Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(49)

“What do you think he’s packing?” Z said.

“From here, looks like a Mauser,” I said. “Anti-tank.”

“Doesn’t deserve to wear the Gronk.”

“Nope,” I said. “Better suited for Hernandez.”

Loose trash littered his yard: fast-food wrappers, foam cups, and plastic bags. A big billboard loomed over his tiny building. A young kid huddled in a corner of the image, under TAKE A STAND AGAINST BULLYING in big white letters. Donovan drove back to the gate, unlocked it, continued through it, and locked it behind him. The pit bull ran nervously up and down the length of the fence as he drove away and passed us on the way out. The dog emitted several high-pitched barks. Running and barking with nervous energy.

“I say we grab him.”

“Not yet.”

“He’s soft,” Z said. “Moves slow. Out of shape, with little legs and a big stomach.”

“Man like that knows he’s beat,” I said. “He’s a bully. He’ll shoot before you get close. Nothing to lose if he’s cornered.”

“Never mess with an Indian and his kemosabe.”

“Are you ever going to give up on the Lone Ranger thing?”

“When something works, stick with it,” Z said.

I waited a few seconds and followed him out to Old Colony, where he headed north until the road merged with Dot Ave. “Hi ho, Silver?” I said.

Z nodded in appreciation.





43


For the next few hours, Johnny Donovan zipped around Boston, checking and installing security systems. At a particularly tense moment, he filled up the Chevy’s tank and took a leak at a Citgo before walking across the street to McDonald’s. Z stayed on him while I met Teddy Cahill and Jack McGee at Joe Moakley Park for an update.

From the park bench, there was a great view of the city from Southie. Several Little Leaguers battled it out on the ball fields while joggers ran past us, stout of heart and shiny with sweat. The late-afternoon light shimmered off the mirrored windows downtown. I could tell by his stoic look under the big white mustache that Cahill was glad to see me.

I’d already shown McGee the photos. He stood with a lot of nervous energy while Cahill sat and patted Galway’s head. The old dog’s tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth, panting in the summer heat. I pulled the blow-ups from the folder. “Know these guys?”

“Sure,” he said. Cahill looked up to McGee. “I seen one of ’em around.”

“Have you checked them out?” I said.

“Like I said, whattya got?”

“They were seen at almost all of the suspicious fires.”

“It’s them,” McGee said. “It’s f*cking them. Right there all the time. I want their asses for all they’ve done.”

Cahill looked to McGee and shot him a hard look. “Yeah,” Cahill said. “But they’re Sparks. It’s what they do. That’s like saying you saw cheerleaders at Gillette.”

“Cheerleaders don’t try and kill the players,” McGee said.

Cahill held up a hand to try to quiet McGee. McGee’s face was red hot.

“They are not Sparks,” I said. “Sparks are good guys who regard this crew as grade-A wackos. Persona non grata at their clubhouse. One of them had a big beef against Rob Featherstone.”

“Okay,” Cahill said. “I’m listening.”

“Listening?” McGee said. “Holy Christ. He’s listening. Spenser got you the first hot lead on this thing and you’re f*cking listening.”

“Shut up, Jack,” Cahill said.

“Shut up?” McGee said. He walked up too close to Cahill, breathing hard in and out of his nose. I stood and put a light hand on McGee’s shoulder. He looked to me and then back to Cahill.

He then shook his head and walked off down a path.

“You can see why Jack’s been a pain in my ass over the last year?” Cahill said.

“He means well.”

We watched him follow a path back to where he’d parked. I hoped he’d wait in the car. I’d ridden with him down to the park.

“I pulled some video from a local TV station,” I said. “After a couple days, I detected some patterns and strange behavior.”

“How strange?”

“One of these guys pulled a pistol out like he was going to fire it in the air,” I said. “Another one of them, the one with the Shaggy goatee, took a bunch of selfies with the fires. It was like they were all watching a rock concert.”

“Names?”

“Young guy is Kevin Teehan,” I said. “High school dropout, works at the Home Depot in Somerville, and is a part-timer with the fire department in Blackburn. He claims he put in an application with you guys but won’t make the cut because he’s neither black nor a woman.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cahill said.

“Yep,” I said. “He also told me he’d never heard of a guy named Johnny Donovan.”

“Who the f*ck is Johnny Donovan?”

I flipped through the pages of the screen grabs. I selected the one I wanted and showed him the still. “The guy he’s got an arm around in this pic. Unless he’s just overly friendly, they appear to be good pals.”