Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (17 page)

S
o close,” Z said. “Yet so far
.
”

“I’m fairly certain they’re mocking us,” I said.

Kevin Teehan, Johnny Donovan, and a third man—who may or may not have been the man from the still—sat in a back booth at the Scandinavian Pastry shop off West Broadway. They were drinking coffee and eating donuts. With the windows open, you could smell the donuts.

“Maybe if I run in for a couple,” Z said. “No one would notice.”

“A six-foot-two, two-hundred-thirty-pound American Indian in Southie?” I said. “Can you tell what they’re eating?”

“I hate to say,” Z said. He looked through the long lens of my Canon Rebel, clicking away. “It might only lead to tears.”

“Need I remind you, I just got torched out of my apartment and lost all my worldly possessions?”

“Chocolate glazed. Maybe a cinnamon or two.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Shouldn’t have told me.”

Z snapped off a few more shots and placed the camera in the backseat of the Explorer. I took a sip of a bottled water we’d brought from the gym. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. When there was action, he was all intensity and energy. But when we waited, he could rest anywhere. I was envious.

“Does it bother you that you will have to start over in L.A.?” I said. “With a new mentor and a more rigorous process to get your license?”

“License,” he said. “I don’t need a stinking license.”

“My introductions on the West Coast are only if you need help,” I said. “Not a place of employment. Whatever you do, don’t work for Del Rio.”

“You said he’s an honorable man,” he said. “And can be trusted.”

“He’s also a ruthless criminal.”

“I want to do what you do.”

I nodded. “And to do that, you have to get licensed.”

“And to do what Hawk does?”

“Attitude,” I said.

Inside the pastry shop, the merry trio threw their heads back in laughter. Johnny Donovan was laughing so hard he slapped the table a few times. Teehan said something else and pointed to Johnny and then ate half a donut. I waited for Johnny to pull a gun and fire a few rounds into the air like he had in the video.

“I do want to thank you,” Z said.

I inhaled a long breath through my nose and held up a hand to dismiss any adulation. Adulation couldn’t be appreciated in the absence of donuts. Or good beer.

“I was a mess when I came here.”

“You would have found a way,” I said. “Tough-minded people always do.”

“If you or Hawk ever need me.”

I nodded. There was no more to say.

We watched the trio stand behind the plate-glass window. It wasn’t unlike watching animals in a zoo display. Donovan walked back toward the bathrooms. Teehan and the third man walked out toward a parking lot shared with an all-night packie. Z reached back for the camera, took a few pics, and handed me the camera. The third man was tall and lean with close-cropped silver hair. He had on khaki cargo shorts and a basic black T-shirt.

He drove off in a black sedan. It looked almost like police issue but I didn’t want to entertain any more conspiracy theories on an empty stomach.

“Did you get a shot of the plate?” Z said.

“You may be the one from Montana,” I said. “But this ain’t my first rodeo.”

I waited a full minute and drove away, U-turning south on Dot Ave. I told him what I’d learned from Teddy Cahill, and why Cahill suspected the property owner near the church had been apprehensive about turning over the security camera feed.

“So we might have to persuade them,” Z said.

“It may be bad karma to pistol-whip a florist.”

“Is this considered breaking the law?”

“I’m pretty sure what we’re doing isn’t legal or ethical.”

Z smiled very wide. The idea intrigued him. Watch out, City of Angels.

T
his fire that may be on video,” Z said. “It started before or after your apartment?”

“After,” I said. “Arson thinks someone played the fire department. They waited until several companies headed to the Back Bay and then set this warehouse on fire.”

“Just to make sure you knew.”

“We’re two blocks from Holy Innocents,” I said. “So it seems to be another not-so-subtle message.”

“How are the firefighters?”

“Still in the hospital,” I said. “Burns and some nasty smoke inhalation.”

I drove for a couple blocks off Tremont Street deep in the South End. On the next pass, we spotted a two-story brick building set off from the other warehouses. It had a chain-link
fence around the perimeter and a sign reading
BOSTON FLORAL
. For the next hour or so, we watched several cars and vans come and go, a gate sliding open and shut behind them. We noted nothing suspicious. But we did spot at least two video cameras on the corners of the building.

