Roast Mortem (29 page)

I slumped backward, unable to argue, and reluctant to admit (out loud, anyway) that Matt was right. Mike Quinn would never accept such a lame explanation from a fellow investigating detective. He would probably move forward by reviewing the facts related to that fire, which I didn't have. Still . . .

“I want to start with what's in front of me, okay? Oat has been acting hostile ever since he overheard me vow to find the person who set the Caffè Lucia fire. He used a
wooden match
to light his cigar in the park, a match just like the one I received as a threat. I want to see for myself where exactly Lucia and Oat are going together, what they're up to . . .”

Matt frowned, the quipless quiet an indication the man was at least considering that I might be right. “Maybe I should have brought a weapon.”

“I think you've had enough run-ins with the police in this town. And don't get too close to them! They might see us.”

“They don't know me, Clare, and I'm wearing shades. As usual, you're the problem. Scrunch down a little and they won't see you.”

“Fine. I just don't want to miss anything.”

“There's nothing to miss because these two are not lovers.”

“How do you know?”

“Watch them,” Matt said. “There's no evidence of intimacy that I can see . . .”

“Suddenly you're a relationship expert?” I sat up again and looked for myself. The van was high, the Corvette low, so I could easily peer through its rear window. I watched the pair as Matt eased us into the left lane at Fifty-seventh, then climbed the Queensboro bridge on ramp.

“She's laughing,” I said. “She must be having fun with him—”

“She's being polite. See how stiff she is.”

“Look there! She's reaching out her hand—”

“To adjust the radio. We're on the bridge now; some stations won't come in.”

I folded my arms. “So why are they in a car together?”

“I didn't say there was
nothing
going on between them. The guy's clearly interested. Look at the way he's talking to her, waving his arms. He's fully engaged and really trying to connect. But she ain't buying.”

“You're misinterpreting. She's stiff because driving in this city is stressful!”

Through yet another game of urban bumper cars, Matt managed to fend off vehicular interlopers and hang close to Lucia's Corvette from the lower level of the bridge all the way to a tree-lined block in Astoria.

About halfway down the sleepy side street, Lucia swung into a driveway beside a modest, two-family home. Matt had been hanging back and now stopped the van half a block away. Together Lucia and Oat emerged from the golden coupe and climbed the porch steps. She unlocked the front door, and he followed her inside, still puffing his cigar.

“Look! Lucia let Oat smoke that cheap cigar in her Corvette, and now she's letting him stink up her apartment, too! That's
proof
she's hooking up with him.”

“Or she's being polite,” Matt said.

“Trust me. Lucia Testa is
not
polite.”

Matt bet the pair would be out in minutes. They were in that house for well over an hour. Finally they emerged, strolling casually back onto the porch.

While they were inside, Matt and I had spent the time making up several scenarios for what they might be doing. When Lucia paused to lock her front door, however, the answer was clearer than bottled spring water. Oat stepped close behind Lucia, snaked an arm around her waist, and kissed her neck.

“Matt, look!”

Lucia let the man fondle her for a few seconds then she turned to shake a naughty-boy finger at him. Oat laughed again and lit a new cigar. Then they descended the porch steps and climbed back into her Corvette.

“Where are they going now?” Matt griped as we turned off the side street and onto the main drag of Steinway.

“Admit it, Matt. You were wrong.”

He shot me a frown, admitted nothing.

A few minutes later, we were back on Northern Boulevard, then turning onto another shady block.

“I know this street,” I said. “They're going to Michael Quinn's firehouse.”

Lucia pulled up in front of the redbrick fortress, and Oat emerged from the car, still puffing up a noxious cloud. He walked through the open garage doors, between the two fire trucks, and vanished.

We sat, fifty feet away, waiting for Lucia to leave. But she remained sitting in her parked vehicle. A few minutes later, Oat appeared again, carrying a bright orange shopping bag.

I sat up straighter. “Matt! Do you see that bag?”

“Yeah.”

“It's the same kind of bag that Sully and Franco brought for me and Mike the night of Caffè Lucia's fire.”

“What's in it?”

“Well, it's supposed to hold UFC Korean fried chicken. But I doubt very much
that
bag has chicken in it.”

“Okay, I'll bite. What does it have inside, Clare?”

“Some kind of bomb-making material.”

“And you think that because . . . ?”

“Oat's cigar,” I pointed. “It's gone. I'm sure he was afraid to smoke while he was carrying combustible materials.”

Matt didn't reply, but he didn't argue, either. He started the van's engine and rolled up behind Lucia as she left the curb.

“So where is she going now?” I said. “Where do you hide a bomb?”

“Drop down in your seat,” Matt snapped. “We're right on top of her now.”

I scrunched down, staying just high enough to peek over the dashboard. We followed Lucia all the way back to her place again. But she didn't park this time. As soon as we swung onto her quiet street, she suddenly braked her Corvette. We were still a half block away from her place and Matt slowed the van almost to a stop.

“What's she doing?” I whispered.

Lucia's rear lights went on, and her Corvette began backing up until it nearly struck the front of our van. The door opened and Lucia climbed out.

I sank down even farther. “What's happening? I can't see!”

“We're made, Clare. Lucia figured out I was following her.”

“Is she angry?”

“No, the opposite. She's coming to my side of the car, shaking her finger and grinning.”

“Grinning! Why is she grinning?”

“Because she thinks I'm trying to hit on her. She's got that flirty naughty-boy expression she had on her face with Oat.” Matt smirked. “I guess she likes what she sees.”

“Can you handle this?”

“Of course.”

“
Without
sleeping with her?”

“I'll give it a shot.”

