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.
I stood in the middle of Marlborough Street with Teddy Cahill. I’d brought Pearl with me, and she sat on her haunches as we peered up at the charred mess. Pearl sniffed at the smoky remnants in the air while the apartment building continued to smolder. I was fortunate to always keep several changes of clothes at Susan’s. Sometimes fresh underwear is better than a cup of coffee.
“What do we have?” I said.
“Been working all night,” Cahill said. “ATF sent some good people over. We went over your place inch by fucking inch.”