“Busy for two a.m.”

I nodded. “Everyone loves a bouquet.”

“If it’s a legit operation,” Z said, “they’d have no problem with me stopping in. Asking for a dozen roses.”

“True.”

“And if not,” Z said. “They might take great exception and get nasty and physical.”

“Also true.”

“But at least we’d know who we’re dealing with,” Z said. “And what to expect.”

I started the Explorer and drove close to the gate. We waited for ten minutes until the gate slid open again and a green van departed. I darted into the warehouse lot just as the gate closed. The lot was empty. We got out of the Explorer just as two men walked out of the warehouse. I was no expert, but they did not appear to be florists. One man was black and muscular, the other was white and doughy. They both carried shotguns.

“I’m looking to purchase a pick-me-up bouquet,” I said. “Preferably with polka dots and posies.”

“We don’t sell to the public,” said the white guy. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“Don’t you guys arrange more than flowers?” Z said.

“They arrange smiles,” I said. I kept walking toward the
landing, arms outstretched, showing my palms. Z walked in stride with me. The black man stood still, eyeing us, shotgun held in his left hand.

“How about just one?” I said. “Surely you can just sell me one red rose?”

“I said, get the fuck outta here,” the white guy said. “You can’t just drive on in a private business like that. Christ, you’re gonna get yourself fucking shot.”

The black man walked up behind him. He held the gun in both hands now. It was a sawed-off Mossberg with lots of electrical tape on the grip.

“Ma’s going to be so disappointed,” Z said. His Boston accent was nearly passable.

I smiled, caught Z’s eye, and nodded.

Z hit the black man very fast and very hard in the face. He fell backward off the platform and onto the asphalt. The white man tried to raise the shotgun before I punched him in the stomach and took away the gun. It was also a shotgun, a 12-gauge Browning with a walnut stock. Perfect to shoot doves.

The man looked up at me as he tried to catch his breath. I raised his shotgun at him and told him if he moved I’d blow his fucking head off.

Z had the black man by the arm, his pistol at the base of the man’s neck. Z held on to the man’s shotgun in his right hand.

“Now, about those flowers,” I said.

We marched them up to the landing. There was a white metal door with another security camera over it. “Who’s inside?”

“Binky.”

“Binky?” I said. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s his fucking name.”

“Call him what you want. But if there’s someone else inside, we’ll shoot you both.”

He unlocked the door and we walked inside to an open first floor. Several luxury cars and SUVs were parked inside the cavernous space. Long fluorescent lights were strung intermittently overhead, giving off the bright glow of a Super Target.

Another black man stood at a table. He wore a lightweight black leather coat over a white tank top. He had on a blue scally cap and his hands were full of money. On the table were hundreds of small plastic packets, more money, some handguns, and several cell phones.

“Hiya, Binky,” I said.

“Motherfucker,” he said. It was less of an insult than a moment of realization.

“Hands up,” Z said.

I pushed the white guy over by Binky. I explained what would happen if either one of them lowered their hands. Z pushed the guy he’d punched in the face to join his friends. He was bleeding all over himself. Black and white thugs together. Progress.

“Where do you keep your security tapes?” I said.

“Ain’t no tapes, old man,” the young black man said. “You a cop?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I’m with FTD. You might very well lose your florist license.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Z walked over to the table and flicked through a laptop computer. “Where’s the hard drive?”

Binky looked to the muscular black man. The muscular black man shook his head. “No fucking way,” he said. “You get us killed, man.”

“It’s late,” I said. “I’m getting tired.”

“That’s all somewhere else,” Binky said. “I don’t fuck with any of it. It’s all wireless to the server. Anything older than a day feeds there.”

“Where and to whom?” I said.

“What does it matter?” Binky said.

“You know that fire two nights ago?”

Binky nodded. He was quick, bright. A real future in management.

“That’s why it matters,” I said.

