Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn Read online

  “How’d Donovan take being fired?”

  “Not well,” Schultze said. He rocked back in his padded leather chair and folded his hands across his belly. “He blamed several young boys of plotting against him, even saying they’d been the ones who’d stolen the electronics. He threatened to sue the school when the parents of the boy filed charges. And he threatened me with violence. We had to have the police escort him from campus.”

  “What exactly did he say to you?”

  “He claimed I’d ruined his name,” Schultze said. He removed the stylish eyeglasses. He blew a warm breath on a lens and cleaned it with a tissue. “And that he wished to kick the crap out of me.”

  “Subtle.”

  “He’s a sick man,” Schultze said. “There’s an aura of meanness about him. He wouldn’t speak to you or look you in the eye. The only time I ever saw him animated was when he’d talk to some of the instructors about firefighting. He claimed to have been a volunteer firefighter.”

  “Which is not true.”

  “He said a lot of things that turned out not to be true.”

  “What else?”

  “He said he was a decorated Marine.”

  “Did he have a military record?”

  “None,” he said. “Were you in the service, Mr. Spenser?”

  “Army,” I said. “For a few years.”

  “I was in the Air Force,” he said. “You and I probably have similar feelings about those who lie about their service.”

  I nodded. I didn’t do much in the Army, but I wasn’t overly fond of liars of any type.

  “His stories on firefighting and his time in the Marines were very detailed,” Schultze said. “He put a lot of thought into his imaginary life as a hero of some sort.”

  “So what ever happened to the assault charges against our Walter Mitty?”

  Schultze leaned his elbows on his desk. I heard buckets being tossed back into the marsh, lots of laughing, and more sloshing. The muck bubbled up and turned the surface water a deep brown. A sign above his desk said GIFTED MINDS NEED CREATIVE INSTRUCTION. The school was brick and stately, with numerous state and national awards displayed in the halls.

  I bet a free pony probably came with the price of tuition.

  He threw up his hands and shook his head. “The boy’s family decided not to press charges,” he said. “I was very disappointed. But our board of directors were privately pleased. If this had made the news, we would have lost so many students. We are much, much better about our new hiring process.”

  “Any idea why they dropped the charges?”

  “The family has had some personal hardships,” Schultze said. “There was a terrible fire at their home. They lost everything and they had to move. I believe they let go of the case because of all the pressure.”

  “Aha,” I said.

  “You don’t think—”

  “I’m not a fan of coincidence,” I said. “Where did the family live?”

  42

  The thing about bad guys,” I said, “is that sooner or later they’ll tell you the truth.”

  I was behind the wheel of my Explorer in Southie that afternoon, riffing my years of wisdom like John Coltrane on playing sax, Y. A. Tittle on throwing touchdowns, or Carmen Miranda doing the samba. Z leaned back in the passenger seat, his eyes slightly closed, but I was pretty sure he was still awake.

  “Get them talking,” he said, “and they can’t shut up.”

  “Unless they’re shooting at you. If they’re shooting, you should delay the conversation until later.”

  “A medicine man told me the same thing,” Z said. “But he was speaking of the white man. Not hoods.”

  “You can always call me,” I said. “When you need advice. Or the medicine man. Whichever one of us is relevant.”

  “Or ask your buddies in L.A.”

  “Chollo and I would offer very different guidance,” I said. “But Bobby Horse? He and I might share the same opinion.”

  Johnny Donovan kept his security office in a one-story brick building in a weedy lot behind a chain-link fence. I figured he didn’t want anyone stealing the weeds or junked old fire trucks haphazardly parked. We had parked along D Street, not far off Old Colony.

  “We don’t want to confront him,” Z said.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “But you want him to know that we’re tailing him,” Z said. “That we’re interested.”

  “Let’s just see where he leads us,” I said. “We have little else going for us.”

  “So, what do we know about this guy?”

  “Donovan appears to be a true lunatic,” I said. “He’s been arrested three times for impersonating cops. He lost a job three years ago as a maintenance guy at a rich private school. He was accused of stealing electronics and later of slapping a young boy. The case was nol-prossed.”

  “Lovely.”

  “In the middle of the court case, the victim’s house burned,” I said. “I found that to be a strange coincidence.”

  “Almost eerie.” Z raised up in the passenger seat. We both watched a bright red Chevy Blazer stop at the chain-link gate. A thick guy in a blue Pats jersey with number 87 crawled out from behind the wheel. He unlocked the gate and yelled at a brindle pit bull that jumped up on his short pant legs. He was small, thick, and beady-eyed. He looked very much like a troll from a Grimm’s tale.

  “At least the dog seems friendly,” Z said.

  “When the time comes, you might need to jump that fence to investigate.”

  “I don’t do dogs,” he said. “Especially pit bulls.”

  “Hawk doesn’t care for dogs, either,” I said. “Except Pearl. He and Pearl have become great friends. Sometimes I believe she might leave me for him. If the occasion came up.”

  Johnny Donovan drove up into the lot, parked, and wandered up a wheelchair ramp to the front door. Despite the windows being down in the Explorer, the interior was hot and stuffy. There was little wind in South Boston that afternoon.

