Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(9)

Kevin took the shot and gave the boys a thumbs-up. That was the night Mr. Firebug was born.





7


The next morning, I waited at Flour Bakery near the Seaport for the Boston Fire Museum to open. I tried to use my time constructively by polishing off two cinnamon donuts. Simple, elegant, and perfect. At nine, a tall, lanky man with thinning black hair opened up the old brick firehouse and let me inside. He wore pleated khakis with sneakers and a sensible short-sleeved plaid dress shirt. He turned on the overhead fluorescent lights and a portable scanner by a cash register.

Vintage fire engines and horse-drawn pumps shared the wide space with plenty of old axes, and a collection of helmets hung from the rafters.

The man stood behind the counter and plucked a toothpick in the side of his mouth. He studied me through a pair of thick gold metal glasses with the mild manners of a local insurance agent. His name tag read ROB FEATHERSTONE.

Rob Featherstone, head of the Sparks Association, was one of the first at Holy Innocents.

I introduced myself. He gave me a skeptical look and said, “What’s a private cop gotta do with any fire business? Fire business is for the fire department.”

“I’m working with the police,” I said. Sort of telling the truth. “Some people believe whoever torched the church is still out there setting fires.”

“Who said the church was arson?”

“Arson doesn’t have an official cause either way.”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with some private cop,” he said. “Those Arson dicks are sharp. Real sharp. Smart as hell. What’s your name again?”

“Spenser,” I said. “With an S.”

“Never hearda you.”

“Unfortunate,” I said.

“Why’s that?”

“I’m huge in Japan.”

“I really wish I knew something,” he said. “But I’m just the guy handing out water and coffee to our boys. Like I said, I got no freakin’ idea how that fire got started. I’m just the support team.”

“Perhaps you might have something or someone,” I said. “Even if it seems small.”

“I was there all of two minutes before Pat Dougherty and his crew pulled up.”

“Who else was there?” I said. “Did you notice anything strange about anyone at the scene?”

“You know how many weirdos like to watch fires?” he said. “Present company included.”

He smiled. I kept my mouth shut.

He grinned and used his fingers to feather over his few remaining strands of black hair. “Must’ve been a hundred folks on Shawmut that night.”

“How long did you stay?”

“All freakin’ night,” he said. “Never went home. I saw those boys run into the church and I was there when they brought ’em out. Goddamn it. I’ll never forget that. That’s what those men mean to this city. Running into a building to stop the fire, protect this neighborhood. That’s why we do what we do. These guys give their lives. These aren’t sport stars with million-dollar contracts. They do it ’cause they got honor and respect for this town.”

“Especially this summer,” I said. “It seems there’s a fire every night.”

“This is the most action the department has seen in a while. But most of it is a lot smaller than that church. Lots of Dumpsters. Abandoned buildings. Burning for show.”

“The church was abandoned, too.”

“That was almost a year ago,” Featherstone said. “Christ, Mr. Spenser. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but who thought you could do any better than the department?”

“If it was an accident,” I said, “I can’t help pinpoint the cause. But if it was something criminal, that’s in my line of work. It takes a while to find a pattern in some random acts.”

“Like I said, I don’t think it was set,” he said. “I know what arsons look like. We had like two dozen in the last couple of months. This was an old church and some wire crossed or some dumb bastard left a cigarette in that alley. I mean, who the hell would burn a church? You don’t go to confession for that kind of crap.”

The dispatcher advised of two minor injuries on Atlantic Avenue near the aquarium. Police were on scene and reported medical attention was needed. I leaned on the display case and looked down at some artifacts from the Cocoanut Grove fire of ’42. I studied the news clippings and a menu from the old nightclub.

Featherstone walked around the table and joined me at the display. He swiveled the toothpick in his mouth and made a sighing sound.

“I once met the man who thought he’d done it,” Featherstone said. “He’d been nothing but a kid, trying to change out a lightbulb. He lit a match to see what he was doing under a paper palm tree and whoosh. That fire burned hotter and faster than about anything in history. When the firemen got inside, they found people still sitting at their tables, cocktails in front of them. Bodies in perfect shape. Christ.”

I nodded and let him talk.

“I think he replayed that event in his mind every damn day.”

“From what you’ve heard, do you think there might’ve been two points of origin?”

“Boy, you don’t quit, do you?” Featherstone said. He smiled and thought about it before shaking his head. “I mean, I can’t be sure. When I got there it was mainly smoke. A lot of black smoke. Everything was coming from the basement and out that side alley. I didn’t see anything in the sanctuary. But after Dougherty, Bonnelli, Mulligan, and Grady went in, I could see the big stained-glass window lit up with the fire. The fire had burned its way upstairs and into the sanctuary. But as far as two fires, I can’t say. I guess we’ll really never know.”