Roast Mortem (24 page)

After we sat, I began to explain the situation.

“Just
show
him,” Matt said, cutting me off.

I chafed at my ex's tone, but I didn't say a word. Matt distrusted cops (and all authority figures)—partly because of his run-ins with the NYPD and partly because of his bad experiences with corrupt officials in banana republics. I knew how difficult it was for my ex-husband to come here with me. The last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument.

I set the backpack on the table, pulled out the package.

Quinn almost never showed emotion on the job. But as he studied the box of matches, the single charred stick, and the arsonist's note to me, his features twisted openly with fury, worry, and frustration. When he finally spoke, it was a single, quiet curse.

“That son of a bitch . . .”

Matt folded his arms. “Is that all you've got to say?”

“No . . . I'm going to get this to our people in the Crime Scene Unit, but . . .” Quinn exhaled.

“I know,” I said, reading him. “It's been handled to death.”

“Who opened it?” Quinn asked.

I turned to Matt. “You explain . . .”

“One of our customers, Barry, first noticed the backpack—”

“Barry?” I interrupted. “Tucker said it was a group of NYU students.”

Matt shrugged. “Barry found it first. He went to the students next, asked if it was one of theirs. They all passed it around.”

I still didn't like the sound of that. “What was Barry doing in the Blend so late?” For months now, the man had been coming in mornings or early afternoons, never in the evenings.

“Tucker said something about his having a fight with this new boyfriend. The guy's on some anticaffeine or anticoffee kick. I don't know. One of those political food movements. He wanted Barry to give up coffee. Barry said no. They had a fight, and Barry came to the Blend to spite him . . .”

“Excuse me,” Quinn said. “But how
many
people handled this thing? An estimate?”

“Ten, maybe twelve,” Matt said.

Quinn went silent. The cop curtain finally came down on his emotional show.

“I'm sorry,” I said softly. “I know that makes it impossible for your people to find forensic evidence.”

“Not impossible. Just harder . . . We'll have detectives from this precinct assigned to your case. After we're done in here, you tell them everything, okay? They can work with the fire marshals investigating the Caffè Lucia fire. You'll also have to get me the names and addresses of everyone who touched this thing. Any fibers, fingerprints, or other DNA evidence we find, we'll have to match against your customers and baristas, and eliminate them one by one.”

Matt folded his arms. “How long with
that
take?”

“A while. It's not attached to a homicide—”

“Not yet,” I said. “But Enzo is in a coma. He's not expected to live. And if he doesn't, the person or persons who set that fire are going to be—”

“Murderers.” Quinn said. “I know.”

“What happens in the meantime?” Matt snapped. “While we're waiting for some technician to lift a fiber from the asshole who threatened Clare. We go up in flames?”

Quinn focused on me. “When we're through here, I'll speak to my captain. We'll get you protection.”

“It's not me who needs it,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I have you, don't I?”

Quinn gave me the sweetest look. I returned it.

“Excuse me!” Matt cried. “What about the
Blend
?”

“I'll take care of it,” Quinn said, still holding my gaze.

“Good,” Matt grunted.

Quinn reached out then, opening his hand as he moved it across the table. He waited, keeping it there until I put mine in his. Then he gently but firmly closed his fingers.

Matt blew out air. “Are we
done
now?”

“I need to talk to Mike about something else,” I said softly. “Privately, if you don't mine.”

“Fine. I'll wait for you downstairs.” Matt rose, left the room, and shut the door—more of a slam really.

“You okay?” Quinn asked.

I nodded, swallowed the sand in my throat. I wanted to tell him everything then, what I'd learned at the firehouse and not just about possible suspects in the Caffè Lucia fire. I wanted to speak to him about the disturbing story that Captain Michael had told me. But this arid, airless room was so awful—and it was Quinn's turf. If I were going to question the man about his past again, I wanted it to be on mine.

