by Ace Atkins
“Do you think I look that much different?” Susan said.
She wore a strapless black one-piece. Her shoulders and long limbs were toned and tan. Her hair was wet, shiny, and black. Her sunglasses were large and white, looking like something lifted from Audrey Hepburn.
“Not a bit,” I said. “But I think I’m taller. And have more stamina.”
“You did last night.”
“Aren’t you impressed I got us the same room?”
“With the same décor,” she said. “I guess the hotel is into nostalgia, too.”
“Would you rather move to the Chatham Bars?”
“Yes,” she said. “But no. We came here for a reason. And it’s a very good one.”
I had on a pair of black Wayfarers, my Braves cap, and red swim trunks. Sometimes, you don’t mess with the classics. “Shall I sing ‘Happy Birthday’ now or at dinner?”
“Is it just you?” she said. “Or have you arranged for an entire orchestra?”
“The Pops were busy,” I said. “How would you feel about Spenser and the Dropkick Murphys? ‘Happy Birthday, Dear Suze’?”
Susan lowered her sunglasses a hint, raised an eyebrow, and arched her back before settling into the lounge chair. Outside the pool, a couple of men practiced on a small putting green and talked about what little they knew about athletics. I’d been told there was an excellent golf course on the premises. The problem was that I had never played golf or ever intended to play.
“Enjoy the break,” I said. “Things might get complicated when we get home.”
“Work?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if Susan could even tell, with the big white sunglasses on.
“Anyone particularly mad at you?” she said. “Or too many to count?”
“I may have focused some interest on the wrong man,” I said. “Who is a very bad man. Just not the right man for what I suspected.”
“You made a mistake?”
“I know,” I said. “Can you believe it?”
“And how’d you find out you’d upset him?”
“Vinnie let me know,” I said. “He recommended we leave town for a bit.”
“Did that annoy you?” she said. “That you had already planned this trip and some might infer it was connected?”
“Very much so.”
Susan’s attention drifted for a moment. A young woman in a black top and small white shorts walked around the pool, checking on guests. Susan tapped her index finger on her lower lip, deep in thought. “Is it too early for a cocktail?”
I looked at my watch. It was after eleven a.m. I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
• • •
Susan ordered a mimosa for her and a Bloody Mary for me. I asked for extra celery and olives to keep it as healthy as possible. As we drank and enjoyed the sun and splashing sounds of the pool, I told her more about the case. I started with Captain Collins and wound my way around to John Grady’s confession and on to my recent talk with the arson investigators.
“Cops think whoever is lighting these fires killed Featherstone, the Spark.”
“And what do you think?”
“Not sure,” I said. “But his wife is sure of it. She says it’s the only important thing he’s ever done in his life.”
“Uncover an arsonist?”
“Get killed by one.”
“I once treated a teenager who was obsessed with fire,” she said. “He was a true pyromaniac. Through cognitive therapy, I believe I was able to help him.”
“What does setting a fire do for a person, doc?”
“This boy had a very high IQ,” she said. “But often fire starters aren’t very bright. Fire fascinates them. Some are even mentally challenged. Others find an interest in fire during puberty. They find something almost sexual about it.”
“Fire and sex seems like a bad match,” I said. “The reason I never cook naked.”
“Almost never,” Susan said.
“Does everything always go back to sex?”
“If you’re a shrink?” she said. “You bet it does. I’ve read in medical journals that the adult who gets consumed by setting fires is driven, much like a sex addict.”
“What about us?” I said. “Are we sex addicts?”
“Addiction is only a problem when it causes harm to yourself and those you love.”
“Sometimes I believe we traumatize Pearl,” I said. “The way she wails and claws at the door. Where will it all lead?”
“Pearl is a mature girl.”
“True.”
“Does Jack McGee believe the church fire was set to harm firefighters?”
“Yes.”
“And have there been other church fires?”
“Two,” I said. “But one was proven electrical. Most have been warehouses.”
“Were they both Catholic churches?”
“The electrical was at a Presbyterian church.”
“I guess you have to separate the arsonist who sets fire for so-called legitimate reasons,” she said. “Revenge, extortion. Sometimes a teenager is just seeking thrills. I would venture to guess a true pyromaniac is a small fraction of those who engage in this type behavior.”
“There is some nut sending notes to arson investigators calling himself Mr. Firebug,” I said. “They’ve got dozens of notes. They always send them to the ATF lab, but whoever sent the note, whether authentic or not, seems to know what they’re doing. No fingerprints. Very common household printer.”
“Mr. Firebug?”
“Catchy.”
“If he’s real, he likes power.”
“Of course.”
“And notoriety.”
“Sure.”
“Is he good at his job?”
“Setting fires?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Cahill certainly thinks so,” I said.
Susan drank some of her mimosa. I shook the ice in the Bloody Mary to squeeze out a few last sips. I popped an olive into my mouth and crossed my legs at the ankles. The golfers had moved on and we were left with the sound of the wind. A few gulls glided over the golf course.
“Has Jack considered the firebug may be one of his own?”
