Frames Per Second (14 page)

Ben came up from the floor.

The room spun as Ben charged forward. The man grunted in surprise. Ben bumped his hip into the counter, then caught hold of the extinguisher and tugged it away. The man dropped the flashlight, the beam playing over his face as it fell. He was pulling a blackjack out of his pocket as Ben crashed into him.

Ben was too unsteady to make it a solid hit, but it was enough to spin the man around. Ben fell to his knees but then came, up and swung the heavy extinguisher around, hitting the guy with a hollow clunking sound on the elbow.

The man cried out, and that was damn good to hear.

Ben swung the extinguisher and connected again, but the man remained on his feet. Ben hit him again, a blow to the head that made the guy stagger back against the file cabinet.

The man saw the gas can beside him and flung it, covering Ben with a sheet of gasoline.

“You’re gonna burn, you nosy bastard,” the guy said, sweeping a manila folder into a puddle of gas and coming up with a lighter.

Ben slipped and fell, and with the drugged slowness of nightmares, he saw the man step up to the edge of the glimmering pool of liquid.

Ben pulled the pin on the extinguisher and squeezed the handle.

The blast caught the guy full in the face.

He staggered back and Ben came after him.

Ben shoved his elbow in his face, and landed two punches in the guy’s stomach. It was like punching a bag of wet cement. The guy spun the wheel on the lighter. Sparks flew but the gasoline didn’t ignite.

Ben jumped back, terrified of those sparks. And then he did what came naturally when the guy again started to put the lighter to the gasoline-soaked folder—Ben kicked him in the balls.

The guy made some noise then.

He also bent double to protect himself.

Ben took him in a headlock and rolled him over his hip into the puddle of gasoline. “You’ll burn too.”

As suddenly as the attack started, it was over. The guy got to his feet and bulled past Ben.

It took Ben a split second to get it. He stood, slipping and sliding in the acrid gasoline, waiting for the next attack, when the light from the hallway spilled into the room as the man opened the door and ran.

Brace and Calabro arrived immediately after the fire department.

“This is an improvement,” Brace said. “You don’t even need a trip to the hospital. Next time, how about you just wrap things up for us?”

Ben looked up from his file cabinets. After putting on dry clothes, he had checked through the files repeatedly, and had finally assured himself that none of the negatives were ruined. The firemen had spread foam in the room and all the windows were open. Ben said, “Keep talking, I’ll let you know when you get funny.”

Brace smiled. “It’s just when I hear about the exciting boy photographer investigations with Johansen in D.C. and surveillance on McGuire that I get jealous we don’t have your skills at work for us on the Boston Police.”

“Makes him testy as hell,” Calabro said. “Jealous that he’s stuck with a fat-assed old cop like me as a partner.” Calabro breathed deep, taking in the gasoline fumes. “Jesus, I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“So who did it?” Brace asked, opening his notebook. “Guy with eyes as sharp as yours must have a pretty good description for us. Didn’t manage to snap off a shot, did you?”

“Afraid not.” Ben waved them out the balcony. “Let’s get some air.” As they walked out, Ben thought fast, thinking about what Deegan had—possibly—hinted about Brace and Calabro.

Ben said, “Sarah Taylor tells me that you haven’t been out to see McGuire yet. How come?”

“Was that who you saw?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“That’s because you’re confused,” Calabro said. “You media types get to ask us cops questions, but we don’t have to answer. On the other hand, when we cop types ask you questions, you
do
have to answer.”

“Not unless you’re arresting me for spilling gasoline in my own home,” Ben said. “Now how about it?”

Brace shrugged. “We told Ms. Taylor the truth. Sure, McGuire is a suspect, he and your Mr. Johansen are at the top of our list. But we had nothing on him, and why get his guard up any more than it’ll already be? If you’ve got something for us on him, I’ll roust him out of bed tonight.”

Ben told them about the fight, gave him what description he could of his assailant.

“This him? Rod Dawson?” Brace said. He pulled out a copy of the photo that Peter had taken, and then, a mug shot with head-on and profile shots. Ben studied them, carefully.

“That’s him. The guy was bald. And the size is right, six-one, two hundred pounds. Hard as a rock, when I hit him.”

“Could you pick him out of a lineup?”

Ben closed his eyes. Saw the brief flash of light playing on his face: the blue of his eyes, the wide nose, the coarse skin, the harsh slash of his mouth. “I can pick him out. Besides, right about now he’s probably taking care of a cut on the back of his head. I hit him with the fire extinguisher.”

“Good move.” Calabro looked at Brace. “He’ll be scrubbing that gas and the foam off himself somewhere right now.”

“Might as well start with his home address,” Brace said. “Sometimes we get lucky.” He took out a cell phone and began making calls for backup for an address in South Boston.

“Take me along.” Ben stepped into his apartment to grab his camera bag.

Calabro looked at Brace.

“All right,” Brace said, grudgingly. “Got some more questions for you on the way, anyhow.”

“So what was he after?” Brace said. “What have you got that he wants?” The cop spoke easily even though he was making the big Ford fly down the Southeast Expressway, heading down toward South Boston.

“The obvious, I’d guess. A photo. Negatives.”

“Of what? What have you got?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I’ve been shooting, but I can’t think of a goddamn thing that I’ve captured that’s worth this.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t recognize it. Maybe it’s of him talking to somebody he shouldn’t be talking to,” Calabro said. “A competitive family, maybe. Making alliances that’ll get him burned, maybe going around Uncle Clooney.”

“The sort of thing we officers of the law might recognize that a paparazzi might miss,” Brace said.

“I’ll share,” Ben said. “I’ll talk to my editor, I expect he’ll go along. But that’s the thing. All that film I shot of McGuire was processed and printed at the
Insider.
This stuff at home is my personal freelance.”

