Roast Mortem (14 page)

I cleared my throat: “I noticed you like sharing that story about the schoolyard fight, but there's something more, isn't there? Something you don't want people to know about why you became a cop.”

The kisses stopped. The magic fingers quit moving. Mike leaned back, taking his hand and lips with him.

“Mike?”

“It's not a pretty story, Clare.”

“I don't care. I'd like to hear it . . .”

For a full minute, he stayed silent, shifting a few times on the sofa. Then just when I thought he would clam up for good, he rubbed his jaw, took a breath, and said—

“When I hit high school, I started dating a classmate. Leta was her name, Leta Diaz. Bright girl, beautiful smile. She was my lab partner in chemistry, a class we both enjoyed, so we hit it off . . .”

He paused to glance over at me. I nodded. “Go on.”

“Leta's family came here from the Dominican Republic. They ran their own little convenience store just off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. One afternoon, Leta's dad was robbed at the store. He resisted and was shot to death.”

“Oh God, that's awful. Your poor girlfriend.”

“Yeah, she took it extremely hard. I tried to be there for her. But I wanted to do more than just hold her hand and watch her cry her heart out, you know? I wanted to do something. So I did.”

“What do you mean? You were just a high school kid.”

“I had a gut feeling. The week before, at one of the school's basketball games, I noticed the father of a classmate talking to Leta's father. There was something about the way he was chatting up the man—it seemed odd, like a hustle.”

“So?”

“So this robbery that happened—it was during a very narrow window of time when Leta's father had a great deal of cash on hand at the store to pay their packaged-food distributor. Once a week they got that delivery, once a week on a certain day, between certain hours.”

“And you thought this man, this father of your classmate at school, was the stick-up guy?”

“I knew he'd already done time for mail fraud. My classmate—Pete Hogarth was his name—he'd been complaining that his old man couldn't get any work, also hinted that he had a worsening cocaine habit. So I took matters into my own hands.”

“What did you do?”

“I buddied up to Pete, went back to his apartment to hang out. The place was small, no privacy, but when I heard his dad kept pigeons on the roof, I knew that's where I'd find evidence—and I did. The gun and the cash were buried in one of the coops. I called the detectives assigned to the case. They arrested Pete's father. The ballistics matched up. He was the shooter.”

“Leta must have been grateful.”

“Honestly, she was too numb to fully understand what I did. Less than a month later, her family was back living in the Dominican Republic.”

“So much for young love.”

“Don't sweat it, Cosi. My heart survived.”

“Those detectives handling the case must have been impressed.”

“They were. They checked in on me after that, encouraged me to go to the police academy.”

“But your father wanted you to join the FDNY?”

“I was the oldest. Like I said, I respected my dad, wanted to make him proud. But . . .”

“But . . . ?”

Mike turned on the sofa to fully face me. “As it came down, two of the guys in my class at the fire academy—they were relatives of Pete Hogarth's. These guys didn't care that Pete's father was a scumbag killer. They just figured me for a narc, a rat, a guy you could never trust, and they made it a point of spreading the story of what I'd done.”

“Is that how your cousin felt about you?”

“No. Michael defended me. But it wasn't enough, and after a few weeks, my reality check kicked in. I knew what I wanted to be doing for the next four decades of my life, and it wasn't fighting fires. I wanted to be hunting down predators, Clare, getting them the hell off the street. Hogarth shot Leta's father in cold blood, and I made sure he couldn't kill again. I
liked
how it felt when I took him down.”

My mind flashed on Enzo, pale as a cadaver in the ICU; Madame weak and teary on that stretcher; Dante unconscious on the glass-strewn concrete . . .

I closed my eyes. “Does it always feel good to take them down?”

“For me it does. But you don't always get them, Clare.”

I realized something then, something Mike had known all along . . .

“That's why you've never discouraged me, isn't it?” I met his gaze. “You solved your first homicide as a kid, without a badge or a gun. You know what someone like me can do.”

“Information and evidence, sweetheart. That's what clears cases. I can flash my shield all day long, but without information and evidence, I can't do my job. That's why we work to develop informants on the street, interview witnesses, run background checks. If you can get those things for an investigator, then you can help him—or her.”

I exhaled. Given the fire marshal's brush off earlier in the evening, not to mention Captain Michael's oh-so-subtle warning not to get involved, I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear some encouraging words. Well, I was happy to return the favor.

“I can see why you don't like retelling that story. But it's really something what you did. It took guts . . .”

“Thanks.” Mike smiled, but only a little, as if he were flattered by my words but embarrassed, too. Pointing to the take-out bag, he changed the subject. “You want more?”

“Not of that.”

“Something else, then?”

I nodded. The flames in the fireplace were at their peak. I could feel their heat against my skin, hear their teasing pops and sparks. Leaning over, I pulled Mike's mouth back onto mine.

He was pleased I'd started the kiss. I could feel it in his tightening arms, his widening smile against my mouth. He tugged me closer, used his tongue to part my lips, deepen our connection. Then his hands slipped under my oversized tee, and his slightly calloused fingers generated something with a whole lot more intensity than what he'd started in my living room hearth.

“C'mon,” he whispered, finally breaking away. “Let's go upstairs . . .”

I wasn't about to argue.

I
woke the next morning to a pair of cat paws kneading my shoulder. I instinctively reached out for Mike. With a stab of disappointment, I realized the pillow next to mine was empty. That's when I remembered dozing off in his arms. He'd kissed my forehead and whispered something about an early meeting with prosecutors ahead of a grand jury appearance.

Suddenly I felt another kind of stab, a prickly one to my right foot. Java and Frothy were circling me like a pair of miniature
Jurassic Park
raptors.

“Okay, I'm up!”

I threw off the covers. “Happy now?”