“I have,” I said. “But to Jack, that would be akin to blasphemy.”
“What happened to your Bloody Mary?” she said.
“I needed to replenish my vitamins and minerals,” I said. “You’re not easy, kid. I plan on getting a dozen oysters for lunch.”
Susan lay back, stretched her legs, and gave a soft sigh. She did not speak for a long while as the sun warmed our bodies. I drank another Bloody Mary. A short time later, Susan strolled back to our room, crooking a finger in my direction.
32
I awoke to a ringing phone and a perky woman at the front desk telling me I had a visitor. Before I could ask who, she hung up. Susan was already in the shower getting ready for dinner.
I slipped on a pair of khakis and a navy blue T-shirt, sliding on a .38 in a holster behind my hip. The T-shirt was long and loose and draped over the outline of the gun. I sauntered down the hallway and into the wide lobby. The lobby was bright and utilitarian, with blue chairs and sofas and a busy carpet that might have impressed Jackson Pollock.
I spotted two women in tennis outfits chatting and the man I’d seen earlier from the putting green. He was busy with two young boys who raced around the lobby. No one was at the front desk, so I ducked into the bar to take a peek.
Hawk leaned against the bar like Alan Ladd in Shane. Instead of buckskin, he had on a blue floral jacket, white jeans, and blue oxford shoes. The floral pattern had been woven in navy upon white material. Underneath, he wore a crisp white linen shirt.
“Does Miss Scarlett know you made a mess out of her drapes?”
“H
a,” Hawk said. “This here is a Billy Reid. What you call couture.”
“Sharper than when I saw you here last.”
“King Powers.” Hawk grinned. He looked to be sipping a gin and tonic. “Folks lookin’ for you in Boston.”
“I know.”
“Had to reason with a couple at the gym.”
“How’d you do?”
“As always.”
“You see Stefanakos?”
“That big-ass Greek?”
I nodded.
“No,” he said. “Been waiting on it. You and him got some unfinished business.”
I nodded and took a seat on the bar stool. Hawk sipped his drink. “You don’t think they’ll come here?”
Hawk shrugged. “Depends on who you told.”
“You, Z, and Henry.”
Hawk nodded. “I guess I made a long drive for nothing.”
“You could’ve just called.”
“No answer,” Hawk said.
“Hmm.” I smiled and scratched my head. “Maybe I turned it off.”
“Just try not to break or pull anything.”
I asked the bartender for a Harpoon IPA on draft. Next to Hawk, I looked slovenly and wrinkled. I had on Top-Siders and I needed a shave. I looked like I might belong on Gilligan’s Island. He didn’t seem to mind and ordered another gin and tonic. Extra limes.
“Don’t want to get in the way of your, uh, retreat.”
“Join us for dinner,” I said. “It’s Susan’s birthday. Although I’m not sure she’s thrilled with the prospect.”
“Susan look too good to worry about a number,” he said.
“I think we’re both aware that Z could quite respectably be our son,” I said.
“No way a thick-necked honkie and a Jewish shrink can make a full-blooded Cree Indian.”
“You make an excellent point.”
Hawk drank some more from the glass. I drank my beer and ordered another. By the time the bartender set down the glass, Susan walked into the room. She’d showered and changed into a black maxi-dress. Her hair was in a tight bun, accentuating the diamond studs in her ears. My heart felt like Gene Krupa was practicing in my chest.
“Mm-mm,” Hawk said.
She kissed him on the cheek and took a seat between us.
“Hawk was in the neighborhood.”
“I know what it means,” she said. “Anyone else coming?”
Hawk grinned. “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”
Susan joined Hawk with a vodka gimlet. He began to softly whistle “Happy Birthday.” She slugged him in the arm.
33
I showered, shaved, and changed into a pair of crisp jeans and a short-sleeved black polo. Thirty minutes later, we were having dinner at a place called the Naked Oyster on Main Street. The building was long and narrow, with bright, splashy paintings hung on brick walls. An oyster bar ran against the wall with shellfish in ice waiting to be shucked.
We ate outside, directly across from the JFK museum and post office. The night was warm, but a nice breeze came off the water. The air smelled like the sea. Families strolled by eating ice cream and eyeing all the boutiques lit up on Main. Susan ordered tuna tartare, Hawk had the duck confit, and I decided on a plate of haddock tacos.
“What if Hawk had snuck up on you?” Susan said. “Someone could’ve been hurt.”
“Impossible,” I said. “I have a sixth sense. Besides, how’s he going to sneak up in that jacket?”
“I like it,” Susan said. “It looks terrific on you.”
Hawk grinned. He nodded in appreciation of Susan’s style.
“Can you stay?” she said.
“Nope,” Hawk said. “Just came down to warn white boy about some trouble in River City.”
“Helps you cultivate horse sense and a cool head and a keen eye,” I said. “Bad?”
Hawk shook his head. “Just wind.”
“About the arson?” Susan said.
Hawk shook his head. “More about Jackie DeMarco’s pride,” Hawk said. “Man can’t have anyone questioning what he does.”
