THE SPENSER NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Kickback
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot
(by Ace Atkins)
Silent Night
(with Helen Brann)
Robert B. Parker’s Wonderland
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby
(by Ace Atkins)
Sixkill
Painted Ladies
The Professional
Rough Weather
Now & Then
Hundred-Dollar Baby
School Days
Cold Service
Bad Business
Back Story
Widow’s Walk
Potshot
Hugger Mugger
Hush Money
Sudden Mischief
Small Vices
Chance
Thin Air
Walking Shadow
Paper Doll
Double Deuce
Pastime
Stardust
Playmates
Crimson Joy
Pale Kings and Princes
Taming a Sea-Horse
A Catskill Eagle
Valediction
The Widening Gyre
Ceremony
A Savage Place
Early Autumn
Looking for Rachel Wallace
The Judas Goat
Promised Land
Mortal Stakes
God Save the Child
The Godwulf Manuscript
THE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins
(by Reed Farrel Coleman)
Robert B. Parker’s Blind Spot
(by Reed Farrel Coleman)
Robert B. Parker’s Damned If You Do
(by Michael Brandman)
Robert B. Parker’s Fool Me Twice
(by Michael Brandman)
Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues
(by Michael Brandman)
Split Image
Night and Day
Stranger in Paradise
High Profile
Sea Change
Stone Cold
Trouble in Paradise
Night Passage
THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Spare Change
Blue Screen
Melancholy Baby
Shrink Rap
Perish Twice
Family Honor
THE COLE/HITCH WESTERNS
Robert B. Parker’s Blackjack
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s The Bridge
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s Bull River
(by Robert Knott)
Robert B. Parker’s Ironhorse
(by Robert Knott)
Blue-Eyed Devil
Brimstone
Resolution
Appaloosa
ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER
Double Play
Gunman’s Rhapsody
All Our Yesterdays
A Year at the Races
(with Joan H. Parker)
Perchance to Dream
Poodle Springs
(with Raymond Chandler)
Love and Glory
Wilderness
Three Weeks in Spring
(with Joan H. Parker)
Training with Weights
(with John R. Marsh)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by The Estate of Robert B. Parker
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
eBook ISBN 9780698161245
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
In memory of Elvis, a true wonder dog
CONTENTS
Other Novels by Robert B. Parker
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgments
Kevin always loved fire. His earliest memories were of his mother taking him to blazes, watching men in helmets and heavy coats pull hoses into burning buildings. He loved the way she looked at those men with honor and respect, and maybe something more. Just the crackle of the scanner, a far-off bell ringing, smoke trailing up into the sky made his heart jackhammer. When he drove through the night in his old Crown Vic, he felt like he owned the freakin’ city.
He kept the scanner under the dashboard, a big antenna set on the trunk as he roamed the streets of Hyde Park, Roxbury, Dorchester, Jamaica Plain, Brookline, and up into Cambridge and Charlestown. All that spring and summer, Kevin liked to drive slow, windows down, listening, waiting, and sniffing the air. He’d work his deadbeat job during the day, sleeping through most of it, and then take on the city at night. He, Johnny, and Big Ray would meet up at Scandinavian Pastry in Southie, taking bre
aks off patrol to talk call boxes, famous fires, new equipment, and all the ways the current administration was fucking up a long, proud tradition.
“Cocoanut Grove,” Johnny said, powdered sugar on his mustache. “It could happen again. Payoffs, bribes, and all these damn foreigners in this town. You just wait. Some asshole’s gonna be changing a lightbulb and poof.”
“Nobody gives a crap,” Ray said. “I’ve been warning the fire guys for ten years. Their equipment has turned to shit. They just don’t get it. Mayor won’t approve the new budget. Not with a gun to his nuts.”
And he’d look up at them, in that little corner Formica-topped table and ask, why don’t they do something? Why don’t they take action and save this city?
Kevin thought about this long and hard. He and Johnny had talked about it a thousand times. And he’d finally agreed to Johnny’s master plan. Save the tradition. Keep Boston safe. Knock people in the side of the head and make ’em listen. The city needed firefighters—and a lot more of them. Guys ready to serve who were shut out. He met Johnny’s eyes across the table. Johnny nodded and said, “Burn it.”
