Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(46)

Teehan stopped watering as I walked close, smiled, and asked if he might help me. I introduced myself and the smile lessened a bit. “I understand you help out Boston Fire sometimes,” I said. “I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”

“Who are you?” he said.

“I’m working on the fire at the Holy Innocents last year.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Don’t know how I can help. I work in Blackburn.” He looked at me for a long moment and then continued his watering duties. He’d moved on from the impatiens to buckets of lantana. If I hadn’t been a gumshoe, perhaps I could’ve been a botanist.

“But you’re sometimes at fire scenes in the city?” I said. “Working with the Sparks?”

He shook his head. “I’m not with the Sparks.”

“Why not?”

He craned his head, openmouthed, and shrugged. “Sometimes I’ve been to some fires around Boston. I like to watch those guys work. You know, to learn stuff.”

Teehan’s eyes were set too close together. The wispy beard on his chin looked ridiculous. I wanted to grab some pruning shears and do the kid a favor. “What do you learn, Kevin?” I said. Mr. Friendly.

“You see how they work as a team,” he said. “It’s like a ball game. All fires have a strategy. These guys are top athletes, really.”

“What about setting fires?” I said. “Have you learned much about arson?”

He didn’t turn to me this time, just kept on running the water over the flowers, nice and easy. “What do you mean?”

“You might have seen something or someone at one of the fires this summer,” I said. “You weren’t fighting the fire, but you were an educated spectator. You might have noticed a very important detail.”

Teehan set down the hose; the nozzle shut off, but water continued to leak on the concrete. The department smelled strongly of soil and fertilizer and the soft sweetness of roses. He brushed some dirt off his orange vest as he studied my face and looked as if he’d decided I was all right. I wondered if he might ever drive a white van.

“How’d you get my name?”

“I interviewed several members of the Sparks,” I said. “Rob Featherstone.”

Teehan nodded along, playing a bit with the wisps on his chin. “He’s dead,” Teehan said. “Got f*cking carjacked or something. It was on the news. They had a big thing for him at the museum.”

“Did you go?” I said.

“No,” he said. “I had to work. But he was a good guy. One of the Sparks who actually took time to talk to me.”

“I bet you’ve seen some big fires.”

“I’ve been watching fires since I was a kid,” Teehan said. He smiled big. “I always wanted to be a fireman. My mom used to take me to fires when I was a kid. All she could talk about was that someday I’d be on the job.”

“You were close?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Still are. I bring her flowers every week. Keep her grave fresh like she’d want.”

“So why’d you join the department all the way in Blackburn?” I said.

“I took a test for Boston,” he said. “I did real good. I’m on the list. But I don’t have no family in the department. And I’m not a freakin’ woman or black.”

I nodded as if I could really identify with his plight of being a young white man in America. “So did you happen to be at the Holy Innocents?”

Teehan actually placed two fingers on his lips, seeming to think on that name. He slowly shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“You know, the big one?” I said. “Three Boston firefighters died? Dougherty, Bonnelli, and Mulligan? They got trapped in the church basement.”

“Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it.”

Although I hadn’t seen him on that video, it would be easy enough to check. That morning, I’d culled some of the screen grabs from the footage. I had Z crop some of the faces from different fire scenes, most notably Johnny Donovan. I pulled out a 4x6 with a decent shot of Donovan’s face and showed it to Teehan.

“Know this guy?”

Teehan craned his head to study the picture a bit. He did a little more method acting, biting his lip before shaking his head. “Nope.”

“You’ve never seen him?”

Teehan shook his head. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Oh,” I said. “Just another onlooker. I think he had a pretty good vantage point at the fire. I hoped he might be able to help me, too. If his name comes to you, just let me know.”

“What are you looking for?” he said. “You hearing something?”

I took a deep breath. A curly-headed woman in a pink shirt headed down the aisle pushing a shopping cart. She rested her beefy arms on the cart handle, moving slowly and checking out her seasonal options. She stopped and picked up a pot of blue hydrangeas.

“What about the fire the other night on Marlborough Street?” I said.

He stopped pulling on the thin beard and scratched the back of his neck. “You mean by the Public Garden?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Right by the garden. Two firefighters got hurt. Whoever is setting this stuff is getting really reckless. You know?”