But Matt didn't have a chance. As Lucia's metallic sandals teetered closer to our van, she spotted me. Her face flushed and she immediately shifted direction.

“Where is she going now?”

“Your side of the van,” Matt said. “I hope you're ready for a cat fight.”

MY
door was yanked open before Matt finished his sentence. Lucia stood glaring. “What the hell are you doing following me?”

I sat up. “We know everything, Lucia. You might as well admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You torched your father's caffè.”

“You little bitch! Come down here and say that!”

“My pleasure!”

“Oh crap,” Matt muttered as I unbuckled my seat belt. I heard his door opening and closing, but I didn't look back. I jumped right down from the high vehicle, letting my low heeled boots hit the cracked concrete with a satisfying slap.

I'd forgotten how tall Lucia was. For a moment, those four-inch gladiators made me feel like a mud hen next to a flamingo. But I stood firm, leveling my sights on her heavily lined eyes. I was glad it came to this, relieved to confront her at last.

“You and Oat Crowley have been seeing each other secretly,” I charged. “You persuaded him to help you set the fire in you father's caffè. I'm sure neither of you expected anyone to get hurt, but people
were
hurt. The investigation got so hot that you tried to cover up the arson by setting another fire—”

“What!”

“This time you and Oat conspired to set the blaze in a chain coffeehouse—one that's been targeted in the past by political activists. Then you sent a fake letter to the newspapers in a pathetic effort to mislead the authorities.”

Lucia stood gaping at me. “You've got some imagination.”

“I'm not going to let you get away with this! You father's in the hospital, Bigsby Brewer is dead—and someone is going to have to answer for that. So you might as well make it easy on yourself and confess everything to Fire Marshal Rossi. I'm sure he can cut you a deal if you're willing to testify against the man who set the bombs for you.”

Lucia's eyes widened. She didn't look outraged anymore. Now she looked scared. “You're crazy!”

“Oh, yeah? Then what's in that orange shopping bag?”

“Shopping bag! What are you talking about?”

“I'll show you!” I pushed past her, went right to her car, and jerked open the passenger side door.

Lucia shouted, waved her hands. “What are you doing?”

“Proving that you were getting rid of evidence!”

“Evidence of what?”

“Of a firebomb!”

“How?”

“With this!” I opened the bag, looked inside.

Matt caught up to me, peered in, too. “Oh, brother.”

“I promise you, Ms. Cosi, no one is making a firebomb out of
that
!”

Inside the bag was a smaller bag: silver with pink stripes, the name of an upscale lingerie store splashed across in script. Oat had just given Lucia a white silk-and-lace teddy, white stockings, and two garter belts—clearly a gift that would keep on giving, especially for his next booty call. The fast-food bag had been some kind of foil, probably a way to hide the gift from the guys at the firehouse.

Lucia glared down at me. “What makes you think I'd want to set fire to my father's caffè?”

“Your own father told me that you want nothing to do with it.”

“I don't. I'm sorry my father was hurt in that fire—truly sorry. But I don't care a fig about the caffè going up.”

“How can you say that! Your father worked his entire lifetime in that caffè. And his wall mural was astonishing!”

“Shows what you know. It was worthless.”

“Worthless!”

I couldn't hold back any longer. I launched myself at the woman, ready to shake some sense into her, but a pair of strong arms hooked my waist and yanked me backward.

“Let me go, Matt!”

“Calm down! Both of you!”

Lucia pointed. “Tell
her
to calm down!”

“How can you say that your father's art was worthless?”

“It's not me who said it! I called up an art critic, had the guy come down and check it out. He said it was executed well enough, but he didn't see anything unique about it.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don't know! Five, six years.”

“Your father has worked on it since then, Lucia. The new sections were groundbreaking! Don't you have any sense of aesthetics, any appreciation for his use of line, of color!”

“No!”

“No?”

“No!” Lucia shouted. “I'm color-blind!”

I stopped struggling. “What?”

Matt released me. He looked surprised, too. In the awkward silence that followed, Lucia expelled a long, weary breath. All of her fight appeared to go with it.

“My father wanted me to be a painter, Ms. Cosi, an artist like he was.” She closed her eyes. “I tried. I
did
. I took the damn classes for him: beginning painting, still life, figure drawing, anatomy—I sucked at it all!”

She threw up her hands. “After that, nothing could make me care about swirls on a wall.
Nothing
. Finally, my father accepted that I wasn't going to be the next Mary Cassatt, but then he started pushing me to try all these other things: dancing, singing, acting. I had no talent for any of it. I just didn't care about that crap! I still don't!”

I exchanged a glance with Matt. This interview wasn't going at all the way I'd imagined. On the other hand, the woman's answers weren't exactly exculpatory.

“Lucia, what you've just said makes you look even more guilty. Like you had a grudge against your father and the caffè . . .”

“You still don't understand! I'm glad the caffè went up in flames because my father hasn't been happy there—not for years, not since my mother died. If it weren't for his obsessive work on that stupid mural, he would have retired, gone back to Italy to be with his sisters. He could have found some peace instead of lying in that hospital bed. God knows if he'll ever wake up again.”

The woman's eyes were glistening now, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her charcoal liner began to run. I glanced at Matt again. He stepped up to offer her a handkerchief.

“Thanks.”

Lucia sniffled. As she wiped her eyes, her makeup smudged. She looked like a sad raccoon, and I felt like a heel. Still, I had to ask . . .

“How am I supposed to believe anything you say? You lied about Glenn, didn't you? You claimed you were engaged to him.”

“Glenn and I
are
engaged.”

“Then why are you sleeping with Oat?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but Glenn hasn't given me a ring yet. He keeps saying he wants to find the right one, but I think he's stalling . . . not so sure about me yet.”