Free Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn by Ace Atkins

families. We all want to know what happened.”
    I nodded.
    “We’ve ruled a lot out.”
    “Of course.”
    “And to be honest, I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Some people, I know, have some theories. But all that shit is just talk. I need facts.”
    “But there’s a tape?” I said. “Or a digital image? Or whatever you have these days of someone running from the alley by Holy Innocents.”
    Cahill sighed and studied me. He was silent for a moment and reached for his coffee mug. Galway was in a gentle snooze, so comfortable she began to snore. Her rib cage expanded and fell with each breath. It had started to rain, a gentle patter on the windows. Thunder broke outside.
    “I’d like to see it.”
    “Where’d you hear about it?”
    “A little bird flew in my office,” I said.
    “Jack McGee is a big fucking bird.”
    I shrugged. “You and I both know I work for Jack McGee,” I said. “But I do have other sources.”
    “Commissioner didn’t want that out,” he said. “I don’t like it, either.”
    “It didn’t come from Jack,” I said. “And I don’t work for
The Globe
. But a pair of fresh eyes on an old case never hurts.”
    Cahill sipped some coffee. I sipped some coffee. The rain fell and Galway snored. She had a vigorous snore. He said, “The investigation is ongoing.”
    “As it should be.”
    “Any details stay within this fucking building,” he said.
    “You bet.”
    “If news was to get out—” he said. “With all the shit we been dealing with. You might have seen we’ve been pretty damn busy.”
    “I understand. When I worked for the Middlesex DA, I learned to keep things to myself.”
    I asked for some more coffee and Cahill stood and left the room. It was not only a stalling technique but also because I wanted more coffee. I patted Galway’s flank, thinking of Pearl aging, and waited until Cahill returned. “Do I have your word?” he said.
    I nodded.
    “Nobody,” he said. “I mean fucking nobody is supposed to know about this.”
    “Sure.”
    He reached for his phone, dialed up somebody, and told them to come into the room.
    “How good is the image?” I said.
    “Terrible.”
    “How terrible?”
    “It’s nothing but a freakin’ shadow,” he said. “What the hell can we do with that?”

18
    A n investigator by the name of Cappelletti leaned over his desk and scrolled through dozens of video thumbnails on his laptop. Cahill had walked me down the hall and introduced us. Cappelletti, who worked as unit photographer, seemed dubious about my intentions. He had buzzed brown hair and wore a red T-shirt with jeans. He kept sunglasses on a loop around his neck and chewed gum.
    “You any relation to Gino?” I said.
    “Who’s that?”
    “Mr. Patriot?” I said.
    “What’d I tell you?” Cahill said. “This generation doesn’t speak our language.”
    The tech looked like he might have been all of fifteen. His T-shirt read ARSON . I wondered if I might print a few XLs reading GUMSHOE . I could sell them on my website if I onlyhad one. Cappelletti kept on scrolling until he came to the frame he liked and clicked on the box.
    Outside, the rain fell along Mass Ave. Cars passed with their headlamps on and windshield wipers working. A white pickup with a battered back end pulled in beside C & L Auto Body. As the truck turned, I noted C & L had their work cut out for them, as the side door had been broadsided.
    “This is twenty minutes before the first call,” Cappelletti said.
    “Where’d you pull the video?” I said.
    “Apartment building across the street,” he said. “I watched it ten times before I spotted the guy. Hold on. You’ll see it.”
    I bent down, rested my right hand on the desk, watched and waited. Cahill leaned against the office door like a bouncer, arms crossed over his big chest. Galway had stayed in his office, still snoozing.
    The video showed a grainy view of Shawmut Street and several cars parked along the sidewalk. Holy Innocents