“In the middle of the court case, the victim’s house burned,” I said. “I found that to be a strange coincidence.”
“Almost eerie.” Z raised up in the passenger seat. We both watched a bright red Chevy Blazer stop at the chain-link gate. A thick guy in a blue Pats jersey with number 87 crawled out from behind the wheel. He unlocked the gate and yelled at a brindle pit bull that jumped up on his short pant legs. He was small, thick, and beady-eyed. He looked very much like a troll from a Grimm’s tale.
“At least the dog seems friendly,” Z said.
“When the time comes, you might need to jump that fence to investigate.”
“I don’t do dogs,” he said. “Especially pit bulls.”
“Hawk doesn’t care for dogs, either,” I said. “Except Pearl. He and Pearl have become great friends. Sometimes I believe she might leave me for him. If the occasion came up.”
Johnny Donovan drove up into the lot, parked, and wandered up a wheelchair ramp to the front door. Despite the windows being down in the Explorer, the interior was hot and stuffy. There was little wind in South Boston that afternoon.
“If Teehan tipped him, he’s going to be vigilant,” Z said. “Tough to tail.”
“We take turns,” I said. “Always bring coffee. That’s the key to a successful stakeout.”
“What about Hawk?”
“Hawk has other duties.”
“Making sure Jackie DeMarco doesn’t kill you while you sleuth?”
“Yep,” I said. “Being dead might hamper our investigation.”
Johnny Donovan abruptly walked out of the metal shed of an office and locked the door. The Pats jersey was too big for him but not big enough to hide a large bulge on his right hip. He now had on a ball cap with a red FD logo and a pair of sunglasses. He had a sagging stomach, short legs, and a large hooked nose.
“What do you think he’s packing?” Z said.
“From here, looks like a Mauser,” I said. “Anti-tank.”
“Doesn’t deserve to wear the Gronk.”
“Nope,” I said. “Better suited for Hernandez.”
Loose trash littered his yard: fast-food wrappers, foam cups, and plastic bags. A big billboard loomed over his tiny building. A young kid huddled in a corner of the image, under TAKE A STAND AGAINST BULLYING in big white letters. Donovan drove back to the gate, unlocked it, continued through it, and locked it behind him. The pit bull ran nervously up and down the length of the fence as he drove away and passed us on the way out. The dog emitted several high-pitched barks. Running and barking with nervous energy.
“I say we grab him.”
“Not yet.”
“He’s soft,” Z said. “Moves slow. Out of shape, with little legs and a big stomach.”
“Man like that knows he’s beat,” I said. “He’s a bully. He’ll shoot before you get close. Nothing to lose if he’s cornered.”
“Never mess with an Indian and his kemosabe.”
“Are you ever going to give up on the Lone Ranger thing?”
“When something works, stick with it,” Z said.
I waited a few seconds and followed him out to Old Colony, where he headed north until the road merged with Dot Ave. “Hi ho, Silver?” I said.
Z nodded in appreciation.
43
For the next few hours, Johnny Donovan zipped around Boston, checking and installing security systems. At a particularly tense moment, he filled up the Chevy’s tank and took a leak at a Citgo before walking across the street to McDonald’s. Z stayed on him while I met Teddy Cahill and Jack McGee at Joe Moakley Park for an update.
From the park bench, there was a great view of the city from Southie. Several Little Leaguers battled it out on the ball fields while joggers ran past us, stout of heart and shiny with sweat. The late-afternoon light shimmered off the mirrored windows downtown. I could tell by his stoic look under the big white mustache that Cahill was glad to see me.
I’d already shown McGee the photos. He stood with a lot of nervous energy while Cahill sat and patted Galway’s head. The old dog’s tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth, panting in the summer heat. I pulled the blow-ups from the folder. “Know these guys?”
“Sure,” he said. Cahill looked up to McGee. “I seen one of ’em around.”
“Have you checked them out?” I said.
“Like I said, whattya got?”
“They were seen at almost all of the suspicious fires.”
“It’s them,” McGee said. “It’s fucking them. Right there all the time. I want their asses for all they’ve done.”
Cahill looked to McGee and shot him a hard look. “Yeah,” Cahill said. “But they’re Sparks. It’s what they do. That’s like saying you saw cheerleaders at Gillette.”
“Cheerleaders don’t try and kill the players,” McGee said.
Cahill held up a hand to try to quiet McGee. McGee’s face was red hot.
“They are not Sparks,” I said. “Sparks are good guys who regard this crew as grade-A wackos. Persona non grata at their clubhouse. One of them had a big beef against Rob Featherstone.”