  “If Teehan tipped him, he’s going to be vigilant,” Z said. “Tough to tail.”

  “We take turns,” I said. “Always bring coffee. That’s the key to a successful stakeout.”

  “What about Hawk?”

  “Hawk has other duties.”

  “Making sure Jackie DeMarco doesn’t kill you while you sleuth?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Being dead might hamper our investigation.”

  Johnny Donovan abruptly walked out of the metal shed of an office and locked the door. The Pats jersey was too big for him but not big enough to hide a large bulge on his right hip. He now had on a ball cap with a red FD logo and a pair of sunglasses. He had a sagging stomach, short legs, and a large hooked nose.

  “What do you think he’s packing?” Z said.

  “From here, looks like a Mauser,” I said. “Anti-tank.”

  “Doesn’t deserve to wear the Gronk.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Better suited for Hernandez.”

  Loose trash littered his yard: fast-food wrappers, foam cups, and plastic bags. A big billboard loomed over his tiny building. A young kid huddled in a corner of the image, under TAKE A STAND AGAINST BULLYING in big white letters. Donovan drove back to the gate, unlocked it, continued through it, and locked it behind him. The pit bull ran nervously up and down the length of the fence as he drove away and passed us on the way out. The dog emitted several high-pitched barks. Running and barking with nervous energy.

  “I say we grab him.”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s soft,” Z said. “Moves slow. Out of shape, with little legs and a big stomach.”

  “Man like that knows he’s beat,” I said. “He’s a bully. He’ll shoot before you get close. Nothing to lose if he’s cornered.”

  “Never mess with an Ind
ian and his kemosabe.”

  “Are you ever going to give up on the Lone Ranger thing?”

  “When something works, stick with it,” Z said.

  I waited a few seconds and followed him out to Old Colony, where he headed north until the road merged with Dot Ave. “Hi ho, Silver?” I said.

  Z nodded in appreciation.

  43

  For the next few hours, Johnny Donovan zipped around Boston, checking and installing security systems. At a particularly tense moment, he filled up the Chevy’s tank and took a leak at a Citgo before walking across the street to McDonald’s. Z stayed on him while I met Teddy Cahill and Jack McGee at Joe Moakley Park for an update.

  From the park bench, there was a great view of the city from Southie. Several Little Leaguers battled it out on the ball fields while joggers ran past us, stout of heart and shiny with sweat. The late-afternoon light shimmered off the mirrored windows downtown. I could tell by his stoic look under the big white mustache that Cahill was glad to see me.

  I’d already shown McGee the photos. He stood with a lot of nervous energy while Cahill sat and patted Galway’s head. The old dog’s tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth, panting in the summer heat. I pulled the blow-ups from the folder. “Know these guys?”

  “Sure,” he said. Cahill looked up to McGee. “I seen one of ’em around.”

  “Have you checked them out?” I said.

  “Like I said, whattya got?”

  “They were seen at almost all of the suspicious fires.”

  “It’s them,” McGee said. “It’s fucking them. Right there all the time. I want their asses for all they’ve done.”

  Cahill looked to McGee and shot him a hard look. “Yeah,” Cahill said. “But they’re Sparks. It’s what they do. That’s like saying you saw cheerleaders at Gillette.”

  “Cheerleaders don’t try and kill the players,” McGee said.

  Cahill held up a hand to try to quiet McGee. McGee’s face was red hot.

  “They are not Sparks,” I said. “Sparks are good guys who regard this crew as grade-A wackos. Persona non grata at their clubhouse. One of them had a big beef against Rob Featherstone.”

  “Okay,” Cahill said. “I’m listening.”

  “Listening?” McGee said. “Holy Christ. He’s listening. Spenser got you the first hot lead on this thing and you’re fucking listening.”

  “Shut up, Jack,” Cahill said.

  “Shut up?” McGee said. He walked up too close to Cahill, breathing hard in and out of his nose. I stood and put a light hand on McGee’s shoulder. He looked to me and then back to Cahill.

  He then shook his head and walked off down a path.

  “You can see why Jack’s been a pain in my ass over the last year?” Cahill said.

  “He means well.”

  We watched him follow a path back to where he’d parked. I hoped he’d wait in the car. I’d ridden with him down to the park.

  “I pulled some video from a local TV station,” I said. “After a couple days, I detected some patterns and strange behavior.”

  “How strange?”

  “One of these guys pulled a pistol out like he was going to fire it in the air,” I said. “Another one of them, the one with the Shaggy goatee, took a bunch of selfies with the fires. It was like they were all watching a rock concert.”

  “Names?”

  “Young guy is Kevin Teehan,” I said. “High school dropout, works at the Home Depot in Somerville, and is a part-timer with the fire department in Blackburn. He claims he put in an application with you guys but won’t make the cut because he’s neither black nor a woman.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Cahill said.

  “Yep,” I said. “He also told me he’d never heard of a guy named Johnny Donovan.”

  “Who the fuck is Johnny Donovan?”

  I flipped through the pages of the screen grabs. I selected the one I wanted and showed him the still. “The guy he’s got an arm around in this pic. Unless he’s just overly friendly, they appear to be good pals.”

