Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (3 page)

B
right and early the next morning, I drove into the South End to meet with Captain Troy Collins of Engine Company 22. The firehouse was a squat building of little character situated between several churches and office buildings on Tremont. Collins invited me upstairs to the firefighters’ quarters and kitchen, where he made some coffee. “McGee warned me you’d be stopping by,” he said. “He didn’t want to get me in trouble. Told me to keep it on the down low.”

“What’d you say?”

“This was Pat D’s firehouse,” he said. “I’ll tell you my deepest, darkest secrets if you think it might help. Him and Mike were like brothers.”

Collins was a trim black man in his early fifties with closely cropped gray hair and a short gray mustache. He had a thick chest and muscular arms and walked with the ramrod posture
of former military. Two firefighters were in a break room, lying on an old couch and watching CNN; three others were in a back room, lifting weights. I passed a locker with a bumper sticker that read
DIAL 911 CUZ SHIT HAPPENS
.

“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 fucking 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.”

“I knew it,” I said. “You have that twinkle in your eye.”

“I wish I knew more,” he said. “And I wish I’d been there with them. We got the dedication coming up. They’re going to unveil a plaque here at the house. It’s pretty much all I can think about. Media and all that stopping by. Folks bringing us more food than we can ever eat.”

“I’d like to speak to John Grady.”

“That might be tricky,” he said.

“He’s no longer with your company?”

“Nope.” Collins shook his head. “He’s on disability. Cracked a couple vertebrae that night. Off the record, I hear he’s been drinking a lot. He just never came back from it, physically or mentally.”

I asked where I might find him, and he gave me the name of a well-known bar in Dorchester. I nodded and offered my hand. Collins shook it and looked me in the eye.

“What do you think about this church being connected to these latest arsons?”

“Hard to say,” Collins said. “We haven’t had much rest since spring. Someone or several folks are burning up lots of old buildings. Dumpsters, trash piles. It’s keeping us on high alert.”

“Jack believes it’s all the same.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Collins said. “Seems to be a different kind of animal at work. Besides, you do know Jack McGee is crazy?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why do you think we’re friends?”

T
he Eire Pub was known as Boston’s Original Gentlemen’s Prestige Bar. Just to underscore the point, it was announced from a rooftop billboard on Adams, across from the Greenhills Irish Bakery and down the street from a run-down funeral home. Staying true to my heritage, I ordered a Guinness. The head was poured so thick and professionally, I could have used it to shave.

The Sox played on flat screens spaced about every two feet. After I sampled the beer, I ordered a corned-beef sandwich and watched another inning. Four potential barflies surrounded me at the largish bar. The walls were decorated with a lot of historic Boston photos. Several had been shot by my friend Bill Brett from
The Globe
. The middle of the bar was divided by an island of whiskey. Through the colorful bottles, I spotted a guy in his early to mid-forties with a lot of brown hair, sipping on a draft.

Two of the other men were too old. A guy seated three stools down wore a collared shirt and had soft hands.

I moved to the other side of the bar and found a stool next to the big guy.

“These fucking bums are killing me,” the man said.

“That’s what the beer is for.”

“It’s like last season was some kind of dream.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be John Grady?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he said. “You work for my ex-wife or the fucking insurance company?”

“I work for myself,” I said. “I’m a friend of Jack McGee’s.”

“
Pfft.
Jack McGee,” he said. “You know he’s a genuine nutso?”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“No, really,” he said. “I’m not kidding. He’s always been crazy. But lately. Holy Christ. He’s got these theories. He won’t let this fire go. Can’t quit running his mouth. Somehow his brains have gotten all scrambled. Can’t believe he made fucking captain.”

“He lost a close friend.”

“What about me?” Grady said. “I lost three great friends and broke my freaking back. You don’t see me blaming bogeymen. Shit happens, you know? You think there’s order in this universe, but no one is driving the fucking bus.”

“Baseball, beer, and existentialism,” I said.

“You trying to get smart?”

“Too early in the day.” I sipped the second half of my Guinness. Ortiz hit a ball far and a little too high.

Grady slapped the bar and said, “
Come on. Come on. Come on.
How much is that fucking guy making?”

An outfielder for the Blue Jays snagged it and threw it hard and fast whence it came. Grady shook his head and took a sip of beer. He signaled the bartender for another. He did not seem the least bit drunk or tipsy. It might take a keg or two, as he appeared to be pushing about two-fifty.

“You never did say,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Why McGee sent you.”

“Jack didn’t send me,” I said. “I just heard you’d been in that church before the flashback. Before your friends were trapped.”

He nodded. But the look on his face was not pleasant. It turned a bright shade of red as he swallowed hard. He shook his head several times to show his disappointment in me.

“I hoped you’d tell me what you saw down there,” I said. “I know Mike Mulligan radioed that the fire seemed to have started in two directions. What do you think about that?”

The bartender took away his pint glass and wiped down the moisture left behind. He laid down a fresh pint as John Grady studied my face. He wore his hair shaggy and long over his eyebrows and covering his ears. “Why? Why does it matter? Arson looked into it. I mean, Jesus Christ. Who the fuck are you?”

I introduced myself.

“That name supposed to mean something?”

“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 fucked 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fucking 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.

B
eing 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.

“What will Boston do without you?” I said.

“The women of Los Angeles need me,” Z said. “But I’ll finish what we started.”

“And what if Hawk and I ever need you?” I said.

“Let’s call L.A. a branch office,” Z said. “I’m under the impression there’s crime and corruption on the West Coast, too.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

Z dropped his gloves a bit. Jab, cross, left uppercut, cross. The second cross connected with his head. Harder than he or I had expected. He stumbled back a couple steps. I backed up and circled. He smiled, shook his head, and came back for me. We’d trained for years and I’d miss him a great deal.

“Hawk said if you can’t beat ’em, shoot ’em,” Z said.

“Maybe,” I said. “However, I’ve never known anyone who could beat Hawk.”

“Or you?”

“Living?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope.”

“So when do you use a gun instead of your fists?” Z said.

“Only when necessary,” I said. “Don’t pull your gun if you’re not willing to kill.”

Z nodded. He stepped in and jabbed twice, shot a cross, and then followed with a hook. The hook shaved my ribs but, had it connected, might have proved painful.

“Sell the punch,” I said. “Always sell the punch.”

The timer buzzed, and we both grabbed the water bottles where we’d left them. We were both breathing hard and our T-shirts were soaked in sweat. Z took off his headgear and poured water over his black hair. He spit in a bucket and we both waited for the buzzer.

“One more round,” I said. “Keep your hands up.”

“I know,” he said.

“The hardest lessons are the easiest to forget.”

The buzzer sounded and again we circled each other.