Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(64)

“And how’d that work out for you?” Glass said.

“Oh, he’s ready to fold,” I said. “He’s got good in him. I just know it.”

“You realize he’s missing, too,” Glass said.

“Not necessarily.”

“Not necessarily?” Glass said. “If you have anything, you better step up right now yourself or I’ll never let you set foot back in this building unless you’re being processed.”

“Such sweet talk,” I said. “How could I refuse?”

Glass gritted her teeth. Cops flitted up and around the maze of cubicles. Phones rang. Computer keys were tapped. I had the sudden urge to purchase a complete set of The Old West, starting with the gunfighters.

“The kid has some kind of hero-worship thing with Donovan,” I said. “He’s drained the Kool-Aid and licked the punch bowl clean.”

“And where do we find him?” Glass said. She glowered at me. In the past, Quirk had simply simmered.

I reached into my pocket and placed my cell phone on the table. “Keep your friends close,” I said. “And your borderline sociopaths closer. I’ve been tailing him all morning. He’s alone.”

“So we wait until he connects with Donovan,” Glass said.

I nodded. Belson stood up and reached for his rumpled blue blazer. Glass had leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out in front of her, nodding. “I guess you aren’t a total waste to know, Spenser.”

“Gee, Captain Glass,” I said. “I kinda like you, too.”

She picked up the phone and called Arson. Belson and I drove together to reconnect with Kevin Teehan.





They met at midnight at an old warehouse in Charlestown. Johnny was already inside rigging the last few devices as Kevin sat on the hood of his Crown Vic, keeping watch and wondering what his life had become. Thirty minutes earlier, they’d busted the chain-link gate of the condemned toy factory on the Mystic River. Later, in the dark, moonless night, they’d touch off several spots on the second and third floors. To hear Johnny say it, everyone believed Zucco was to blame. And when it was all over, and fires started, no one would come after him or Kevin.

Kevin still couldn’t believe Zucco had turned on them. All he knew is that he just wanted everything to be over and didn’t want to go to jail. He’d followed Johnny this far, and he’d follow it until things were done. After this maybe he’d leave Mass for a while, try to find some work at a fire station up in Maine somewhere. Get away from the city, live off the grid.

“Come on,” Johnny said, walking down from the loading platform. “It’s time.”

The building was old, with busted-out windows and weeds growing through the asphalt. A big realty sign had been staked out in the front parking lot. Along the side of the building, big white letters painted on the brick read TOYS & GAMES.

“Now they’ll know it’s Zucco,” Johnny said. “Let’s set this thing off right. I been scoping this place out for months. You’ll see it f*cking burning all the way to China. It’s a statement that Boston Fire needs more men and better facilities. They may hate Mr. Firebug now, but he’ll be remembered as a hero in history. We done real good.”

Kevin lowered his head and followed Johnny into the building. Johnny shone a flashlight up onto the wooden crossbeams overhead and the stacks and stacks of scrap wood and trash.

The warehouse was dark and hot. Rain water dripped down from the floor above, pinging in puddles. He swallowed, as it was tough to breathe. In a far corner, he spotted what he thought was some kind of mannequin, false and artificial, propped up by a couple of old mattresses and a big stack of tires.

He walked closer. Behind him, Johnny continued to arrange the tires and douse them all with the kerosene. Johnny whistled “Mr. Heat Miser” from the old kids’ Christmas special as he worked. Kevin remembered watching it every year with his mother. She loved it.

“Why does it matter if we use La Bomba?” Kevin said. He walked forward to the big mess of tires.

“’Cause it’s his f*cking trademark,” he said. “The dumb bastard.”

Johnny talking now like Mr. Firebug was someone different, a person separate from them doing all of this. As he got close to the pile ready to burn, Kevin stepped forward and looked down into the face of the mannequin—Ray Zucco. Zucco was gray and still, openmouthed and surprised, his head turned in a weird angle as if he were watching the tanker ships sliding by outside on the Mystic.

“Holy shit,” Kevin said. “Holy shit. What’d you do, Johnny? What’d you do? Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

Johnny looked like a fat little troll in the moonlight, almost like the Heat Miser himself. Lights flashed red and green off the passing cargo ships. He lit a cigarette and craned his head to study Zucco’s face a little. “Hmm,” Johnny said. “Looks to me like he got caught in his own job. Cops think it’s Zucco. Now they’ll know it’s Zucco. He’s dead and they got nothing on us. He ate a gun and burned himself up.”

“What did you do?” Kevin said. “Jesus. What the f*ck’s the matter with you?”

“Good night, Mr. Firebug,” Donovan said. He tossed the lit cigarette into the mess by Zucco and the blue flame started to spread and zip onto the tires and trash. The burn and the heat came on strong and fast. “Now get going upstairs and light it up. We need to get the f*ck out of here. Now.”