Tails raised in feline triumph, the girls bounded off the bed and waited for me at the door. With another yawn, I tied on a robe, thrust my feet into slippers, and followed their proud little forms—one coffee-bean brown, the other latte-foam white—to the kitchen.

Despite that long, steamy shower the night before, I still had a thickness in my throat, a funky odor in my sinuses, and notwithstanding the many splendored moments of Mike's lovemaking, my subsequent dreams had been filled with images of billowing black smoke, flashing red lights, and glinting razors of splintered glass.

Tucker, my assistant manager, was scheduled to open today, which meant I still had a little time to pull myself together. Thankfully, I felt more human after I fed my tiny, furry raptors a can of furry raptor food and mainlined a Moka-brewed
doppio
espresso.

Next I phoned Dante at Elmhurst Hospital. He was in good spirits this AM, announcing he was “ready to roll!” His release paperwork was already being prepared, and two friends were waiting in his room to take him home—Kiki and Bahni, the two young women who also shared his apartment.

One for each of his tattooed arms,
I thought, relieved to hear some good news.

Next I called Madame, surprised to find her already dressed and on her way out the door. A driver was waiting downstairs, she explained, ready to return her to Queens and the bedside of her old friend.

“You'll need to say you're a family member if you want to see him,” I warned.

“Yes, dear, I've already thought of that.”

“Well, don't say you're his sister, okay? He may think you're Rita Quadrelli!”

“I plan to inform the nurses that I am his
sister-in-law
. I will be sure to give my name so Enzo knows my true identity.”

“Great. Please let me know how he's doing, okay?”

“Of course.”

“And there's one more thing . . . Last night, while I was questioning Enzo, he mentioned to me that Lucia was still seeing a fireman.”

“Old flame?”

“Very funny.”

“Yes, dear, well, it would have to be an old flame, wouldn't it? She described herself as engaged to that other boy, Glenn, didn't she?”

“See if you can get Enzo to tell you who this fireman is. Get a name.”

After a pause, Madame said, “Did this fireman have something to do with setting the firebomb, dear?”

“You've certainly had your coffee this morning.”

“With or without the java, I'm a lot sharper than you think.”

“I think you're
plenty
sharp.”

“Don't worry. I'll speak to Enzo.”

“Thank you . . .”

By the time I hung up, it was after nine—late for me, but just about the perfect time to contact my favorite FDNY fire marshal. I dug his card out of my charcoal-scented handbag and dialed.

“Rossi.”

“Hello,” I said, envisioning the big man's slightly mashed nose, blue nylon jacket, and clanking tool belt. “This is the woman you spoke to last night at the Astoria fire. My name is Cla—”

“Clare Cosi. Yes, Ms. Cosi? What can I do for you?”

The speed and clarity of Rossi's response caught me by surprise. Obviously, the man had mainlined his morning joe. “Last night I spoke to the man who owns Caffè Lucia—”

“Lorenzo Testa? You went to the ICU?”

“I did, and I have some information for you. I spoke at length to a friend and neighbor of his, a Rita Quadrelli?”

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath, feeling as righteous as Don Quixote—which was apropos. Five minutes from now, Rossi would probably dismiss me as tilting at windmills. But the stakes were too high to be indulging my pride. If I looked like an ass, so be it.

“Let me just say, Marshal, that when you find the evidence that the fire was intentionally set, as I know you will, I'm aware you'll be looking at Enzo as your prime suspect because he's the sole beneficiary of the fire insurance policy. But there are a number of much more viable suspects around Mr. Testa with very strong motives to torch his caffè.”

I paused, waited.

“Go on.”

“Mr. Testa's adult daughter, Lucia, has no interest in running the business, yet she's set to inherit the store and building when her father finally decides to retire. I think she may have hastened that retirement by having that fire set.

“Then there's the widow Quadrelli. That woman clearly views the caffè as the only thing standing between her and Enzo having some sort of ‘happily ever after' scenario.

“And I also think you should look at the two men who run the Red Mirage nightclub: Theo and Kareem. These guys have been losing business since the economy tanked and may have tried to get a fire insurance payout by starting a suspicious fire next door, in Enzo's caffè, hoping it would spread to their property.”

I listened for a reaction. But there was none. The line went silent. “Marshal Rossi?”

“Hold on, Ms. Cosi—”

Damn.
“I really do think this is
important
information.”

“So do I, ma'am. I'm taking notes . . .”

I blinked.
He's actually listening to me?
“So you'll follow up then?”

“That's my job.”

“I'm very glad to hear you say that.”

“Do you have anything else to add, Ms. Cosi?”

“I do. If Lucia Testa is responsible for setting that blaze—or even if she conspired to do it with Rita Quadrelli—I doubt very much she would have created the actual firebomb herself.”

“Why is that?”

“She's a fastidious fashionista, that's why. Building a firebomb set on a timer might ruin her manicure. Ditto for the widow.”

“So what's your theory?”

“I think it's possible that Lucia hired an accomplice or persuaded one to help her, either for personal reasons or a monetary payoff.”

“And . . . ? Do you have any thoughts on who Ms. Testa or Mrs. Quadrelli may have worked with on that?”

“Yes. I believe there are two strong suspects. The first man is Lucia's boyfriend Glenn Duffy . . .” I told the marshal all I knew about Duffy, including his expertise as a mechanic. “And the second man is . . . actually, I don't have a name, but I know for certain he's a fireman.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Testa told me that a fireman's been sniffing around after Lucia. It sounds like a sexual relationship. I would have tried questioning Lucia herself, but she's not in town right now. She went away for the weekend, just a few hours before the bomb went off, which is highly suspicious timing, don't you think? I mean, getting out of town certainly helps her look completely detached from what happened . . .”