got started with the old church but got scared and stopped. Now he’s revved back up for the summer season.”