by Клео Коул
“He enjoyed home-baked goodies?”
“Yeah...” James glanced at me. “Those, too.”
He tipped his head and I followed his gaze to a trio of young women — chic, fashionable, and thin as celery stalks — flirting with two young firefighters. The Manhattan girls were shopping for something warm, sweet, and comforting, and it didn’t appear to involve chocolate, sugar, or pastry flour...
“This town’s raining estrogen, you know?” James said. “Ladies in hose and heels. Bigs loved them.”
“I noticed. So did Dante. The number of single white roses at Bigsie’s funeral was hard to miss...” (Not to mention the number of single, well-dressed women.)
“Yeah, Bigs liked to send a white rose to a girl after he had a nice, uh... evening with her.”
James paused and his frown deepened. “You know the worst part of it, Ms. Cosi? My best friend died for nothing. It shouldn’t have happened. He did everything right. It was someone else who screwed up...”
“I don’t want to cause you any more pain,” I said as gently as I could, “but I’d like to know more about what happened that night. I’d like to know exactly how your friend died.”
James rubbed his neck for a moment then finally spoke. “Two companies were fighting the flames when we got there. It had already spread to the ground floor of the building next door. Oat ordered us up the fire escape to vent the second structure — me, Bigs, Dino Elfante, and Ronny Shaw.”
A cloud crossed James’s pallid features. “Everything was going okay, by the book. The roof was flat with no apparent hot spots, not much smoke, either. Bigs kind of moved away from the rest of us, poking the roof with his Halligan tool. Then all hell broke loose. There was a blast, and a chunk of the roof flew into the air. It was like a volcano of fire that suddenly just blew.”
James paused, gulped at his double.
“The fire marshals said the basement had an illegal conversion. That’s what funneled the fire so fast from the coffeehouse to the office building next door. And the second floor of that office structure was undergoing some kind of unlicensed renovation. There were combustibles all over the place. So when the first floor started cooking the second, everything went up without warning.”
James drained his cup dry. “We hit the same fire escape we came up on. Dino and Ronny were long gone when I realized Bigs wasn’t behind me.”
He crushed the paper cup in his fist.
“I went back up. The roof was still partially intact. There wasn’t much smoke, but the heat and fire were unreal. I could see Bigs on the other side of that burning hole. There was no way he could make it back to the fire escape, but he was ready.”
“Ready?”
“Bigs had already found a heavy rafter and pounded down his roof spike. He’d hooked the safety line to the spindle, and he was about to jump over the side — ”
“Roof spike?” I interrupted. “That’s the same tool Bigs had me holding the night I came by the firehouse, right?”
“Yeah,” James said.
“So what happened next?”
“Bigs saw me through the flames and he kind of waved. He was even laughing, looking forward to testing out the spike, I think. Then he jumped over the side. That’s when the secondary hit — ”
“Sorry. What’s a secondary?”
“A second explosion. Almost as big as the first. Flames shot up from the lower floors and knocked me on my ass. I hit the fire escape and didn’t stop until I kissed the ground.”
“Was it the second blast that caused Bigs to fall?”
James stared straight ahead. “That’s what Oat said. But that’s not the way I see it. I think Bigs was murdered, Ms. Cosi, just like someone shot him with a gun.”
I thought I understood. “Don’t worry, James. The authorities will catch this arsonist — ”
“It wasn’t the arsonist.” His whisper sounded more like a hiss. “It’s worse than that — ”
He suddenly stopped talking and his entire body tensed. I followed his stare and realized for the first time that we had an audience. Not far away, Lieutenant Oat Crowley was watching us.
Now I was tensing, too. I noticed Oat take a cigar out of his jacket and light it. Every smoker I knew used lighters. Not Oat. He’d just lit his cigar with a wooden match.
Oat wasn’t standing alone. Another man was conversing with him — and doing most of the talking. With Oat’s gaze still on James and me, he slipped the box of matches back into his hip pocket.
