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

was a dark old hulk, recognizable only by its heavy front doors. The counter read 19:42 and clicked off the seconds.
    “You see him?” Cappelletti said.
    “Him?” I said. “I only see cars.”
    “Behind those cars across the street,” he said, pointing at the screen with a pencil. “He comes out of the church fast and then turns on Shawmut, heading south. Right at this spot. Hold on. Hold on. I’ll back it up.”
    He used his mouse and clicked back the counter. “Five seconds from here.”
    Cappelletti was good. It was a bit like spotting a mosquito in a sandstorm. But at one point, a dark shadow did in facthigh-step down the dark alley. He paused the image and zoomed in. He lightened the image and pointed at it again with the tip of his pencil. It appeared to be a white male wearing a ball cap and dark clothes. With the pixelation and lack of light, it may have very well been Tom Brady deflating his balls.
    Cappelletti clicked the mouse and motion started again. The shadow hit the sidewalk in a sprint and ran out of the frame.
    “Like I said,” Cahill said from the door. “Crap City.”
    “What’s the time before we see smoke?”
    Cappelletti scrolled the video ahead several minutes. “Twelve-point-three minutes.”
    “We would have released it if you could see the guy’s freakin’ face,” Cahill said. “But without more, we didn’t want the guy looking over his shoulder. We want him shooting off his mouth.”
    “Sure,” I said. “How about the vehicles parked along the curb?”
    “All accounted for,” Cahill said. “Christ, you think this is amateur hour?”
    “Witnesses?”
    “Fourteen,” Cappelletti said. “Not counting responders. Spent two weeks knocking on doors in that neighborhood. It ain’t the best in the South End.”
    “And?” I said.
    “Nobody knows nothing,” Cahill said. “How about you? You got anything you’d like to share with the group?”
    He and Cappelletti stared at me, waiting. Cappelletti blew a bubble until it popped. I shrugged. “The building was in the process of being sold.”
    “Yeah,” Cahill said. “Herbie Wu. So what? You think he torched it? Because that’s not how things are done this century. He wouldn’t have gotten half back from the insurance.”
    “Maybe someone didn’t like him moving into the neighborhood?”
    “From Chinatown?” Cappelletti said. “Pretty diverse neighborhood.”
    “Maybe someone leaned on him to do business so close to Southie.”
    “Did he pay?”
    I didn’t want to sell out Wu. But I shook my head.
    “And who did the asking?” Cahill said.
    “Working on the details,” I said. “It may be nothing.”
    “Don’t screw us, Spenser,” Cahill said. “I wasn’t real thrilled with you coming down here. If you know someone was leaning on Herbie Wu—”
    “Would be better if we could ID the man in the alley.”
    Cahill and Cappelletti looked at each other. Cahill said, “And you’re working on the other thing?”
    I nodded.
    “Who?”
    “Working with the League of Unextraordinary Gentlemen,” I said. “You’ll be the first to know.”
    “Jesus Christ,” Cahill said.
    “I did want to ask you about this and its possible connection to all the new fires,” I said. “I am a subscriber to
The Globe
. You guys have a bug.”
    Neither of the men spoke. Cappelletti shut the laptop.
    “It’s possible all of this is connected,” I said. “Right?”
    “You and Jack McGee.”
    “Busted flat in Baton Rouge,” I said. “Waiting for a train.”
    “What the hell’s he talkin’ about?” Cappelletti said.
    “I’d like to see the addresses and owners of all the new fires you believe are arson,” I said. “Maybe I can spot a pattern.”
    “Right now, we have a real problem. But there’s no reason to believe they’re connected to Holy Innocents. We’re talking about someone with a cracked head, not a professional criminal. But if you want to read this shit till you’re cross-eyed, be my