“I need to see you tonight, Mike. My place, okay?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You want me to wake you up at four in the morning?”

“Yes.”

The corners of his lips lifted. “Okay then. I will.”

I rose. “I'm sorry it isn't easier.”

He stood, too, picking up the contaminated evidence. “I'll take this to my captain, explain what you've been up to. We'll get sector cars doing routine checks of the Blend all night, and when you open tomorrow, you'll have at least one plainclothes officer undercover inside throughout the day.”

“Thank you, Mike.” It was far from the first time I'd said it, but I meant it as much as ever.

“One more thing, Clare.”

“Yes?”

“Would you please send Allegro back in here? I'd like a private word with him.”

“DON'T
move . . .”

The male voice at my ear was no more than a whisper. I'd been sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, so soundly, so sweetly under a heap of bedcovers. Then came the voice, dragging me back to the land of the conscious, the anxious, the miserably alert.

“Mike?”

“You heard me. Don't move . . .”

I was lying on my side, still groggy and disoriented, when I felt the mattress sinking behind me. Under the blankets, large hands caressed my curves.

“What time is it?”

“All the clocks have stopped, sweetheart. There is no time. Right now there's nothing but you and me . . .”

Soft tugs coaxed off my nightshirt. The touch of slightly calloused fingers were cool at first, but quickly warmed on my naked skin. Tender kisses came next, to the back of my shoulder, along my neck, around my jawline . . .

I smiled in the dark.

A few minutes later, Quinn's long, heavy body was covering mine, and I found my way back to sweet oblivion.

 

 

AN
hour later, we were lying together, still under the covers, my head on his shoulder, his durable arm around me.

“Mike . . . ?”

My voice sounded shamefully hesitant in the shadowy chill of the pre-dawn room. “There's something I didn't tell you earlier . . .”

“That makes two of us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. But you go first.”

“No,” I said, far from eager to spill. “You.”

“All right, well . . . Remember that private word I had with your ex-husband?”

“Yeah, what was that about? Matt wouldn't tell me . . .”

“I asked him to stay here with you.”

“You're
kidding . . .”

Not so long ago, Mike nearly broke up with me because Matt was still making use of this duplex. “I can't believe it,” I said. “You asked Matt to stay
here
with me?”

“I didn't want you to be in the building alone. That's all. Matt agreed with me.”

“Oh, no, he didn't. I was up here all night alone—until you came.”

“You were alone in the duplex, Clare, but not in the building. Allegro spent the night downstairs in the Blend, doing business with Europe and Japan on his PDA. I spoke to him before I came upstairs to you, told him to get home, try to get some rest . . .”

Once again, I was surprised, but only a little. Matteo Allegro's long list of petty vices continued to be trumped by one major virtue: the man had a ferocious protective streak. Whether it was his daughter, his mother, his new wife, or old, my ex-husband refused to accept someone he loved being in harm's way.

“Okay, sweetheart, your turn,” Mike said, his voice almost teasing. I felt a soft kiss on my hair. “What didn't you tell me earlier?”

“I went to your cousin's firehouse last night.”

Mike's big, warm body froze against mine.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Your cousin swore to me on the phone that he wouldn't be there—”

“But he was anyway.”

“Yes.”

“I asked you to stay away from him, Clare.”

“I thought I was staying away from him. I swear. He lied to me—”

“You
promised
me.”

“You're not listening, Mike. Try to understand . . .”

I did my best to explain my side of it. “I needed to do it. I needed to find answers. The problem is . . . I found more questions . . .”

Mike let my final statement hang for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “You want to explain what that's supposed to mean?”

“It means your cousin told me about the history between you and his younger brother, Kevin . . .”

Mike exhaled, loud and long. “Let's get this out of the way, all right? I want to know every single thing that son-of-a-bitch cousin of mine told you.”

“Fine.” I threw off the covers and got up.

“Clare! Where are you going?!”

