Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(5)

“Accurate,” I said.

“Saw one the other day that read GOD CREATED FIREMEN SO POLICE COULD HAVE HEROES, TOO.”

“I bet cops love that.”

“Cops think that Jack, Queen, King is as high as we can count,” he said. “Screw ’em. Would you like some cream or sugar?”

I took a teaspoon of sugar. “You guys were the first to arrive?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was off. Dougherty was in charge.”

I’d spent my waking hours reading up on Lieutenant Pat Dougherty, Jimmy Bonnelli, and Mike Mulligan from The Globe’s online archives. Mulligan was only twenty-four, just back from a second tour of Afghanistan. Bonnelli had nine years on the job, two ex-wives, and three kids. Dougherty was the old-timer, a lifelong friend to Jack McGee. Father to four, a practical joker, a fine cook, and a dedicated Pats fan. He spent most of his years with Engine 33/Ladder 15, the old Back Bay firehouse built in the 1880s.

“It had been a busy night and the boys were eating late,” Collins said. “We had some extra in the dinner fund and Dougherty sprung for some nice filets. Wrapped in bacon. He knew a guy who knew a guy in the meat business.”

“And right before they sat down—”

“They were in the middle of saying Grace and the alarm goes nuts.”

“Always that way?”

“Always,” Collins said. “Good food tempts fate.”

“How long do you think the fire had been burning?”

“It’s not a half-mile from the station,” Collins said. He sat down and placed two coffees between us. “Didn’t take them a minute to get there. Mike was a great driver. But I heard that church was lit up. Fire eating through plywood and shattering the big stained-glass window. Dougherty struck a second alarm right away.”

“I read they went immediately toward the basement?”

“Pat would’ve seen the fire and smoke down there,” he said. “We later found out that’s where the church kept their old files, which burned quick and hot. He knew he’d lost the building but wanted to make sure it didn’t spread. There’s a big new condo a block away, hundreds of people. When they got there some homeless guy was screaming he’d seen someone inside.”

“How many went in?”

“All four,” he said. “Dougherty and Mulligan led with the hose. Bonnelli and John Grady followed after hooking up to the hydrant.”

“You know what happened to the homeless guy?” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “There’s a methadone clinic around the corner. Neighborhood is in transition, homeless guy could be one of hundreds. I can’t tell you much else.”

“What about John Grady?”

“He got lucky,” Collins said. “Another few feet and he’d have been dead, too.”

“I know you weren’t there,” I said. “But how do you think they got trapped?”

“No secret,” he said. He rubbed his short, gray mustache and had a vacant, faraway look in his eyes. “The f*cking fire flashed back and blocked the exit. I know the smoke was thick down there. They’d have had to try and braille their way out. You know? On their hands and knees, feeling walls when they died. Like I said, this thing happened quick. It burned hot. All in all, five minutes? I think about those men when I go to sleep and first thing when I wake.”

“Do you think it might’ve been set?”

“No evidence of it,” he said. “To be honest, there wasn’t a hell of a lot left in that pit.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Of course.” Collins watched me and took a long, deep breath. “Anything’s possible. I found it strange how fast the fire burned. And how the fire met in the middle.”

“Multiple points of origin?”

“Say, you’re pretty smart for a former cop.”

I shrugged. “Some of my best friends are firefighters.”

Collins grinned and drank some coffee. He made a bitter face and reached for some artificial sweetener.

“The investigation is still open?” I said.

“Unknown origin,” he said. “I guess technically it’ll always be open.”

“Why do you think the fire was set in two locations?”

“Hold on,” Collins said. He lifted up his right hand. “Hold on. I never said ‘set.’ I said it could have originated in two places. And I only say that because Mulligan radioed in that two fires were burning at opposite ends of the church before the flashback.”

“That didn’t register with investigators?”

“Evidence didn’t show two sites,” Collins said. “And Mike’s dead. We can’t ask him what he saw.”

He gave a weak smile and sipped his coffee.

“I’m very sorry.”

“One minute you’re laughing and telling jokes and the next thing you know you’re riding that red truck into the depths of hell,” Collins said. “I miss those fellas every damn day. Like I said, they were brothers. If you hadn’t noticed, not many folks who look like me in the ranks.”

“Irish?”

“My great-great-grandfather must have been Irish,” he said, laughing. “A slave owner down in Georgia.”