Roast Mortem (36 page)

“I think it doesn't answer why the captain's apartment was ransacked,” said Sully.

“Yeah,” said Franco. “Whoever put down Captain Quinn did it with a cool head.”

“And a ruthless one,” Sully noted.

Franco agreed. “While the man's lying there, presumably bleeding to death, this scumbag preps the scene to look like a break-in robbery.”

“Well, if you want ruthless, I have the perfect candidate,” I said. “Theory number two: the Bad Lieutenant.”

I told them all about Lucia Testa's secret love affair with Lieutenant Oat Crowley and his possible motive for setting fire to her father's caffè (winning Lucia as his wife along with a fat fire-insurance inheritance that would help feather his retirement nest).

“But why would he attack the captain?” Sully asked.

“Because Michael Quinn had evidence against him,” I said. “When James's best friend died during that chain coffeehouse fire, I think James got suspicious of Oat. So he went to the captain with some kind of evidence. Oat got wind of it and eliminated both men. The only problem is Oat's alibi. He claims he was on duty all night and his crew will verify it.”

“So how could he have killed James and attacked Michael Quinn?” Sully asked.

“He might have slipped away,” I suggested (weakly).

Sully and Franco glanced at each other.
Doubtful.

“What else have you got?” Sully asked.

“Theory number three: the Fireman's Wife and the Arsonist . . .”

The stars of my third scenario were Valerie Noonan and Dean Tassos. I laid out Dean's motives for arson and Val's desire to see her husband gone. As I talked, Sully and Franco both leaned farther forward in their chairs. The glances they shared felt increasingly energized.

“. . . and I think those two set the chain coffeehouse fire and sent a fake letter to the papers to throw off the authorities,” I said. “If James Noonan knew about Dean's arson and gave evidence to the captain, Val could have tipped off Dean. She may not have killed her husband with her own hands, but she could have agreed to look the other way while Dean murdered James and made it look like a suicide, then beat down Michael Quinn and made it look like a robbery.”

“I think she's got something here,” said Sully.

“So do I,” said Franco, “and it makes a
helluvalot
more sense than Homeland Security's current theory.”

“Is that who's in charge of the arson investigation now?” I asked.

Sully nodded. “They're all over the threat you got here at the Blend. Word is they're making a case against some anticaffeine fanatic connected to one of your customers.”

“Which customer?”

“Barry something or other.”

“You've got to be kidding,” I said. “Barry wouldn't hurt a fly. And it's hard for me to believe he'd hook up with a bomb-setting terrorist.”

“That's the rumor,” said Sully. “This friend of Barry's supposedly has a checkered history and some memberships in activist groups that have gone nuclear in the past. He lives in an apartment near the chain coffeehouse that burned, was seen near Caffè Lucia the day of that fire, and has friends near the coffeehouse in Brooklyn that went up—that's where the backpack was purchased that held the package that threatened you. I'm not supposed to know any of this, of course, and neither are you, Clare.”

I blinked. “Who am I going to tell?”

“Your friend Barry for starters,” Sully said flatly. “So tell him to get a good lawyer for his boyfriend.”

Off my shocked look, Sully simply shrugged. “I'm ready to hang with Mike.”

“No!” I said. “I don't want anybody to hang!”

“
Ladies!
” Franco sang. “Before you two get your panties in a twist over Barry and his buddy, can we come up with a strike plan?”

“Yeah . . .” Sully shot him a sour look. “And let's make sure it's better than our last one.”

“Hey, Sully, my intel was golden. Last night's op failed because those dealers are smarter than the badges who conducted the stop-and-search. The drugs are
in
that pizza delivery car. I
know
it.”

“You know it, but you're the only one,” said Sully. “Try, try, again, Detective . . .”

It took me a moment to catch up: These two were talking about their squad's operation last night, the one that went down badly or else Mike would never have shown up at Saints and Sinners. Val had called it “bad timing.” I closed my eyes again, wondering what else it was.

“Clare, you okay?” Sully asked.

“No,” I whispered. “I'm thinking about Mike again and what happened last night in Queens . . .”

