Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(63)

“Where’s he want to meet?”

“Where else?” Johnny said. “The f*cking pastry shop. But as soon as I get there, me and him are going for a ride and to have a serious talk. I’m going to give him a chance to stick with things, stick with our plan. Boston Fire should be kissing our ass for all we done for them. At the end of the year, the city will be cleaning up those disgraced firehouses, put those old engines out of service. This is a turning point for all of us. We can’t let Ray or some old man f*ck it all up.”

“Why’d you have to kill that f*cking guy?”

Johnny reached for a pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter on his dash. He lit one up and shook his head. “’Cause he wouldn’t shut up.”

“What about the church?” Kevin said. “This was supposed to wake up the mayor’s office, not kill some firemen.”

“Let me tell you something,” Johnny said. He pointed the glowing end of the cigarette at Kevin’s chest. “Ain’t no such thing as a bloodless revolution. If people get hurt, that’s because they need better training. Better equipment. When this is all over, I’m going to meet with Commissioner Foley and let him know my findings of the last four years. Somebody in that department needs some goddamn brains.”

“Don’t hurt Ray,” Kevin said. “Okay?”

“I’m not going hurt the moron,” Johnny said. “I’m going to give him a chance to go out on top. If they got something on him. Or you and me. This isn’t the way it all ends. All this stuff. The stupid Dumpsters and old buildings. It’s all been small. The church was something special. The church had meaning. You got to build something that everyone in Boston will see. Like a symbol for people to talk about.”

“Somebody must’ve seen Ray in the South End while we lit up the detective’s building,” Kevin said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Biggest goddamn fire you ever saw,” Johnny said. He jutted his chin toward a long row of brick warehouses against the harbor. “It’ll light up the whole harbor. It’s packed with nothing but boxes and wood, old pieces of furniture. I couldn’t have rigged it better myself. Probably don’t even need nothing more than a kitchen match.”

“Ray would never talk about us,” Kevin said. “Ray’s stand-up.”

“Five stories tall,” Johnny said. “Longer than two football fields.”

“I’d just stay away from Ray,” Kevin said. “Don’t get near him. Don’t get near any cops.”

“They’re gonna have to invent a new alarm for this one,” Johnny said. “Every f*cking firefighter and their mother will be there.”

“Why’d you start with the church?” Kevin said. “What was that all about?”

“That’s where I got educated on how things work,” Johnny said. “This is a dirty, f*cked-up world. Only way to change things is to write what you want in big capital letters.”





56


We kicked Ray Zucco loose last night,” Belson said. “He was wearing a wire and we were riding close.”

“Terrific,” I said. “I think. What’d you find out?”

I sat with Frank Belson and Captain Glass in their utilitarian offices at police headquarters. Homicide’s offices looked very much like a place where Time/Life operators might remain on standby for your important call.

“Next to nothing,” Belson said. “He met Johnny Donovan at the Scandinavian Pastry shop in Southie. They sat there for three hours talking about how bad the Pats were going to be this year. According to Donovan, your man Heywood has lost a lot of speed and drive. He says he and Brady have gotten old and need to be traded. He also talked about Boston Fire being an underfunded crap heap. He says that nobody in this city does shit for fire while cops get their balls waxed.”

I looked over to Captain Glass. “It’s true,” Glass said. “My nuts really shine.”

“I like her,” I said.

Belson shook his head. “He was on to us,” he said. “He was playing us and Zucco froze. Zucco lost his cool and started to ramble. He kept on asking questions about Holy Innocents and Featherstone and when Donovan would go off on the Pats or whatever, he’d try and nail him down. Even the guy who makes the donuts could tell he had on a wire.”

“Did you pick up Donovan anyway?”

“We were,” Belson said. “But Zucco got into Donovan’s car and took off like a bat outta hell. We kept up with them all the way to around Braintree and then we lost the son of a bitch.”

“Wait,” I said. “What happened?”

“It happens,” Glass said. “We found Donovan’s SUV parked at the T station. He must’ve switched cars. He was prepped.”

I nodded. “Zucco’s dead.”

“The thought had crossed our minds, Dick Tracy,” Belson said. “But we needed a hotshot like you to tell us the odds.”

“I’ll bet you a dozen from the Scandinavian.”

“Spenser, I wouldn’t bet a donut hole on Zucco’s chances,” Belson said. “Christ. Any luck with the kid?”

“We had a heart-to-heart up in Saugus yesterday,” I said. “I told him Johnny Donovan was a psychopath and to step up and do the right thing before more firefighters got hurt.”