“Has he ever met you two?” Susan said. “You question everyone’s pride.”
Hawk looked to me and smiled. “She got a point.”
An appetizer of oysters arrived, French-style, on a bed of salt with a mignonette. Hawk and I split the order. Susan had a rare second gimlet. “Cut it with Rose’s lime,” I said. “Half and with half gin. Terry Lennox says it beats martinis hollow.”
Susan and Hawk ignored me. Hawk drained the oyster off each shell without spilling a drop on his jacket. Susan drained maybe two teaspoons of the gimlet. Hawk checked out a young woman in a long black skirt and a revealing white tank top.
Hawk could check out a woman so furtively she never knew. Unless he wanted her to know.
We ate and laughed. We talked about old times in Cambridge, Montecito, and Vegas. Not one word was mentioned about our time in Mill River. The food came. We ate and drank. I tipped the waitress to add a bunch of sparklers atop a large slice of key lime pie.
Susan distributed three forks for the piece. She pointed hers directly at my chest. “Anyone tries to sing and they’ll get hurt,” she said.
Hawk and I did not disagree.
34
Two days later, I was up late watching a movie in which Gary Cooper plays Marco Polo; Susan and Pearl were fast asleep in bed. Just as Marco Polo had discovered gunpowder and spaghetti, Frank Belson called.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Susan’s.”
“You got some trouble at your apartment.”
“I do have a restraining order against Kate Upton.”
“No joke,” he said. “Your buddy McGee and half of Boston Fire are fighting a five-alarm on Marlborough. I’m here. It ain’t pretty.”
Fifteen minutes later, I parked illegally on Arlington by the Public Garden. Several blocks of Marlborough had been closed off by police. Flames shot up high from the row house where I’d lived for years. I walked to the barricade at the corner of Arlington and Marlborough and spotted Jack McGee.
He sat on the back of an ambulance, taking in oxygen. He had soot across his face and hands.
“Everybody out?” I said.
He nodded, still pressing the oxygen mask against his face.
“You sure?”
He took off the mask. “Be my guest to double check.”
McGee told the cops to let me inside the barricade. He had on the heavy black coat and pants with a helmet affixed on his large head. “Call came in about an hour ago,” he said. “We got six companies on this. If we can cool down the walls, we can stop it spreading. Already went into both buildings beside yours. We got it contained.”
“How’s mine?”
“Sorry.” McGee shook his head. “It’s gone, Spenser.”
We walked together toward my building, the street clogged with at least six different engines. Firefighters sprayed through broken windows, arcing water up toward the third floor and roof. My window turret remained, but there was no glass. I could only see blackness inside. The street ran slick with water, flashing lights reflecting in puddles. I swallowed, my insides feeling hollow.
“Maybe I can salvage some underwear and that Duke Snider rookie card.”
“Anything irreplaceable?” McGee said.
“Everything’s replaceable,” I said.
“No one’s dead,” McGee said. “But two of our guys got sent to Mass General.”
My mouth felt dry. I felt selfish for thinking about my record collection, baseball cards, clothes, photographs, oil paintings, and good china. A Schott jacket Susan had bought me. A woodworking tool given to me by my late uncle Cash. A well-loved Winchester 20-20 that belonged to my father and his grandfather before him.
“I�
��m sorry, Spenser,” McGee said.
I nodded. “Awfully bold.”
“DeMarco?”
I shook my head. “He’d come straight for me,” I said. “Not like this. He’d just shoot me in the back.”
“If it’s DeMarco, I’ll kill him myself,” McGee said. “This is some kind of fucked-up game.”
On the sidewalk across from my apartment, I saw a youngish woman hoisting a little girl in pajamas in her arms. A man stood close to them talking feverishly on a cell phone. He was crying and yelling at the same time. An elderly woman in a tired red robe who lived on the first floor of my building sat on the curb. Her face was blank as she stared up openmouthed at the flames, her gray hair frizzy and wild as she clutched a shoebox.
“Fucking bastards,” McGee said.
“Yep,” I said.
I could feel the heat like a sunburn on my face, smell the scent of burning hair. I stepped back as more firefighters stepped forward to dampen the whole mess. My apartment appeared to be completely gone. The two buildings that sandwiched it appeared to have been saved. McGee rejoined his men.
Another fire truck drove down the street slow with lights and sirens. Two men jumped from the truck, extended a flat yellow hose, and ran toward a hydrant. Several firefighters scaled a ladder to the roof of my building with oxygen tanks on their back. I saw Capelletti from Arson get close up the steps to my building and fire off some shots with his camera.
A little while later, Teddy Cahill arrived in street clothes and a ball cap. The men walked inside.
I walked in the opposite direction, past the EMTs, firefighters, and cops to Arlington. My body and brain felt numb. But I was alive. Susan was alive.
“You okay?” said a female cop by her patrol car.
“Yeah.” I stopped and nodded. “Still here.”
35
With no sleep, some breakfast, and a little coffee, things looked much worse in the daylight.