Binky shook his head some more. He looked at me under his cute blue hat with dead eyes and shrugged. “Man, you don’t know the kind of shit you got yourself into.”

“How about we call the cops and let them sort out the details?”

“Suck it,” the white guy said. Leave it to the white guy to say something unclever.

“Where’d the video go?” I said.

I reached for my cell phone and started to punch up the cops. I wasn’t thrilled about explaining what we were up to, but it might be the only way.

“Okay,” Binky said. “Okay. You want that video? You got to see the man.”

“And who’s the man?” I said.

Binky looked over to his two pals. With hands over their
heads, both of the men nodded. Binky looked at me. “Ever heard the name Jackie DeMarco?”

“Yep,” I said. “I’d often wondered why he was shaking down people in this neighborhood. Now I know. It’s all part of Jackieland.”

“Goddamn right it is,” Binky said. “And you is fucked.”

“Well put,” I said.

I looked to the money on the table and told Z to scoop it all up with the guns. We exchanged looks. I nodded in appreciation.

“But,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet he’d make a trade first.”

T
he money and guns safely stashed, I returned to Susan’s at daybreak. I let myself in, let Pearl out, and made myself a poached egg and rye toast. As coffee started to brew, Susan came into the kitchen. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I had a dash of blood on my T-shirt from our adventure in the South End.

“Poached egg?” I said.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t ask.”

I filled Pearl’s bowl with food and brought Susan a coffee. I added some milk to a small pitcher and brought it over with the sugar dish. She gave me a sleepy smile.

“It was a long if not fruitful night.”

I took a seat across from her at the kitchen table with my plate.

“We located an important piece of evidence for Jack McGee’s case.”

“That’s terrific.”

“It would be terrific if it were in my possession,” I said. “But it’s owned by a man who doesn’t like me very much right now.”

“Who?”

I told her about Z and me breaking into the drug house in the South End. And I told her about it being connected to Jackie DeMarco.

“Of all the drug houses and all the criminals in Boston,” she said.

“Jackie’s been a busy man,” I said. “He’s taken over a lot of territory in a short amount of time. I’d step on his toes with about anything in Charlestown or Southie. But this was special, only a few blocks from Holy Innocents. Now I know why he’d wanted to control that land and any development.”

Susan nodded and drank some coffee. It never ceased to amaze how a licensed therapist was open to discuss down-and-dirty criminal activity. Her dark eyes watched me in wonderment, listening to every word. A gold light covered the kitchen table and Susan’s hands on her coffee. Her nails were freshly painted a bright red.

Pearl snuffled up and waited for me to scratch her ears. “Am I wasting my time to ask you to tread carefully?” Susan said.

“I am impervious to bullets.”

“Did I tell you about one of my clients who believed he was George Reeves?”

“Shall we go down to your couch?”

“Do you think I didn’t notice the blood on your shirt?”

“Ketchup,” I said. “I should never eat and drive.”

“I think it’s a terrible idea to seek out a guy like Jackie DeMarco,” she said. “Why not just hand it over to your new friend in Arson?”

“Professional pride?”

“Might get you killed,” she said. “Just how far has this gone now?”

“Jackie has something I need,” I said. “And I have something he wants.”

“What does he want?”

“About two hundred thousand dollars and several guns.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Taken off those men last night?”

I nodded. I tried to appear modest. I had raked in a lot of loot and firepower.

“Did you and Z hurt his people?”

I made a waffling gesture with my right hand. I stood and poured myself a cup of coffee. Freshly ground Sumatran from Whole Foods. I got up for the toast and returned to the table. Pearl followed me back and forth, tail wagging. “Z did provide wonderful support,” I said. “I think he’s ready.”

“We have made great efforts to have a life together while living separately,” she said. “But with the fire, we’re more connected than we ever have been. I need you whole. Not stealing some thugs’ money and guns.”

“I collect blondes and bottles, too,” I said. The Bogart imitation was flawless.

“Okay,” Susan said. “But you’ll shower and change clothes before you make me a decadent breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And most important?”

“Don’t get killed,” I said.