Roast Mortem (22 page)

“So this can save your life?”

Bigs nodded. “See if you were stuck on the roof, you'd drive you ax into the roof itself, then you'd put the spike end into the cut, hammer it down with the back of your ax. It's spring-loaded, like a switchblade, so you can trip these prongs to anchor it.” He hit a button and the spring-loaded tool snapped open. “Then you clip your rope to this ring and jump.”

“Well . . .” I touched the flat end of the tool. “I'm sorry to tell you. For what I need, this head's too big.”

Dino snorted. “That's a first.”

“What I mean is we'll need that
tamper
to continue. So why don't we all look for it?” I glanced at the men who just sat staring. “I mean it, guys. Let's get down on our hands and knees and get it done.

“Okay, Ms. Cosi,” Ortiz said with a wicked grin. “You go down first and we'll be right behind you.”

Now the men glanced at one another with smirks.

“Come on, guys! Give me a break!”

The men burst out laughing—and finally did what I asked. They found the tamper, I washed it, and we began again.

Thirty minutes later, two out of three attempts by each firemen resulted in a decent (if far from perfect) shot. Another half hour and the guys were producing passable espressos—far from Village Blend quality but a start.

“I feel like I've mastered something,” Ortiz said.

“You know the basics now,” I told him. “But you need to keep practicing. You still have a lot to learn. We've hardly touched on humidity levels, barometric pressure, heat or cold weather, the characteristics of different beans and blends, and the effect these things have on extraction.”

Ed Schott laughed. “She sounds like a fire-academy instructor.”

“Espressos, gentlemen, are a lot like life, the more you learn the less you know—and the quicker you surrender to not knowing, the faster you will progress.”

“
Zen and the Art of Espresso Machine Maintenance
by Clare Cosi
,”
James said with a wink.

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

With class dismissed, the men crowded around to thank me, a few of them asking more questions. I pulled out a copy of an Espresso-making guide, one I gave to all of my rookies.

“Damn, even
she's
got a manual!”

The men laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Are you kidding?” Ortiz gestured to a board filled with official notices on procedures and new equipment. “Welcome to the FDNY. Manuals 'R' Us!”

I smiled, nodded, then quickly broke away and approached Captain Michael.

“Nice job handling the men,” he said softly.

I could tell he meant it. His expression was more relaxed now. Whatever I'd done tonight, it had impressed (or amused) him. His earlier anger at finding me snooping around his firehouse was obviously gone.

“Can we talk now?” I whispered.
“Privately.”

“Can't wait to get me alone, eh, darlin'?”

“Cut the crap, will you?”

“What crap?”

“You know what.”

“Ah, well, maybe I do . . .” His voice went lower and now his gaze was moving over me. “It's just that when I see a lady such as yourself with so many
feminine charms
. . .” He flashed a grin, his gold tooth winking. “I can't help myself.”

“Baloney, Captain, and let me tell you something. I don't like baloney. It's cheap and indigestible.”

“You're reading me all wrong, dove. My nature compels me to reveal the truth of my heart. It's just the way the Lord made me.”

“The Lord made trees. I sincerely doubt divine inspiration had anything to do with your cheesy pickup lines.”

Beneath the crimson trim of his Victorian mustache, the man's patronizing smirk finally vanished. He chucked his thumb toward the heavens. “Upstairs.”

STRUGGLING
to keep up with the man's long strides, I followed Captain Michael across the kitchen, down a hallway, and into a narrow stairwell. We traveled north a level then moved along another industrial green hallway, passing an office door with a plastic plaque that read
Lieutenant Crowley
. The door was ajar and I heard papers rattling, but I couldn't see the occupant.

The captain's office was no fancier than mine although it was a great deal larger. A battered wooden desk dominated the room. There were two chairs, banks of metal filing cabinets, and an old leather couch. The dark, heavy office felt warm to me. I attributed this not to my hormones (or the captain's, for that matter) but to the clanking, hissing radiator in the corner.

Michael felt the heat, too. He opened the room's only window and gestured to his office door. “Close it if you want privacy.”

I did. Then I settled onto a chair opposite his desk. He leaned back on his creaky office throne and cradled his fingers.

“So, I'm guessing you want to know what the fire marshals are sayin', right?”

“That's an ongoing investigation,” I said with a straight face. “I'm a civilian, remember? It's none of my business until it's a part of the public record.”

Captain Michael blinked, obviously surprised by my answer.

“I have another matter on my mind.”

He smirked. “My love life?”

“No. The other fire. The one that happened on the very same night as the fire at Caffè Lucia.”

His eyes narrowed. “I wasn't aware there
was
a second fire.”

You're lying again.
“It made the papers. A privately owned coffee shop in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious? Two coffeehouse fires the same night, at almost the exact same time?”

Captain Michael opened the top button of his pristine white uniform shirt, and then, almost impatiently, he waved the question aside. “This firehouse caught two bakery delivery van fires this morning. Does that strike you as suspicious?”

“No, but—”

“There are just about as many coffee shops in this town as bakery delivery vans. Two vans, two coffee joints. I'd call it a coincidence either way.”

“What if both fires turn out to be arson?” I asked. “What then?”

“Then the crimes will be investigated and it's not your business, right? Isn't that what you just said?”

I folded my arms. “Yes. I'm a civilian. But I have a coffeehouse, too. I want to know what you think is causing these fires if it's not arson? I mean, considering the two fires, I'd like your opinion on fire prevention. As a civilian, I think that's a fair question.”

We stared at one another for a few silent seconds. He was obviously considering how to handle me.

He finally made one—a dodge. “You may be a civilian, Clare, but I'll give you this, you're a big-hearted one. Coming out here tonight after a long day of work, helping out my guys. It was very kind of you.”