“Well, don't beat yourself up. After our op went down in flames, Franco was almost made, which meant his life was endangered not just his cover. Believe me, Clare, by the end of it all, Mike was ready to punch out a choirboy, never mind the cousin who pawed you up.”

I opened my eyes. “Do you think Mike knows I never meant for it to happen? Does he know I'm not Leila?”

Sully put a hand on my shoulder. “Of course he does. Mike knows who you are, Clare. And he knows who his cousin is.”

“Mike trusts me?”

“Not just trusts, Clare. The man loves you. When he lost it last night at that pub, the reason was his cousin, not you.”

“Yeah . . .” Franco shifted, scratched the side of his head. “What he said.”

“So have you got anything more on this guy, Tassos?” Sully asked.

“Just his business card.” I went to my bag, brought it over.

Franco nodded as soon as he saw it. “I know this club. The Blue Mirage? It's in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, on the
same block
as the coffeehouse that burned down.”

“That's two connections,” Sully looked to me. “Right, Clare?”

“That's right.” The pieces were falling into place. “Lorenzo Testa was hassled by guys from the Red Mirage club. The neighborhood busybody confirmed that to me the night of the fire.”

“How about the coffeehouse owner in Brooklyn?” Franco asked. “Was he hassled by Mirage club goons, too? That'll seal the deal.”

“I don't know,” I said.

“You have to find out,” Sully said. “Do you know the owner's name?”

“Jason Wren. He was at the bake sale yesterday. One of my baristas even pointed him out to me. I could kick myself for not speaking to the man then, finding out more about his fire . . .”

“Take it easy,” Sully said. “You didn't have these other leads then. Now you do. Just don't let this guy Wren clam up on you.”

Easier said than done.
“I don't know anything about this man. I mean, I could confide that my own coffeehouse was threatened, but if he's been threatened in the past, he might ask me why I'm not getting answers from the police, then start to wonder if I'm working for Dean Tassos . . .”

“She's right,” said Franco. “We need an angle for her.”

“I've seen Wren give interviews on television,” I said, thinking it through. “If I could get him to believe I'm a reporter, I could actually get his statements about any threats from Tassos or his people on tape.”

“Do you need a video camera?” Franco asked.

“My barista Dante Silva is a serious painter. He has a lot of friends in the art world. He could probably borrow something convincing, act like my cameraman. I just need a credible way to set it up . . .”

We drank more coffee, discussed some options. None seemed very strong. Finally, the shop's front bell jangled.

“Well, hello, gang!” Tucker called, his actor's basso booming through the quiet shop. “What's up? Will I read about it . . .
in the papers
?”

As my assistant manager waved his favorite New York tabloid, he continued talking about the headlines in a perfect Pat Kiernan accent.
Pat Kiernan, the famous local anchor-man. Pat Kiernan the well-known voice of NY1.

Sully and I exchanged glances. Franco smiled.

“Oh, Tucker . . .” I sang. “I need a little favor.”

“MR.
Wren?” I called. “I'm Clare . . . Clare Stanwyck.”

(The alias wasn't my idea. The name came to Tucker as a last minute improvisation. “It's a lock, Clare. I think intrigue and I channel Barbara's performance in
Double Indemnity
.” At least Tuck didn't ask me to wear an ankle bracelet—although he did suggest the business suit and stacked heels. I also agreed to the blond wig. A drag queen customer was nice enough to drop it off. It did make me look more “TV polished,” and if Dean Tassos saw me on the street, it would cloud immediate recognition.)

“Hey, there!” Jason Wren rose from the floor. He had been using an acetylene torch on the base of a booth in his restored shop. Now he turned off the blue-white flame, yanked off his safety googles, and dropped them next to a box of matches. “You're the people from New York One, right? I spoke with Pat Kiernan this morning about your coming.”

Even in my stacked heels, Wren was much taller than I. He pumped my hand, then pulled off his flameproof apron and took his time rolling up the sleeves of a scarlet University of Phoenix tee. His eyes were smoky brown, his hair cut into a spiky mop, and a barbed-wire tattoo ringed one leanly muscled arm.