  “Still doesn’t mean dick.”

  “What else do we have?”

  “Dick,” he said.

  “Two years ago, Donovan was accused of stealing electronics from a tony private school in Watertown,” I said. “They couldn’t prove anything. But later, he slapped a kid across the face and was charged with assault. Before any of this went to court, the victim’s home burned and all charges were dropped.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Keep going.”

  I handed him a file on Johnny Donovan. I asked him to pull the fire records from Watertown. I showed him several photos of the three having a grand time at different arsons. “I don’t know the identity of the third man in the picture.”

  Cahill studied the pic and shook his head. Two women in sports bras and running shorts jogged briskly past us. Our train of thought was momentarily interrupted. Even Galway lifted her old head to stare. “Maybe it’s Orson Welles.”

  “Donovan’s been arrested for some other stuff,” I said. “He was charged three times in Western Mass for impersonating a cop.”

  “Wait a second,” Cahill said. “Wait a second. What’s this bastard’s name again?”

  “Donovan,” I said. “Johnny Donovan. Jack said he had some trouble with him before. He banned him from the firehouse. He once yelled at Jack at a fire for not following procedure.”

  Cahill nodded, thinking on it, remembering a grain of something. He took the leash off Galway and let her trot around in the open grass. Galway took a leak beside a small tree and walked into the wide-open space of the park, sniffing the summer air.

  “So you got a wannabe and a nutso,” he said. “What’s in it for them? Usually guys like that rush in fast and try to save the day. Be heroes. They didn’t. Why set the fires?”

  I shrugged. “That’s where it gets murky,” I said. “Motive.”

  “Any witnesses to put them at the scenes before the fires?” he said. “Did you find them with any of the equipment used in making these devices?”

  “These guys aren’t MIT students,” I said. “They’ll trip up.”

  “Are you watching them?” Cahill said.

  I nodded. “Given our situation, Jack and I thought we might join forces.”

  Galway trotted back from her journey. She panted and lay down on the grass by the park bench. The Little League game sounded in the distance. It was a warm, sunny afternoon filled with possibilities.

  “Let me have the pictures,” Cahill said. “I can get our guys to go back to some witnesses.”

  “Maybe I could dig around at Donovan’s place,” I said.

  “Just don’t screw it up,” Cahill said. “If these bastards are our guys, we got to get it on the level. A good clean search with a warrant.”

  I nodded. Cahill sighed and reached down to rub Galway’s ears.

  “You know, I thought I really had something yesterday. A security camera not far from the second fire the night your apartment burned. That bigger fire, down in the South End, that sent some of our boys to the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “Property owner won’t give it up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “I mean, it’s a freakin’ flower shop in the South End. What are we gonna do, steal ideas for anniversary arrangements?”

  “Can’t you force them?”

  “It’s private property,” he said. “I tried to talk straight to one of the gentlemen who runs it. He claims the camera is busted. I asked for anything the camera had anyway, and he tells me to contact his lawyer. Next thing I know, I get a call from an attorney talking about harassment. I mean, what the hell?”

  With great effort, Galway got to her feet and snuffled over to me. She sniffed at my pant leg and her tail began t
o wag. I figured she’d caught scent of Miss Pearl.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “Are you talking about something illegal or unethical?”

  I smiled. “Goodness, no.”

  We can leave it all alone,” Johnny Donovan said. “Or we can double the fuck down and do the job we agreed to do.”

  Big Ray reached for a donut and took a huge bite in an effort to stay silent. Johnny watched him for a moment and then turned to Kevin. Kevin took a cool sip of water and waited. He knew Johnny was cracking a bit. He just hoped he’d hold it together in case someone saw them gathered at the Scandinavian Pastry shop.

  “This is it,” Johnny said. “Draw the fucking line. Teach those bastards a lesson. This is the twenty-first century. You can’t run a department with no freakin’ money. Old equipment and jalopy trucks. Action. We need action.”

  “That guy you told me about,” Kevin said. He didn’t want to tell but had to tell him. “The investigator? He came to me at work. He started asking me what I’d seen at these fires. Asked me a lot about the church in the South End. And he asked me if you and I were friends.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Big Ray stopped chewing. He just cut his eyes from left to right where Kevin and Johnny sat side by side. He was dressed in civilian clothes tonight. They had plans for a couple places in Brighton just to expand their territory, let the department know that no neighborhood was safe.

  “What did he know?” Ray said.

  “I don’t think he knew nothing,” Kevin said. “I think he was just fishing around. Someone told him we’d been sparking and he thought he’d run some questions by me. I don’t know. I didn’t think much of it until he got serious about Johnny. He seemed like he wanted to know more about you.”

  Kevin turned his head to Johnny.

  Johnny pounded his fist on the table. “That fucker Featherstone,” he said. “That son of a bitch. He liked me for the church. He was always jealous and suspicious. I don’t know what this snoop is doing or who’s paying him. But this ain’t good. Somebody from the department, Cahill or one of his shit heels, will come to you guys soon. They’re gonna put on some pressure. But you got to know they don’t know shit. Don’t get nervous and stupid.”