My mind was racing now, but I refocused on James and something significant he’d said: “What did you mean when you said Bigs was murdered? If not by the arsonist, then by whom?”
James had been staring at his lieutenant. With my question, he lowered his eyes. “Forget it, Ms. Cosi. I didn’t say a thing, all right?”
“I can’t forget it, James. You helped me once, now I want to — ”
“Forget it,” he repeated.
Oat and the other man were now approaching us. The stranger had a friendly, lopsided smile under shaggy, wheat-colored hair. A crooked line of freckles sprinkled his pug nose and his ears seemed comically large for his head. The awkward boyishness was not without charm, however, and the addition of small round glasses and laugh lines had him coming off more as an absentminded professor than a stand-in for Alfred E. Newman.
Cigar clenched between his teeth, Lieutenant Crowley wore his usual scowl. Blue smoke floated almost satanically around his head. The aroma washed over us. Not the crisp, woody scent of fine tobacco, but the sharp, rank stench of cheap stogies like the ones my bookie father used to hand out to winners, along with their pay out.
I stifled a cough as I rose to greet them.
“What are you two gossiping about?” Oat said around his cigar. The hostility radiating from the lieutenant was nothing new, but there was also suspicion.
The boyish bespectacled stranger picked up on the tension and stepped in fast to pump James’s hand. “You’re Noonan, right? We’ve met, haven’t we? I’m Ryan Lane,” he said, flashing a warm smile.
“Hello.”
“Oat told me about your loss. I’m really sorry. Brewer was a real hero.”
James nodded. “Thanks for that.”
“No thanks necessary,” Lane replied. “The sacrifice of men like Brewer is what the Fallen Firefighters Fund is all about.”
Lane’s practiced pitch came as no surprise. I’d noticed the name tag on his camel hair sport coat identifying him as a board member of the firefighters’ charity.
“You’re the woman responsible for this superb coffee, right?” Lane asked, looking at me now.
“I’m Clare Cosi. Thank you for the compliment.”
“The Village Blend is a landmark. I’ve been there several times,” he said.
I forced a smile, trying harder to remember if I’d ever waited on him.
“Excellent coffees, and a nice variety, too. Your espressos are as good as anything I’ve tasted in Italy. I do a cycling tour every five years.” He grinned, adjusted his glasses. “Unfortunately I live and work in North Jersey right now, too far away to be a regular customer. But I buy your whole-bean coffee whenever I’m in town.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“Well, I just love coffee, Ms. Cosi! I’d love to tell you about the time I visited a coffee farm — ”
This Lane guy was a real talker, but I tuned out on his story the second I noticed Oat speaking to James: “So, kid, you got a shift coming up, right? You heading out soon?”
“Not yet,” James replied. “Got stuff to do first.”
Oat stared at James for a moment, and then his gaze shifted to me. He took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked the ashes off.
“Like what?” Oat said with a sneer, loudly enough to make Ryan Lane pause and listen, too. “Like hitting on divorced broads ten years your senior?”
I can’t believe he just said that. “Excuse me, Lieutenant?” I said. “But just what are you implying?�
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Oat opened his mouth to respond when Mr. Lane (who appeared equally horrified by the man’s insult) interceded. “Hey, come on, we should go,” he said, touching Oat’s arm. “I’ve got to meet and greet the organizers, you know? And the mayor’s entourage is due any second.”
“Right,” Oat said, still openly glaring at me. Finally he stuck the cigar back in his mouth and walked off, puffing up a cloud like a two-legged dragon.
Ryan hurried to catch up, calling over his shoulder: “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”
I waited until James and I were alone before I spoke. “How does that nice guy know Oat?”
“Ryan Lane? He works for Fairfield Equipment.”
“What does Fairfield Equipment do?”
“They make rescue gear for firefighters.”
“And where does Oat fit into that?”