I placed his biological age at thirty—but when I realized he was watching me for a reaction to his working man's strip tease, I placed his mental age as much younger.

“Hang on a second,” Wren said.

Four flat screens adorned the shop walls. Each was broadcasting the same drag racing sequence from
The Fast and the Furious.
Wren fiddled with a remote control. The screens went blank. He ejected the DVD and tossed it on a pile of films, all of which involved car racing, with the odd exception of the Alfred Hitchcock classic
Strangers on a Train.

“So, what do you think of Speedway Pizza?” Wren asked as he popped in a new DVD. Now the screens lit up with an animated loop of his logo revving up and driving away.

I glanced around the unfinished interior. The walls were white with red racing stripes, the tiled floor looked like a black-and-white checkerboard flag. In the window, a neon sign welcomed customers:
Speedway Pizza: Home of the Cone
.

I wasn't all that surprised the man's coffeehouse was now a pizzeria. Before Dante and I had driven to Brooklyn, I'd dug up every article I could find on Jason Wren. He never mentioned threats, but he did say that his shop was so badly damaged by the fire he decided to make a “big change.”

“You're smart, Mr. Wren,” said Dante, who was acting the part of my cameraman. “With the Blue Mirage next door, you should do well. Boozing and raving make people
real
hungry. I worked a pizzeria on club row. We spun dough until five AM.”

Wren happily nodded at the comment.

I was glad Dante said something positive. This neighborhood had changed so much since I'd last visited that I had no idea what businesses would work here anymore. Years ago, a little Italian bistro sat on the corner of Avenue P. That bistro was now an Asian karaoke bar. The old-time movie palace was now a Dim Sum Palace Buffet, and the Italian pork store now hawked Chinese herbs.

“So what are you working on today, Mr. Wren?” I asked, warming him up with an easy one.

“Installing booths for my customers,” Wren said. “I'm using partial shells of restored classics. That's a Trans Am over there, that's a 'Vette, and over there's a Pontiac Firebird.”

“I'm seeing a theme here.”

“You're seeing a franchise, Ms. Stanwyck. These booths, this décor, it's all going to be trademarked. This is only the first Speedway Pizza. The first of many.”

“Impressive,” I said.

He preened. “After I hooked into the cone pizza idea, the rest was easy.”

“Cone pizza?” I said. “I assumed you were doing a combo pizza/ice-cream shop thing. You aren't actually going to serve pizza—”

“In a cone?” Dante finished.

“You got it!” Wren fired twin finger guns at us. “The crust is a cone. The cheese, sauce, and toppings are melted inside. I'm putting cone holders in the booths for convenience. They're trademarked, too.”

“Cool,” Dante said unconvincingly.

“Best of all, no ovens!” Wren grinned.

I blinked. “No—”

“Ovens?” Dante finished.

“All done in a microwave,” Wren said with a nod. “In Europe they make cone crust from scratch, but Americans only care about the filling, right? So
my
cones are really more like a cracker than a crust. They come prepackaged, too. No more training baristas for weeks on an espresso machine. A one-armed monkey can learn to make my cone pizza in five minutes!”

Dante and I exchanged looks.
Now there's an inspiring motto.

Wren paused. “Hey, is this the interview?”

“No, but . . .” I glanced at Dante. “We can get started now.”

Dante looked around the shop. “Why don't you stand here, beside your porcelain Godzillas?”

“Dude!” Wren said. “Godzilla is Japanese. Those are Chinese dragons. Nine of them. For luck. My cousin's traditional, says they'll bring fortune to my new business . . .” He waved a dismissive hand. “I'm going to replace them before I open.” Wren pointed to a burnt orange chassis. “Shoot me by the Firebird. I'll sit on the hood.”

“Sure, okay,” Dante said, shouldering the camera again.

“So, Mr. Jason Wren,” I said into the microphone, “it looks like you're off to a great start rebuilding after the fire. You must have had lots of help. Did the insurance company jump in for a rescue?”