“Burn what?” Ray said. “Hey, you gonna eat that maple glazed? I’ve only had two.”
Kevin didn’t say anything, just leaned back farther in the booth, arm stretched out wide behind Johnny. Short, squat Johnny cutting his eyes over at him and lifting an eyebrow. The scanner clucking off and on. Some bullshit Dumpster fire over by the T on Dot Ave. Probably a couple bums roasting a hot dog.
“We understand what’s wrong with the department,” Johnny said, wiping the sugar off his face. “It’s the only way. We got the know-how and the skills to make it work.”
Big Ray looked to each of them with wide, nutty eyes, waiting for someone to tell him what the hell was going on. The scanner caught again, sending the ladder truck and EMS back to the station. False alarm. Silence. Nothing. Fluorescent lights burning over the donut displays, cash register empty, unmanned. No one minding the store at two a.m.
“Burn it,” he said. “Johnny is right.”
“Burn what?” Big Ray said. “What the hell?”
“Boston, you fucking moron,” Johnny said. “We burn fucking Boston.”
1
The Harbor Health Club had returned to its roots.
Not only was boxing allowed, it was now encouraged by Henry Cimoli. For a waterfront gym that had weathered both urban renewal and Zumba, the time had come. Henry and I took a break from the boxing ring and watched a dozen or so young professionals, men and women, listen to a Cree Indian from Montana teach them how to deliver a left jab.
Henry had a welded cage built in the expanse of what had been the workout room, heavy bags swinging from the platform. Half the gym was now boxing, the other half free weights and CrossFit gear. Hawk and I were quite pleased. Not to mention Z, whom Henry had employed for the last two years and who had ushered in the new era.
“You didn’t have to do all of this for us.”
“I did it for Mr. Green,” he said, rubbing his thumb and two fingers together. “What makes the world go ’round.”
“What if aerobics come back in style?”
“I’ll bring in fucking monkeys on unicycles if it’ll keep this gym open,” he said. “If you hadn’t noticed, this building isn’t on skid row anymore.”
“I could tell by the yachts moored outside,” I said. “I pick up on subtle clues like that.”
We leaned against the ropes, like cowboys on a split-rail fence, watching Z help a fit young woman in a pink sports bra throw a left hook.
“To be young,” Henry said.
“‘The moments passed as at a play,’” I said.
“And I have the ex-wives to prove it,” Henry said, letting himself out of the ropes and down the short steps. He walked over to help Z instruct the lithe young woman. I admired his commitment.
I spent a half-hour on a treadmill, showered, and changed into my street clothes: Levi’s, black pocket T-shirt, and a pair of tan suede desert boots. As I was headed to the street, a rotund man in a gray sweatshirt whistled for me. He’d been running the dumbbell rack with biceps curls, his fat face flushed and sweaty.
Jack McGee wiped a towel over his neck and said, “Christ, Spenser. I been waiting for you all freakin’ morning.”
“Nice to be needed.”
I shook his wet hand. Jack sweated a lot. He was a short, thick guy with Irish written all over his face. I’d known him for many years, and in the many I’d known him he’d been a Boston firefighter. Being a firefighter was more than a job for Jack, it was a calling.
“I got a problem,” he said. Whispering, although most of Henry’s clients were in the boxing room.
“Superset your bis and tris,” I said. “Work the dumbbells with press-downs.”
“Are you busy with anything right now?”
I shrugged. “I just finished an insurance-fraud case,” I said. “But I’m always on standby for the big S projected into the clouds over Boston.”
“Well, I got a big fucking S for you,” he said. “As in the shit has hit the fan.”
“I’m familiar with that S.”
“There’s this thing.”
“There’s always a thing,” I said.
“Can we talk outside?”
McGee followed me out to my newish blue Explorer. I tossed my gym bag into the back and leaned against the door with my arms folded over my chest. I had worked out hard and my biceps bulged from my T-shirt. I feared if I stood there any longer, I might be accosted by passing women.