“I'm not going to discuss your cousin in this bed,” I said, grabbing my robe, wrapping it tight. “Are you hungry? I need to cook.”

“Oh?” Mike blinked, his tone suddenly more pliable. “What did you have in mind?”

 

 

CRAB
cakes.
That's what I had in mind. Mike loved them, and I'd already picked up two pounds of fresh lump crabmeat from the Lobster Place on Bleecker. (Blue, of course. For Maryland-style cakes, the crabs really should be blue.)

So, okay, seafood wasn't your typical breakfast fare. But Mike had been up all night and this was going to be dinner for him.

Now, as the coral glow of dawn lightened the darkness beyond my window, I made a pot of coffee and poured two mugs. Quinn sat at my kitchen table in sweat pants and a faded Rangers T-shirt, his feet bare, his dark blond hair mussed. The man had a strong presence, even when he didn't say a word. With his twilight blue eyes watching my every move over the rim of his coffee mug, I found it difficult to focus on the cooking, but I did my level best.

Back around midnight, I'd already mixed the crabmeat with binders and herbs and formed the small patties. Now I pulled the wax paper covered plates from the fridge, brushed them lightly with an egg wash, and carefully rolled each in a crisp breading of Japanese panko.

The clammy texture of the chilly patties against my fingers and palms reminded me of another dish—my
nonna
's spinach and ricotta
malfatti
, just one of the daily take-out specialties we made for her grocery.

Malfatti
, which translates to “badly formed,” were essentially dumplings of ravioli filling (hold the pasta). But the idea I found useful at this very moment was bigger than that. Italian culinary philosophy dictated that you never apologized for your mistake. You just made up a little name for it and moved along.

My
malfatti
look lumpy? Hey, don't blame me! They're called badly formed, aren't they? Those little meringue-hazelnut cookies of mine resemble toadstool tops? So what! They're called
brutti ma buoni
, right? Ugly but good!

It was exactly the tack I took with Mike, explaining (but never apologizing) for my encounter with his cousin the previous evening.

Laughable, wasn't it? I mean, it wasn't
my
fault your cousin was there. Don't blame me!

(Of course, I was careful to leave out the part about his flame-haired twin inviting me to play Texas Hold 'Em in Atlantic City.) But then I got to the story of how Mike had put his career ahead of his younger cousin Kevin . . .

When I finished, Mike appeared to come down with a prolonged case of lockjaw. Finally, he let out a harsh laugh.

“He's such a piece of work . . .”

“Kevin?”

“
Michael
. He gave you selected highlights, Clare, a carefully redacted tale of Quinn ancient history . . .”

“You'll have to explain.”

“Kevin Quinn was supposed to follow in his late father's footsteps, just like his older brother. But Kevin's partying got out of hand. Underage drinking became a major problem. And then he began to drive drunk.”

“So it wasn't just a one time thing?”

“No. When Kevin was pulled over in Manhattan one night, he used my name to get the officers to give him another chance. The pair contacted me themselves—I was on duty so I showed up inside of ten minutes to take my idiot younger cousin off their hands. I drove Kevin straight home, warned the kid to sober the hell up and straighten out. But Kevin blew it.”

“What do you mean? He drove drunk again?”

“A few months later, just before he was supposed to start training at the fire academy, the kid was back behind the wheel, loaded up on boilermakers. This time it wasn't just a pull over, it was a traffic accident. He went right through a red light, banged up another vehicle. No one was badly hurt, but a few seconds' difference in that crash and Kevin could have injured or even killed two young women.”

“Oh my God . . .”

“The story's not over: this time Michael came to me, hat in hand, asking me to help out his little brother, just like I'd done before.
Make it go away.
Those were his words. But things were different this time. Kevin was falling down drunk when the arresting officers took him in. By the time I heard about it, he was already in the system. I made sure the kid got a good lawyer. I stood up for him in court, vouched for his character. It was all I could do.”