Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(48)

“His stories on firefighting and his time in the Marines were very detailed,” Schultze said. “He put a lot of thought into his imaginary life as a hero of some sort.”

“So what ever happened to the assault charges against our Walter Mitty?”

Schultze leaned his elbows on his desk. I heard buckets being tossed back into the marsh, lots of laughing, and more sloshing. The muck bubbled up and turned the surface water a deep brown. A sign above his desk said GIFTED MINDS NEED CREATIVE INSTRUCTION. The school was brick and stately, with numerous state and national awards displayed in the halls.

I bet a free pony probably came with the price of tuition.

He threw up his hands and shook his head. “The boy’s family decided not to press charges,” he said. “I was very disappointed. But our board of directors were privately pleased. If this had made the news, we would have lost so many students. We are much, much better about our new hiring process.”

“Any idea why they dropped the charges?”

“The family has had some personal hardships,” Schultze said. “There was a terrible fire at their home. They lost everything and they had to move. I believe they let go of the case because of all the pressure.”

“Aha,” I said.

“You don’t think—”

“I’m not a fan of coincidence,” I said. “Where did the family live?”





42


The thing about bad guys,” I said, “is that sooner or later they’ll tell you the truth.”

I was behind the wheel of my Explorer in Southie that afternoon, riffing my years of wisdom like John Coltrane on playing sax, Y. A. Tittle on throwing touchdowns, or Carmen Miranda doing the samba. Z leaned back in the passenger seat, his eyes slightly closed, but I was pretty sure he was still awake.

“Get them talking,” he said, “and they can’t shut up.”

“Unless they’re shooting at you. If they’re shooting, you should delay the conversation until later.”

“A medicine man told me the same thing,” Z said. “But he was speaking of the white man. Not hoods.”

“You can always call me,” I said. “When you need advice. Or the medicine man. Whichever one of us is relevant.”

“Or ask your buddies in L.A.”

“Chollo and I would offer very different guidance,” I said. “But Bobby Horse? He and I might share the same opinion.”

Johnny Donovan kept his security office in a one-story brick building in a weedy lot behind a chain-link fence. I figured he didn’t want anyone stealing the weeds or junked old fire trucks haphazardly parked. We had parked along D Street, not far off Old Colony.

“We don’t want to confront him,” Z said.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“But you want him to know that we’re tailing him,” Z said. “That we’re interested.”

“Let’s just see where he leads us,” I said. “We have little else going for us.”

“So, what do we know about this guy?”

“Donovan appears to be a true lunatic,” I said. “He’s been arrested three times for impersonating cops. He lost a job three years ago as a maintenance guy at a rich private school. He was accused of stealing electronics and later of slapping a young boy. The case was nol-prossed.”

“Lovely.”

“In the middle of the court case, the victim’s house burned,” I said. “I found that to be a strange coincidence.”

“Almost eerie.” Z raised up in the passenger seat. We both watched a bright red Chevy Blazer stop at the chain-link gate. A thick guy in a blue Pats jersey with number 87 crawled out from behind the wheel. He unlocked the gate and yelled at a brindle pit bull that jumped up on his short pant legs. He was small, thick, and beady-eyed. He looked very much like a troll from a Grimm’s tale.

“At least the dog seems friendly,” Z said.

“When the time comes, you might need to jump that fence to investigate.”

“I don’t do dogs,” he said. “Especially pit bulls.”

“Hawk doesn’t care for dogs, either,” I said. “Except Pearl. He and Pearl have become great friends. Sometimes I believe she might leave me for him. If the occasion came up.”

Johnny Donovan drove up into the lot, parked, and wandered up a wheelchair ramp to the front door. Despite the windows being down in the Explorer, the interior was hot and stuffy. There was little wind in South Boston that afternoon.

“If Teehan tipped him, he’s going to be vigilant,” Z said. “Tough to tail.”

“We take turns,” I said. “Always bring coffee. That’s the key to a successful stakeout.”

“What about Hawk?”

“Hawk has other duties.”

“Making sure Jackie DeMarco doesn’t kill you while you sleuth?”

“Yep,” I said. “Being dead might hamper our investigation.”

Johnny Donovan abruptly walked out of the metal shed of an office and locked the door. The Pats jersey was too big for him but not big enough to hide a large bulge on his right hip. He now had on a ball cap with a red FD logo and a pair of sunglasses. He had a sagging stomach, short legs, and a large hooked nose.