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

“They’re celebrating,” I said.

“Yep,” Z said. “Eight families out of an apartment in Southie. They may not be arsonists, but they are guilty of being *s.”

“Why would anyone celebrate a fire?”

Z captured several still images. He zoomed in very close to the men’s faces.





38


The late Rob Featherstone’s second-in-command, Jerry Ramaglia, met me across from the Boston Fire Museum at Flour Bakery. I bought us two coffees and found a somewhat secluded table by a picture window fronting Farnsworth. It was late. The light had turned a soft summer gold on the old warehouses and garages.

“I heard what happened to your place,” Ramaglia said. “I’m sorry. If we can do anything. Or help any of the tenants.”

I thanked him. Between us sat a lemon meringue pie to share with Susan tonight in lieu of rent. She, too, recognized Joanne Chang’s particular genius. My Braves cap rested on the box to stake my claim.

“Someone believes Rob left his suspicions with me,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Rob’s wife is screwy, but I think she’s right about this. He got shot in the back and dumped off a bridge. What’s the matter with this city? The man only wanted to help others. He was a freakin’ saint.”

I resisted the urge to open the box and start in on the pie with both hands. Restraint.

“How long have you been a Spark?” I said.

“Twenty-two years,” he said. “Loved every minute.”

I slid the stills from a large manila mailer and set them on the table between us. “Recognize these men?”

Ramaglia reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of cheaters. Had I not been in public, I might have reached for mine. He studied the first photo for a while and then flipped through the rest. He shuffled them in a neat pile and placed them on the envelope. “Jesus Christ.”

“Know them?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Afraid I do.”

“Are they Sparks?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “Thank God. The young guy’s name is Teehan. I don’t know his first name. He runs with this guy Johnny Donovan who’s a bad seed. He tried to join the association for at least ten years. About three years ago, he came to our meeting unannounced and basically told Rob that he was a f*cking *. I hadn’t seen him much since, but I know he’s still out there, trying to say he’s a Spark. He drives a big red Chevy SUV, pretending he’s official or something. A first-class Froot Loop. Someone should bring him up on charges.”

“Is he violent?”

“I don’t think so,” Ramaglia said. “Just a nut. Why? You think these are the guys?”

“They were observed acting very strange at a few fire scenes.”

“They are strange,” Ramaglia said. “But I don’t see them shooting Rob in the back. Teehan is a blowhard. But he loves firefighters. He wouldn’t torch a building and put the boys in danger. The guy who killed Rob lit those fires and burned you out, too.”

“You know where I can find them?”

“Donovan runs some kind of security business in Southie,” Ramaglia said. “I know he’s a rent-a-cop of some sort. Always has a badge and a gun.”

“What about Teehan?”

“He’s just a kid,” Ramaglia said. “Jesus, I don’t know. Probably still lives with his mother. I can ask around.”

“Is he friendly with any of the Sparks?”

“A few,” Ramaglia said. “You know, he’s a good kid if he kept different company.”

“Can you ask around without mentioning me or that anyone is asking about him?”

“Sure.”

I drank some coffee. I continued to resist the urge to eat part of the pie. I even had silverware within reach. If I worked out a sliver, Susan wouldn’t even notice. It had been a hard week. I deserved some pie.

“What about the third man?” I said. “Do you know him?”

Ramaglia shook his head. “I may have seen him hanging around,” he said. “Can I keep one of those pictures?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “But keep this circle tight.”

Ramaglia drank some coffee. It felt very good to be in the air-conditioning and drinking hot beverages. I planned to stop back by the new farmers’ market again tonight. That place was the best thing to hit Boston since Carl Yastrzemski. I also could use several new shirts, khakis, and jeans. Underwear, socks, bullets.

“Rob’s wife’s not doing so good,” Ramaglia said. He looked out the window at a group of children from a summer day camp jumping and jostling. “She held up good for the wake and all. But now it’s over, she’s a f*cking mess. They were together a long time.”

The kids continued to make a lot of noise, like a crazy parade, and continued toward the waiting doors of a school bus. Everyone waited in a neat and orderly line for the bus to let them inside. A few of them pounded on the side of the bus; others took in the scenery around them.

“Call me if you can find out about the third guy,” I said. “Or get a first name on Teehan that I could check out.”

“Rob was good people. Ain’t nobody deserves to die like that. Whoever did this and torched your apartment is a real coward. I sure hope you can help.”