Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn Read online

  “Are you performing your own?”

  “You know ol’ Dr. Gillespie,” I said. “He’s pretty rough on me.”

  “Do you have any references from after the war?”

  “What can I say? I was born into the wrong era.”

  I swung around and faced Berkeley. The young woman in the Houghton Mifflin Harcourt building was eating lunch at her desk, too. I offered a friendly wave in solidarity. This time she waved back.

  “You better watch out,” I said. “Other women might appreciate my arcane references.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Or my ability to produce a pizza later tonight.”

  “Pizza sounds wonderful,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a day for shrinkage.”

  “With peppers, onions, and black olives?”

  She agreed and I hung up. I finished the last bit of the sub sandwich and poured some coffee. I sat at my desk and watched the rain fall for a long while.

  At a quarter to five, Tommy Torch called. Actually, it was an automated voice who informed me I had a call from Cedar Junction and would I accept the charges.

  “Gladly,” I said.

  The automated voice didn’t understand. It asked me again.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Tommy was animated, talking fast but low into the mouthpiece. He informed me that if someone learned we spoke, that the gentleman might fashion his nuts into a keychain.

  “Colorful,” I said.

  “You unnerstand?”

  “Nuts into a keychain,” I said. “That’s bad, right?”

  “The guy we spoke of.”

  “Jackie DeMarco.”

  “For Christ sake.”

  “They can hear you, but not me.”

  “Yeah, him,” he said. “He may be using this guy from up in Lynn but works in Revere. He’s one of those young hotshots. A shooter. But I hear he’s been branching out into other lines of work.”

  “Diversification.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “Right. He’s also real good at burning shit. Not as good as me. But gets the job done.”

  “What makes you think he works for DeMarco?”

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with that shit, Spenser,” he said. “I give you a name. If the name pans out, then you put in a good word. That’s how the world works, right?”

  “True pals.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  The connection from Walpole was very bad and the line buzzed in my ear. Between the rain outside my window and the mumble mouth of Tommy, it was difficult to hear. “And?”

  “What?”

  “The name?”

  “Don’t fuck me,” he said.

  “You needn’t be concerned.”

  “You know Teddy Cahill?” he said. “Works in Arson?”

  “And his dog, too.”

  “That fucking dog once got me four years inside,” he said. “It’s still alive? Christ.”

  “I’ll talk to Cahill,” I said. “I’ll let him know if you helped. What they do is up to them.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What the hell?”

  I waited. I almost started to work out a drumroll on my desk. Instead I started to whistle the theme to Jeopardy!

  “Tyler King,” he said. Voice lowered. “A real scumbag. He’s the kind of guy who’d throw acid in his mother’s face. A goddamn yellow prick.”

  “Coming from you, a true compliment.”

  “Mainly does business out of his garage in Eastie,” he said. “Right by Logan. Planes right overhead and shit. He’s got a party store in Saugus, too. Deals drugs. But does the hard stuff that’s got to be done. He ain’t a nice man.”

  “Neither are you, Tommy,” I said.

  “I know what I am,” he said. “If I ever forget, I got guards to remind me. I just got to know, are we good with this?”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I said and hung up the phone.

  I grabbed my Braves cap off the hat tree and locked up the door. I called Quirk as I drove south to police headquarters. I needed information and maybe a mug shot on Tyler King.

  “Why they don’t make bubblegum cards for criminals?”

  “Great idea,” Quirk said. “I’ll talk to the super. We’ll get right on it, Spenser.”

  20

  Why the hell are you asking about Tyler King?” Quirk said.

  “Nice choice of locations,” I said. “Am I not welcome in the new office?”

  We sat in Quirk’s car in the parking lot of a Burger King on Malcolm X Boulevard.

  “People will start to talk,” he said. “With the new title comes a lot of politics. I don’t need that shit.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He handed me a legal-sized envelope that included two arrest reports and three booking photos. “We liked him for two murders last year,” Quirk said. “But we couldn’t make it stick. You know he’s the top guy for your buddy Jackie DeMarco?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “This shit never changes,” Quirk said. “People get older. People die. New thugs take their place.”

  “What keeps us in business.”

  “His mother was a head case,” Quirk said. “Dope addict. Broz had her killed and left her down in the Fort Point Channel. Funny how this all comes full circle.”

  “What was the murder?”

  “One of the Columbia Point Dawgs was making trouble for DeMarco’s growing business,” Quirk said. “We found him in the trunk of an old Buick LaSalle parked in a lot at the Franklin Park Zoo.”

  “How old?”

  “He’s twenty-four,” Quirk said. “When I was twenty-four, I was already married, had a kid and a mortgage. This kid’s probably already killed a half-dozen people and spends what he’s got on dope and broads.”

  “The rest he spends foolishly.”

  “Tyler King is no George Raft,” Quirk said. “Wears his pants hanging off his ass and ball cap with a flat brim. I hear he’s good with trucks. Works with his old man at a shop by Logan. He does some fleet work with trucks. Believe it or not, he’s got a high IQ. I got his juvie records.”