“Oof,” Calabro said. “Imagine that?” he said to Brace, with a grin. “These goons burn down his studio, all his work, probably take out the building and they don’t even get the shots they want.”

“Him, too,” Brace said, jerking his head at Ben. “They were going to burn him to a crisp, too. Always said these guys were mean. Never said they were smart.”

The radio crackled just before they reached Dawson’s apartment building.

Ben could barely decipher the fast squawk of words coming from the speaker, but Calabro and Brace looked at each other, and listened carefully.

“Shit,” Brace said, as they turned the corner.

A police cruiser was parked in front of the building, and two cops were leaning against the porch rail, coughing. A small crowd of people stood around them, many of them dressed in pajamas. Flames poured out of a third-story window. Brace floored the car and brought it up behind the crowd and then jumped out. He and Calabro pushed their way through to the two uniformed cops with Ben right behind. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Everybody out?” Brace asked.

“Think so,” one of the cops said, the younger one. His face was smoke streaked, but he was regaining his breath faster than the older cop who was wracked with coughs. “We hit all the doors. Heard somebody running down the back stairwell, but didn’t see him. We couldn’t go for him though, we had to get everyone out.”

“What about Dawson?” Calabro asked.

The young cop looked at his partner. “I don’t know what Dawson looks like, but Lenny does. Was that Dawson, Lenny? The one up in his apartment? He was still alive when we saw him. He can’t be now.”

The older cop nodded. He wiped his mouth and broke into a fresh spasm of coughing. Then he jerked his head at the flames that were now roaring out the third-floor window and rushing up the side of the building. He said in a rasping voice, “Yeah, that was him. Couldn’t be a nicer end to an asshole like that. Somebody lit him up like a goddamn torch.”

CHAPTER 15

JIMBO MCGUIRE TURNED THE SHOWER ON HOT, AND SOAPED UP. HE felt the tension drain from his shoulders, and went through his mental checklist.

Suzanne was drowsing in his bed, and she knew her job.

His lawyer was on alert, a call from a phone booth. The gun tossed off the General Edwards Bridge in Lynn. Unregistered, anyhow.

McGuire’s clothes were wrapped around a brick in the bottom of the Charles River. The spare set of clothes in the trunk paid off. He knew he would need to talk to Uncle Patrick, but tomorrow would be soon enough.

McGuire was pleased with himself, pleased that the old moves were still alive and well. Pleased that his time and growth at Stanford hadn’t dulled his ability to think fast, to get his hands dirty.

Replacing Dawson would be an annoyance, true. The guy had been pretty good at his work, even if he did have the attitude that he was just on loan from Uncle Pat. Like he was indulging little Jimbo. Tonight he looked like a goddamn clown, standing there, soaked in gasoline, face still white with the extinguisher foam. “He saw me,” Dawson said. “I’ve gotta get out of town. Gimme some cash, willya?”

“Why didn’t you shoot him?”

Dawson had gestured to himself. “Look at me! He soaked me with this shit. I couldn’t take a chance on the flash.”

“You should’ve,” McGuire had said, tossing a match. “Odds would’ve been better.”

Dawson had screamed like a girl. McGuire had put two rounds into him just to shut him up.
 

That goddamn photographer. Who could’ve figured?

McGuire stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He admired himself in the full mirror: deep chest, the proverbial washboard stomach, well-defined arms. He had swum competitively as a kid and still kept up with it, doing two miles at the pool every other day. He did weights at least three times a week. Curly black hair, blue eyes. Winning smile.

Let the fags at the holding cell give him a try, he’d snap bones and dislocate a shoulder or two before they even got close. Assuming they even tried once he passed the word he was Patrick Clooney’s nephew.

Most everybody knew to back off at that name, but there was always some amateur who didn’t get the news. That was fine with McGuire. He didn’t mind an opportunity to show off his years of martial arts training. To show that he wasn’t just some punk living off Uncle Patrick’s name.

He dried his hair quickly, and then padded into the bedroom and laid out jeans, his favorite oxford shirt, and Nikes. Might as well be comfortable.

He had kept quiet, not wanting to wake Suzanne. She wasn’t the smartest girl. So he preferred to keep the talk to a minimum. But Suzanne was ready for him, after all, when he slipped under the covers. She went right down on him, making him gasp aloud. “Jesus,” he said. He reached down to touch her. Such heat below him.

The image of Dawson flashed in front of him, screaming. The flames rushing up his shirt, first licking, then covering his face. Dawson beating his hands all over himself, until they too were inflamed.

The image only made McGuire harder. Some guys were meant to lose; some to win. It was that simple. He reached down and touched her. She was soft and firm at the same time. All rounded hip, smooth muscle. Full breasts. He gave her the time off every other day for her aerobics class and it was paying off right here … big Barbie Doll hot and alive at the touch of his telephone keypad.

He groaned. “Goddamn,” he said. “Goddamn.”

She knew what to do to perk up a man who was about to spend the night with the cops.

She took him out of her mouth and moved up his body. “Put it in,” she whispered in his ear. “Put it in me, and do me hard. Before they get here.”

He finished just as they arrived.

“Officer,” she cried as they were hustling McGuire to the car, tousled and bemused. “He was with me! All night, he was with me!”

CHAPTER 16

KRIEGER, THE ATTORNEY, DROPPED HIM OFF AT HIS UNCLE’S HOUSE early the next morning.

“Jesus, when’s the guy going to buy the kind of place he can afford,” McGuire said, sitting in the lawyer’s Mercedes. The house was a decent looking Victorian with a great view of Boston Harbor.

But it was in South Boston.

Krieger started to say something, thought better of it, and simply shrugged.