Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(7)

“Ever read The Faerie Queen?”

“Do I look queer to you?”

“I would never speculate on one’s sexual orientation,” I said. “But your hair is a little long.”

“You wanna get popped in the mouth?” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “I need it to drink beer.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But how about you change the freakin’ channel and quit busting my nuts. Unknown origin means freakin’ unknown. It means you can’t wrap up causes in a neat little package for the insurance companies and the paper-pushers. That church was a hundred years old. Christ. Shit happens.”

“Shit happens isn’t working for Jack McGee.”

“Like I said, his head is f*cked up,” Grady said. He downed half his glass. “Like I said, no one is at the wheel. It’s the anniversary, you know? Next week. They’re having some kind of memorial. There’s talk of putting up a freakin’ statue or something.”

“And you’ll be there?”

He looked at me as if I might be nuts, too. He shook his head. “I’m a Boston firefighter, what the f*ck do you think? I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to do. But you start pissing on the memory of these men and you’ll get your ass stomped.”

“Sometimes, after a while, small details add up.”

“Leave it alone,” Grady said. “My back doesn’t work on a divine plan, like the sisters used to tell us.”

“But did you hear Mulligan say the fire had spread independently from two sources?”

“He said a lot of things before he died,” he said. “That ain’t one of them. I heard his last words. They were about his brothers with him. Not the f*cking fire.”

“But it’s possible?” I said.

“Pfft,” Grady said. “Crap.”

“You’re one of the first on the scene,” I said. “Did you hear of anyone running from the building before the fire?”

“It was late,” he said. “Nobody was there. What are you getting at? Nobody but Jack McGee thinks this was arson and the guy is still running crazy and loose. If that makes him feel better, let him think it. But how about you just let me sit here and watch my team lose. Do you mind? Is that too much to f*cking ask?”

“Not a bit.”

I placed my business card next to his beer. Grady studied it for a moment, and without looking away from the game, ripped it into several pieces and tossed it down to the floor. He sipped the beer some more. A nameless vet for the Sox was up to bat.

It didn’t take too long before he struck out, too.





6


Being a dogged professional and having zip to go on, I stopped by police headquarters, picked up the Arson file Quirk had left for me, and returned to my office. I set a metal fan on top of my desk, opened the window in my turret over Berkeley, and tried to scatter the warm, stale air. I left my door open and made coffee. I could drink hot coffee in hell itself.

For the next hour, I read the reports on the Holy Innocents fire. There were interviews with the first responders, including Captain Collins and John Grady. There were interviews with witnesses, including a bartender just coming onto a shift, a taxi driver who’d first seen smoke coming from the basement, and a professional dog trainer named Janet Vera. There were lab tests on the type of char left on walls and support beams. Investigators ruled out electrical. Investigators ruled out accidental. Neither hide nor hair had been inside the building for weeks.

The coffee was ready. I poured a cup. Thick corned-beef sandwiches, tepid Guinness, and hot days were the trifecta to make me sleepy. I added a spoonful of sugar to my coffee and spun around in my chair. I read the autopsy reports for the men. They died of asphyxiation before being overcome by the flames. There were diagrams and maps showing where they’d fallen.

The file noted conversations between arson investigators and homicide detectives. The last entry came late last year.

Across Berkeley, in the new Houghton Mifflin Harcourt building, I watched a lithe woman in a red wrap dress walk from her desk, out her door, and then back to her desk again. Although I admired her commitment to personal fitness, I decided not to guess her age.

I waved to the young woman. She lifted her head and then quickly shut the blinds. Ah, realize your youth while you have it.

I finished the coffee and poured another half-cup. I thought about reading back through the file. Or perhaps cleaning my .38 or the .357 I kept in my right-hand drawer. I could open up a bottle of Bushmills. Or I could go to the gym and sweat.

I chose the latter, and within thirty minutes, I was sparring with Z at Henry’s. We wore protective gear with eighteen-ounce gloves. We forwent the groin padding. That’s how much I trusted Zebulon Sixkill.

He rocked a couple shots to my ribs. Even through the padding, I felt them.

“The force is strong with you,” I said. “But you’re not a Jedi yet.”

“I will be soon,” he said. “With the paper to prove it.”

We circled each other in the ring. I stepped forward and jabbed while he sidestepped the punch. I leveled a solid right against his head. His head reeled back.

“He’s still got it,” he said.

“You bet.”

He took the opportunity to work out a nice combo on my body and went for the head. I ducked it and came up with a glancing blow in his stomach.