Roast Mortem (19 page)

“And I'm getting there again! Did the marshal at least
say
it was arson?”

“I told you, they won't discuss the case with me—”

“Then drop it, Clare. Let the pros handle it.”

“Excuse me,” Dante said, interrupting us. “But the pros didn't pull me out of the fire last night. It was Clare who saved my life.”

Tucker tapped my shoulder. “Now that you bring it up, sweetie, I think you may be onto something with this arson thing.” He slapped Matt's
New York Post
back on the bar top and paged quickly through it. “Look at this.” Tuck's finger touched a small square of newsprint deep inside the paper:
Blaze Burns Bensonhurst Beanery
.

“According to the story, there was a coffeehouse fire last night on Avenue O in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It started around the same time as your Astoria fire.
Très
coincidental if you ask me.”

I frowned, scanned the story. “This is odd.”

“Why?” Matt said. “Tucker is right. It's a coincidence, that's all.”

Was it? Another one of Mike Quinn's pithy pieces of law enforcement philosophy suddenly came to mind:
In a criminal investigation, there are no coincidences.
I couldn't help wondering what Mike's cynical cousin would say to that.

 

 

WITHIN
an hour of my thought, the cell in my pocket vibrated. I didn't recognize the number on the screen—a 718 area code, which meant a borough other than Manhattan—so I answered tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Clare Cosi. Guess who it is callin' ya, darlin'?”

Although the man's voice was keyed an octave lower than usual, I would have recognized Captain Michael's roguish lilt even without the played up brogue.

“Don't hang up on me now.”

“How did you get this number?”

He didn't tell me. What he said was: “Now I'm
sure
my cousin told you to steer good and clear of me—”

“As a matter of fact he did.”

“Well, I can't blame him. But I'm not callin' for my own account. I'm callin' for my guys. They're in trouble.”

I assumed Rossi had started questioning his men, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

“They need help, Clare,” the captain went on. “The kind only
you
can provide.”

“Me? Why would a crew of New York's Bravest need my help?”

“Simple, dove . . .” I could almost see the man's gold tooth flashing from across the East River. “You know how to make coffee.”

This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man's place was supposed to be empty. It's all because of that
bitch
things got so screwed up . . .

Across the room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a
Closed for Cleaning
sign on the knob.

There's my ticket . . .

If only I could set off the damn bomb right now . . .

Highly destructive, hell to put out . . .

All ready . . .

Time now . . .

Two firebombs started us down this road. Two more will end it. And if that Cosi bitch doesn't get the message after tonight, we'll just have to end her.

LOCATING
the captain's firehouse wasn't a problem. Amid a sea of tiny clapboard row houses, Michael Quinn's sovereign domain towered over the landscape like a redbrick citadel.

I parked my near-vintage Honda on the quiet street just off Northern Boulevard. Despite the temperate twilight air, I slipped on my coat and gloves. March was a tricky time in New York. Days might feel bright and balmy, but nightfall could bring the kind of cruel winds that would kill every plant foolish enough to put out its vulnerable buds.

On the face of it, I'd come back to Queens for one reason: Lucia Testa had donated the still-functioning espresso machine from her father's caffè to this firehouse, and the men needed some lessons in how to use it. With Enzo's comatose condition, Lucia was too busy to teach them, so I agreed.

Of course, this was the least I could do to pay these guys back for their rescuing of Madame. But the truth was my little visit this evening would give me the chance to question these guys, find out who among their ranks might be seeing Lucia.

Along the curb I noticed a line of parked cars. Every one displayed FDNY-related placards or window clings. One of the SUVs had a bumper sticker that caught my eye:
Honk If You're Buffing
.

“Buffing?”

I wondered if it had something to do with weight lifting, that is,
becoming
buff? Maybe it was something one did in the buff? Did that make it a sexual reference? I craned my neck at the towering red challenge in front of me.

The FDNY certainly counted women among its ranks. They drove ambulances and fought fires right alongside the men, but this engine and ladder company didn't have a female among them.

A granite cornerstone announced the original use for the building as a station for the Queens Company Rail Yard. But the structure's odd Gothic flourishes—including carved stone moldings over the doors and a corner turret with a crenellated roof—gave the impression of a medieval strong-hold, complete with castle battlements.

A sudden freezing gust tore at my ponytail. I ignored it, moving with determination into the glowing, cavernous interior of the firehouse garage, the clanking barista supplies in my backpack making me feel like Cervantes's crazy knight again, embarking on a quest in rusty armor.