“Well, as I understand it, Oat’s father was a rookie firefighter with Ernest Fairfield back in the 1970s. Fairfield had a nose for business, and Oat’s old man was a do-it-yourself type. Together they made a bundle.”
“A bundle? How? Gambling?” (Given my father’s bookie business, I rarely saw any other way for a working-class man to make real money.)
“Not gambling, Ms. Cosi. Patents.”
“Patents?”
“A lot of the old-timers would make their own tools on the job — anything they could think of to make their lives easier. Kind of what I did with our house’s kitchen, cobbled together a bunch of appliances.”
“Oh, I see...”
“So Crowley Senior invented a lot of useful stuff, and Ernest Fairfield quit the department and started a company to manufacture it.”
“And Ryan Lane works for Fairfield.”
“Yeah. He showed up at our seminar a few months ago when we started training with the roof spikes.”
James was shifting impatiently now. It was obvious he didn’t like my new line of questioning.
“James, I’m sorry to bring this up again, but when you were talking about your friend’s death earlier, you used the word murdered — ”
“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi. I see my wife heading our way.”
A moment later, I heard the fast-clicking heels of Valerie Noonan.
Twenty-Six
“James, I’ve been looking for you all over!” Val cried, close to breathless. “Where did you park our car? I went to the vendors parking area on Sixteenth and — ”
“Couldn’t find a spot on Sixteenth,” James said tightly. “The designated parking area was full.”
“Oh, damn.” Valerie’s shoulders sunk. Her auburn French twist looked a little ragged from the March wind gusts. Her cucumber green linen suit was still crisp, but the name tag on its lapel sat askew.
“So where’s the car?” she asked.
“I parked it at the St. James garage on — ”
“You paid for parking?” One arm rose and fell, taking her thick clipboard with it. “That’s like fifty bucks or more! You know my job situation, James. You know how tight things are going to get for us soon — ”
“The fund has an expense account, doesn’t it? Take the money from there. You worked hard enough for it. Why do you need the car, anyway?”
“I don’t need the car. I left something in the trunk.”
James exhaled hard. He took her arm. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Oh, forget it now,” Val said, pulling away. “I’ve got a crisis with the sound system on my hands. I’ve just got to hope that — ”
“Sorry,” James said, glancing at his watch. “But I ought to get back to the house.”
“Oh? Okay. Well, since you’re taking the car, could you stop at the store first?” Val said. “I wanted a bowl of cereal this morning and we’re out of milk. Paper towels, too, and pick up — ”
“I meant the firehouse,” James said.
Val’s mouth closed. Then she reached into her pocket. “You’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
Val was referring to the post-bake sale party. Every borough was having its own for the volunteers, and I’d been invited to the one being held at a Queens pub. Mike was supposed to meet me around eight.
“I’ll be there at nine, maybe sooner,” James replied, his gaze was unhappily focused on Val’s cigarette.
“It’s at Saints and Sinners. That’s in Woodside — ”
“I know where it is,” James said. Then he nodded in my direction. “See you tonight, Clare.”
Val frowned as she watched her husband’s back. I stood and touched her arm. “Are you okay? Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”
Cigarette between her lips, Val shook her head as she flicked a disposable lighter a half-dozen times in rapid succession without coaxing a flame. She groaned and — in a broad gesture of disgust — tossed the lighter and cigarette into a Parks Department trash can.
“It’s been hell since Bigsie died,” she said. “James is shutting down. I can’t tell his family, his friends. They don’t want to hear it.”
“What do you mean ‘James is shutting down’?”
“He’s short with me when I ask questions, he’s miserable and pouting all the time, and he won’t discuss what’s on his mind. Not with me, anyway. He’s talking to someone, though, because he disappears once in a while, goes to the garage where he has these long conversations on his cell phone.”
Three in the long and tragic list of warning signs your husband is having an affair. Pretty soon he’ll be going out with the guys or spending time with a client, or he just won’t come home one night.