“You know about the fire last year?” McGee said.
Everyone knew about the fire last year. Three firefighters had died at an old church in the South End. The funeral Mass had been televised on local TV. There had been an inquiry. I’d never spoken to Jack about it other than to offer my condolences.
“For the last year, I’ve been saying it was arson,” he said. “But no one’s been arrested and I hear things have stalled out. It’s always tomorrow with those guys. And now we’re getting shit burning nearly every night. This city’s got an arsonist loose and no one wants to admit it.”
“You think it’s connected to the church?”
“Damn right,” he said. “But no one is saying shit in the department. I lost my best friend, Pat Dougherty, in that church. We went through the academy together. Then at Engine 33/Ladder 15 for the first three years. Godfather to his kids. Same neighborhood. Jesus, you know.”
I nodded again. I told him I was very sorry.
“Mike Mulligan hadn’t been on the job but six months,” McGee said. “A rake. An open-up man. His dad was a fireman. He was a Marine like me. Saw some shit over in Afghanistan only to come home and get killed.”
I opened up the driver’s door and let the windows down. It was June and the morning had grown warm. No one was complaining. We’d just survived the longest, snowiest winter since Grant was president. “Why do you think the church is connected to the new fires?”
“Call it firemen’s intuition.”
“Got anything more than that?” I said.
“That church wasn’t an accident,” he said. “Everybody knows it. Arson sifted through that shit pile for months. No signs of electrical or accidental. It’s a fucking fire of unknown origin. How’s that sit with Pat’s wife and kids?”
“Arson investigation is a pretty specialized field,” I said. “Most of the clues burn up.”
“I don’t need more samples and microscopes,” he said. “I’ll pay you ’cause you know the worst people in the city. Some scum who’d do something like this. Burn a fucking Catholic church and then keep burning through Southie and the South End until they’re caught.”
“Over the years, I’ve met a few people of questionable breeding.”
“Freakin’ criminals,” Jack said. “I want you to shake the
bushes for criminals and find out who set this and why.”
“Follow the money?”
“What else could it be?”
I leaned my forearms against my open door. My caseload had waned over the months while my checking account had fattened. Corporations paid more than people. I had few reasons to spurn the offer. Not to mention Jack McGee was an honorable man who’d asked for help.
“Okay,” I said. “Will you introduce me around?”
“Nope.”
I waited.
“You start making noise at headquarters and the commissioner will have my ass,” he said. “All I need is for the commissioner and the chief to get pissed while I’m doing my last few years. I made captain. Got a pension. I got a great firehouse in the North End. I don’t want to make waves. I just want some answers.”
“No official inquiries?” I said.
“Nope.”
“No pressure on arson investigators?”
“Nope,” Jack said. “You’re going to have to go around your ass to get to your elbow on this one.”
“Yikes,” I said. “That sounds painful.”
“But can you do it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve taken that route many times before.”
2
To what do I owe this honor?” Quirk said. “Did you just shoot some poor bastard while cleaning your revolver?”
“I just stopped by to admire your new office,” I said. “Check out your breathtaking view. Congratulate you on your promotion.”
“Bullshit.”
“Deputy Superintendent Quirk has a nice ring to it.”
“It’s ceremonial,” Quirk said. “I meet with neighborhood groups. Do press briefings and photo ops.”
I saluted him. “Does this mean I can finally meet McGruff the Crime Dog?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell him to hump your leg. After this long on the job, a little boost is appreciated. Might finally be able to retire. Move down to Florida. Get a boat.”
“Not in your nature.”
“Neither was this,” he said. “But it’s what I got.”
“And Belson?”
“Training the new captain in investigative techniques.”
“God help her.”
“Amen,” Quirk said, leaning in to his desk. His hands were as thick and strong as a bricklayer’s. His salt-and-pepper hair looked to have been trimmed that morning. White dress shirt double-starched. Red tie affixed with a gold clip. I knew his wingtips were polished so bright they’d blind me. “So what the hell do you want?”