  I read through the report of the gentleman who was a member of the Columbia Point Dawgs. I had read recently that entire organization was snatched up in a Federal raid and asked Quirk about it.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Boston is now free of crime. Yippee.”

  “I bet you make one hell of a public speaker on career day.”

  “Damn right I do,” Quirk said. “I tell the kids to stay off the streets or I’ll bust their ass.”

  “I bet the teenyboppers adore you.”

  “Teenyboppers, hell,” Quirk said. “That’s what I say to kindergartners. I guess Tyler King was sick that day.”

  I read more and then put the reports back in the envelope.

  “Keep ’em,” he said. “That pic is suitable for framing.”

  I held it up to the light. Tyler King was not an attractive young man. He had pasty white skin, a stubbly black beard, and the long, thin face of a dope addict with short, unkempt hair. He didn’t look tough. Only mean.

  “You like him for torching that church?” Quirk said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Good source?”

  “Not someone you’d want on the stand,” I said.

  “Your people, Spenser.”

  I nodded. The rain fell pleasantly in the Burger King parking lot. Smoke puffed from the little chimney that created that great charbroiled taste.

  “DeMarco won’t miss the next time,” Quirk said.

  “No,” I said. “He won’t.”

  Quirk took in a long breath and let it out slowly. His unmarked unit had that new-car smell. “But if he had anything to do with how those firefighters died,
you better come straight to me or Frank.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t pussyfoot around,” Quirk said. “I don’t want DeMarco to have time to take you out.”

  “You really do care, Marty,” I said. “I’m touched.”

  “Now get the fuck outta my car before someone sees us together,” he said.

  21

  An apartment was never lonely with a hot pizza, cold beer, and a lovely companion. The rain continued to patter against my bow window over Marlborough as Susan took the pizza box from my hands. I’d stopped by Pizzeria Regina in the North End on my way home. Pearl tracked the pepperoni while Susan walked to the kitchen counter.

  “Hots only on my half,” I said.

  “The ruin of a perfectly good pizza.”

  “Have you ever even tried the hots?”

  “And never will,” she said. “I’ve never tried anchovies, either.”

  “And to think your people eat cold salmon for breakfast.”

  Susan shrugged and set out two plates from my good china. Actually, it was my only china.

  “A captain in the Arson unit finally agreed to meet with me today,” I said. “He showed me a security video of someone, or something, leaving the scene of the fire.”

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “A very-fast-moving shadow,” I said. “I think it was a man. But that’s about all I know.”

  “There were three fires over the weekend,” Susan said. “Several families lost everything. The ones I saw on the news were Vietnamese and didn’t speak English. Do they think it’s the same person?”

  “Arson admitted they had a problem,” I said. “But when I tried to link the church fire and the recent spate, my persistence annoyed him.”

  “You do have a gift.”

  “Of persistence?”

  “Of annoyance.”

  “Ah.”

  I walked to the refrigerator and fetched a cold Lagunitas. I cracked open the top and sat back at the table. Susan crossed her long, shapely legs and worked on the pizza. She had on her after-work lounging-around clothes: a soft, thin V-neck T-shirt that cost more than my shoes and khaki shorts. I appreciated the muscularity of her legs as she walked over to the couch.

  “So what can you do now?” Susan said. “Hang the bad guys by their ankles?”

  “Always effective,” I said. “Or find a snitch who needs a favor.”

  “Why you were at Walpole.”

  “And it’s such a lovely drive,” I said.

  I smiled and reached for more pizza. The hots really added the proper punch to the pie. Susan Silverman had great taste in many things, but not in pizza toppings.

  “Well, did your snitch do some snitching?” she said.

  “I have something,” I said. “A name.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “This guy is a paid killer.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “That in his spare time from committing murder, he enjoys setting fires,” I said. “My snitch referred to him as a ‘yellow prick.’”

  “Illustrative.”

  “Coming from this guy, it was a compliment.”

  From my bow window, I had a decent view of the Public Garden and people walking in the rain. I broke a piece of crust from my pizza and tossed it to Pearl. She caught it in midair.

  “Do you think this upstanding individual will speak to you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Do you think you’ll observe him in the commission of lighting a fire?”

  “Nope.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Susan said.

  “When in doubt, bug the crap out of someone until they trip up,” I said. “Spenser’s investigation technique number eleven.”

  Susan nodded. “Maybe you should write a textbook?” she said.

  “I thought about it,” I said. “But I don’t want to give up my trade secrets so easily.”

  “You’ve given them up to Z,” she said.

  “That’s different,” I said. I worked on the back half of the pizza slice. “He’s my apprentice.”

  “Or is he Hawk’s?”

  “Aha,” I said. “Yet to be determined.”

  “Have you ever considered the fact that Sixkill may be both?” Susan said. “Taking parts of each of you that will be helpful.”