“Listen, Val, your husband is going through a really bad time, but I think — ”
A loud ring tone interrupted us. I’d heard Val’s cell go off many times, but I’d never heard it play this set of notes before.
“Sorry, Clare! I have to take this!”
“Sure, of course.”
The tinny tune sounded like one of those club hits of the 1980s: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” Val answered the cell without bothering to check the caller ID.
“Dean! I can’t believe you called back... What?... You’re here? Really?” With her free hand, Val felt the condition of her hair, adjusted her lopsided name tag. “I’m on the north side of the park, across the street from that big Barnes & Noble — Huh? Turn around?”
She did and laughed when she saw a man with sun-bronzed skin in a black leather jacket, standing right behind us, cell phone at his ear.
Val closed her phone and air-kissed the newcomer. “Thank you so much, Dean.”
“My guys are at the podium right now, setting things up.” Dean’s voice was deep, with a slight foreign accent. Greek?
“You have a band?” I interrupted.
Val turned to me. “He has a sound system — and that’s what I desperately needed. The one I leased for the day cut out, and their so-called technician couldn’t fix it. The mayor’s coming, so is the fire commissioner and a whole bunch of celebrities. I was in a total panic, so I put in a call to my old friend here...” She turned back to the man. “I didn’t think you’d get here in time.”
“My darling, you sounded so distressed on the phone that I rushed it here from Brooklyn. The nightclub’s main system is permanent, you know, so I brought the portable stuff. We use it for live acts, but you’re welcome to it for as long as you need it.”
“I so appreciate this,” Val said, again patting her wind-ravaged twist. “Make sure I send you a charitable giving form to fill out. You can declare you labor as a tax deduction.”
Dean waved away the thought. “I did this for my dear friend, not for a tax break.”
“Clare, I want you to meet the man who saved my life. Clare Cosi. This is Constantine Tassos — Dean for short.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “So you run a club?”
“Oh, yes.” Dean nodded, handing over a business card in a smooth, practiced gesture. “The Blue Mirage in Bensonhurst. Actually I
own several catering halls in Brooklyn and Queens, and I have two other Mirage clubs. The Purple Mirage in North Jersey — ”
“And the Red Mirage in Astoria?” (It was right there on his card.)
Dean nodded. “That’s correct.”
He was a compact man, a little shorter than Val, with not an ounce of spare weight on his slight form. His eyes were dark and intense under unruly ebony curls. I guessed the man’s age around forty, but it was only a guess. His smile looked whiter than bleached sheets, contrasting strikingly with his tanned face. Florida golf courses or a day spa’s tanning booth? My guess was the latter, given the manicured state of his fingernails when he’d handed over his card.
“Are you a patron of my Queens establishment, Ms. Cosi?”
“I’ve seen the place,” I replied, recalling the garish neon reflected in the wet black pavement the night Caffè Lucia went up in flames. “I met one of your managers.” (The jerk who called my car a junk heap.) “And he was kind of... pushy.”
“Ah, well, the business can do that to you. There’s rough trade around every nightclub and tavern. I’m compelled to operate with managers who know how to handle many situations, some of them ugly.” His Clorox smile returned. “I hope the experience wasn’t too unpleasant.”
“Not at all.”
“Listen, Dean,” Val said, squeezing his arm. “I need to know how soon we’ll have sound.”
“It’s probably ready,” he replied. “Let’s go check.”
Val turned to me. “Sorry, Clare, I’ve got to get back to work — ”
“I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tassos.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, politely shaking my hand.
I watched Val and Dean walk toward the podium. They paused for a moment, while Dean lit a cigarette for Val with a silver Ronson lighter. Then he lit one for himself. Smoking together, they strolled in the direction of the stage. I noticed Dean’s hand rest familiarly on Val’s waist. She did nothing to shrug him off.
After Val’s tirade, I assumed James was having the affair. Now I wondered if my assumptions were misguided. Or maybe it was both partners finding sympathetic ears and arms outside of their unhappy marriage.