Amid the industrial tangle of ducts, pipes, and hanging chains, I noticed tire scuffs on the concrete, evidence the fire trucks had been here.

One thing I knew: Captain Michael absolutely assured me that he would not be here this evening, so there was zero chance of my going back on the promise I'd made to Mike to stay away from his cousin.

I guess a part of me was still curious about the captain (not to mention suspicious), and I wouldn't have minded a crack at interviewing the man. On the other hand, with him out of the firehouse, I could freely question his men without the threat of a red devil looking over my shoulder.

“Ms. Cosi?”

I looked up to search the vast echo chamber for the source of the familiar, upbeat voice.

“James?” I called back.

“Yeah, it's me.” James Noonan crossed the track-marked floor to greet me, passing under a high metal catwalk that ran along all four windowless walls. “Sorry the guys are gone. A call came in. But they'll be rolling back soon.”

Under the banks of hanging florescent lights, the man I liked to think of as my own personal hero looked like a poster boy for All-American football: glowing skin, close-cropped hair, a dazzling smile. He was as warm and friendly as I remembered, and just about as tall as the two Mike Quinns. By the time he reached my side, I was bending my neck just to meet his translucent blue eyes.

He shook my hand with a wide grin, and then jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “Come on back. I'll show you the espresso machine.”

I followed him down an industrial green hallway. At the end he opened a stout wooden door, and the taint of diesel exhaust gave way to a much more appetizing array of aromas—fresh, floral herbs and piquant spices intermingled with the pungent-sweet fragrance of roasting garlic and the heavy but alluring scent of sizzling pork fat.

With quick hands James draped a grease-spattered apron over his gray T-shirt and distressed denims, pulled the strings completely around his lean waist, and tied them at his belt buckle. (The front of the apron assured me the wearer was
Also Good in Bed
.)

I pointed. “Gag gift from the guys, right?”

“You must be psychic,” he said flatly.

I smiled. “My staff gave me one of those.”

“Oh? So you're also good in bed?”

“No.
I Serve It Up Hot
.”

He laughed. “Come on . . .”

James led me around a corner, into a sprawling kitchen area with two huge refrigerators, a pizza oven, a deep fryer, and a grill-and-gas-range combination under a ventilation funnel.

“Whoa, does every firehouse have such great facilities?”

James snorted. “Are you kidding? I put this place together by my lonesome. Over the past two years I've gone to every restaurant closing and bankruptcy in the five boroughs to gather this stuff.”

The savory scent of roasting meat distracted me. I pointed to the oven. “Something in there smells amazing.”

“Pork shoulder.” James opened the door to display his handiwork.

“
¡Hola
,
pernil!
” I admired the beautiful bone-in pork shoulders, four in all, slow-roasting on two cooking racks.

“A PR classic,” James noted.

“So you've got Puerto Rican guys in the company?”

“Only one, plus a dude from Cuba and one from the Dominican Republic. All the guys love the
pernil,
though. It's economical, feeds a hungry crew, and leaves enough meat for Cuban sandwiches in the morning.”

“And what's in the Dutch oven?” I pointed to the stovetop.

James lifted the lid. “A sweet onion and cheddar casserole.”

I sniffed. “Mild cheddar, right? And lots of milk and butter?”

“Yeah. The onions give up a lot of moisture so I use bread crumbs to keep it from getting too watery.”

I sniffed again. “A little bland, isn't it? Especially for Latino guys. You should try some dry mustard in there. Maybe a dash of cayenne. I think you'll like the result.”

James nodded, gave me a little smile. “Color me impressed.”

“Fire's your job,
flavor
is mine.”

His smile widened. Then he replaced the lid and closed the oven.

“Do you cook like this at home?” I asked. “Val must appreciate it.”

At the mention of his wife, James's good cheer fell away. “We hardly eat together these days.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged. “If Val's not working late, I'm on a mutual.”

“Mutual? Val used that term. What is it exactly?”

“A ‘mutual' is when the guys juggle work schedules so we can do back-to-back shifts.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“If you work twenty-four or forty-eight hours straight, you can get three or even four days off in a row. It's a nice arrangement for guys with kids.”

James glanced at his bright orange digital watch. “I don't actually start my mutual for another thirty minutes. I came in early to get some dinner up and running before things got hairy.”

“So that's why you're still here while the rest of the guys are off on a call?”

He nodded and turned to take another peek at his pork shoulders. He looked so happy to be here on the job—maybe
too
happy?