  “That’s worrisome.”

  “For whom?”

  I thought as I chewed. I drank some beer and swallowed. “Most of the West Coast.”

  Susan sighed while I reached for a second slice. “I don’t think it’s stopped raining all day.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Good night to stay in.”

  I smiled. “If only we could think of something to do.”

  22

  King’s Auto Repair was on Route 1-A, a stone’s throw from the Chelsea Bridge. It was in a neighborhood of breathtaking real estate, if you liked jumbo oil tanks and car impound lots. At daybreak, I parked across the street at a twenty-four-hour gym. I’d brought a couple corn muffins and coffee. I made slow work of both for the next three hours as I watched Tyler and his old man move cars from an overflow lot into four bay doors.

  I assumed it was his old man. He had long gray hair and was stoop-shouldered, and was wearing blue coveralls.

  Tyler didn’t wear a uniform, only baggy jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. He had on a green, flat-crowned Sox cap over his greasy hair. He was rangy, with a pockmarked face and a tattoo of some sort on the back of his neck. Even with the Canon zoom, it was hard to tell what the tattoo said. Perhaps it was a smiley face reading HAVE A NICE DAY. Or GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.

  At noon, I drove down 1-A toward Revere, parked along the beach, and did a hundred push-ups and sit-ups. After I got my blood flowing, I doubled back and parked one block from King’s at a convenience store. I sat there for another three hours. I listened to Ella Fitzgerald sing her way through the Johnny Mercer songbook, checked messages, and watched Tyler and his dear old dad change tires.

  At one point, I mentally cataloged the great fighters from Massachusetts. I started with Marvin Hagler, Rocky Marciano, and worked my way back in time to John L. Sullivan. I had not forgotten Willie Pep. If I’d started with the best, I might’ve started with Pep.

  At almost four, Tyler King got in a black Toyota Celica, wheeled out on 1-A, and U-turned south. I started the Explorer and followed. He veered off onto Bremen Street, past several triple-deckers with billboards on their roofs, gas stations, and more garages, and stopped off at a white-brick building surrounded by concertina wire. Planes buzzed the neighborhood, shaking my windows. A sign read PAUL’S AIRPORT PARKING.

  It didn’t appear as though anyone but Paul had used it since the mid-1970s. Tall weeds grew from many cracks. After about five minutes, King got back into his car and headed south, rejoining 1-A.

  Before we hit the tollbooth to the Sumner Tunnel, I spotted a black SUV make an inelegant turn off Porter Street and duck in two cars behind me. I kept the car in my rearview as we dipped into the tunnel. Tyler sped ahead as I hung back, keeping the SUV in my rearview mirror. I dallied a bit and the SUV made no attempt to pass. Halfway through the tunnel, the driver was only a few car lengths back.

  At the tunnel exit, traffic slowed and I caught up with Tyler and the Celica by Haymarket Station. He turned left onto Congress and again onto North Street, where he drove up into a parking garage near Faneuil Hall. I kept on driving into the North End. The black SUV followed.

  I picked up my phone and called the Harbor Health Club. Within two minutes, I doubled back onto Hanover and was on the phone with Hawk. I rattled off a few details.

  I was back on Union and then back on North, passing the parking deck where Tyler had disappeared. At Blackstone Street, the Greenway Market was in
full force. I parked along the street and joined a jumble of shoppers carrying seafood and local produce. The stalls were filled with bins of fish and oysters on ice, spinach, and carrots.

  As I checked on the price of haddock, I noted two thick-necked men tailing me. Bunches of asparagus were two for five bucks. The red peppers were huge and smelled the way peppers should smell. There were onions and zucchini and more fruits de mer.

  Under a white tent, I stopped to ask about today’s scallops. The men kept walking my way.

  On the Greenway, a carousel turned to calliope music. The two men approached me. They tried to act like they were shopping, but they were as unobtrusive as a couple of linebackers at a Céline Dion concert.

  One of the men was built like a Bulgarian powerlifter. He had an abnormally thick bald head and a closely trimmed black beard. He wore a navy pin-striped suit with a light blue silk shirt. The suit had to be tailored because off-the-rack would have been impossible. The other wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a mustache-goatee combo and two earrings in his left ear.

  He had mean, sleepy eyes and wore a long black jacket on this particularly hot day. He looked at the powerlifter and nodded.

  23

  They braced me as I attempted to turn down Blackstone.

  “Forget about King,” Mean Eyes said. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Or we’ll fuck you up bad.”

  I turned to him. “Is it possible to get fucked up good?”

  I noted the powerlifter’s head was the exact same size as some of the round watermelons at the market. Although he looked like he could bench-press a Mercedes, his communication skills were lacking. He grunted an affirmation.

  The carousel turned. Children played. The calliope piped.

  I preferred not to make a scene in public. But now that Tyler King was on to me, I thought we might have a chat. The two men blocked the way back to the parking garage.