“I was glad to help.” I was, too. Even if I hadn't come to gather information for Fire Marshal Rossi, I would have come to help these men.

A phone trilled just then. It wasn't the land line on the captain's desk. It was a cell phone.

“Excuse me.” Michael didn't bother checking the caller ID. He answered quickly, and when the other party spoke, his expression chilled, his lively eyes went dead. With an abrupt lurch, he swung the chair around until all I could see was the starched cotton shirt stretched across his hunching shoulders.

“What do you want?” he said.

He listened for another few seconds, then replied, “No, Josie, and this is the third time you've asked. Three strikes you're out.”

Josie?
I tucked that name away. I couldn't glean much more from the conversation—just grunts and one word replies. It was also obvious Josie was a woman.

With the captain's back to me, I decided to take advantage of the moment. Rising, I glanced around, looking for any sign the man might be seeing Lucia—a photo of her maybe? Whoever Josie was, she was clearly on the outs, and I found myself curious about the raven-haired woman who'd made the captain so happy in those photos from years ago.

One of the office walls was peppered with framed diplomas, citations, and awards. An “I love me” wall was what they called it in the military because every officer above a lieutenant has one at home or in the office (according to a former U.S. Navy SEAL I'd crossed paths with one summer). But in Captain Michael's case, it was an “I love my little brother” wall. As I moved closer, I realized every single item posted had something to do with Kevin Quinn: from a faded high school newspaper picture in his varsity football uniform to more recent images of Michael bowling with Kevin at Sunnyside Lanes, shooting hoops on a Queens outdoor court, and fishing on the rocky banks of the East River. It was the kind of devotion and pride one usually reserved for a child, not a brother.

I'd heard someone mention Kevin at the Quinn St. Patrick's Day bash. He'd just relocated to Boston this past fall. The most recent photos attested to this, showing Kevin with his family on Boston Commons, at a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway Park, hanging out near Plymouth Rock.

The final picture showed Captain Michael standing between Kevin and the man's wife, two smiling preteen daughters on either side. All were bundled in sweaters and coats, and snow dusted the suburban lawn behind them. The handwritten inscription read: “Hey, bro . . . Your visit made our first Thanksgiving in Boston feel like home. Love, Kev, Melody, Melinda, and Megan.”

“Look, Josie, I'm on duty. I'm hanging up now.”

Michael ended the call. He swung around, noticed me by the Kevin wall and immediately strode across the room.

“Where were we, Clare?”

“I'm a civilian.”

“With a big heart, that's right . . .” He relaxed himself, shedding the uneasy business of that call with the ease of a practiced chef crumbling old skin from an onion. “I'd like to thank you for what you've done. I mean it.
Personally
thank you.” He smiled down at me, it actually appeared genuine.

“No thanks necessary.”

“No baloney now, Clare. It's not every day I meet someone like you. You're something special. All those guts and brains inside that alluring little package—”

“I have some serious questions for you.”

“Okay, all right.” He showed me his palms. “If that's what it takes. You can go ahead and question my past. I've had my share of women, it's true. At my age, what do you expect? I wasn't exactly a monsignor in my youth.”

“Were you ever in a relationship with Lucia Testa?”

The captain's eyebrow arched again. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Were you?”

He took a breath, exhaled it. “No.”

I didn't believe him. “Then why is she in a photo on the wall downstairs? Was she seeing one of your men at any time? Maybe a few over a period of years?”

“There are no Firehouse Annies here, and I won't be spreading any gossip. But weren't we talking about you and me, Clare—”

“You're delusional. There is no ‘you and me.'”

“But I'd like there to be. You're different. I can see that . . . special.”

“I'm involved with your cousin. Is that what you mean?”

“Just give me a chance.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a weekend getaway? Maybe Cape May, the Jersey Shore. How about Atlantic City? Dinner. A show. A little Texas Hold 'Em—” His gold tooth flashed.

“Don't hold your breath—”

“I know my cousin, Clare. The guy lives for his job. When was the last time you two went out and had some fun, eh?”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. I didn't offer one.

“Then consider the invitation open-ended. Some weekend when my cop cousin lets you down or ticks you off and you need a nice strong, sympathetic shoulder to lean on, ring me up. Mikey never has to know about it—”

I wasn't going to get anything more out of this guy. That was obvious. My decision was clear. I would give Rossi all eight names of the men who'd attended my espresso-making lessons this evening: Captain Michael Quinn, Lieutenant Oat Crowley, and firefighters Dino Elfante, Ronny Shaw, Ed Schott, and Alberto Ortiz. Bigsby Brewer and James Noonan would be on that list, too. I hated adding their names. To me, they were heroes who'd risked their safety to carry Madame and Enzo out of that collapsing caffè—but if there was a chance they were guilty, then I had to tell Rossi, let him investigate, decide for himself.

“Good night, Captain,” I said, cutting him off midpass.

“Wait.” Michael moved with me, blocking my way. “One more thing, Clare . . .”

“What?”

“I want you to know: Whatever Mikey told you about Kevin”—he lifted his chin toward the I-love-my-brother wall—“it's
his
version of events. Remember that . . .”

Confused for a moment, I turned back to the Kevin Quinn shrine, looked over the photos again. “Your
brother
is the reason you and Mike have been feuding all these years—is that what you're saying? Because that's not what Mike told me . . .”

“What did he tell you?”

I conveyed the story about Mike's old girlfriend Leta, about her dad being shot in cold blood during a bodega robbery, about his classmate Pete Hogarth's father being the killer and Mike's being labeled a narc at the academy because of Hogarth's two relatives being in the same class. “Mike chose to be a cop instead of a firefighter,” I finished, “so you felt betrayed, like he let you down and you never got over it.”