by Cleo Coyle
“You know Lorenzo Testa?”
“I know every shop owner in this neighborhood. Old Enzo’s got the best coffee around. A lot of my men come here for it and his pastries, too.”
“What made you think the espresso machine was the cause?”
“The steam pressure, the gas lines, any number of things could go wrong with a mechanism like that. It seemed the most likely culprit for the intensity of the blaze—”
“But that’s not what happened. The start of the fire was farther back in the store, near the utility room—”
“That’s right, honey. You didn’t let me finish. When I saw the actual burn pattern, it was clear the espresso machine wasn’t the cause. The mechanism was intact. And the gas line didn’t break, even after the fire started—”
“That’s because the bomb went off in the back of the store—”
“Whoa there.” The captain raised a calloused hand. “Don’t be usin’ a word like bomb so freely.”
“I was an eyewitness. I know what I saw.”
“And what did you hear then? A loud explosion?”
“No . . .” That made me pause. “There wasn’t a loud noise. No boom; it was more like the sound I hear when the pilot light on my stove is out and I relight it after running the gas.”
“So you think the cause was a gas leak?”
“I think it was arson, some kind of device rigged to go off at a certain time—”
“Stop. You’re back to describing a bomb.”
I crossed my arms and met his eyes. “It was a bomb. The only questions those fire marshals should be asking now is who set it off and why.”
The captain held my eyes a long moment but this time it wasn’t a leer. The man was staring into me like a mentalist studying an audience volunteer.
“Oh, no,” he finally said, as if he’d just rifled every thought in my brain pan. “No, no, no you don’t.”
“No I don’t what?”
The captain bent down, moved his face two inches from mine. “I heard about your games, dove—”
“Games?”
“You like to play detective. A bad habit you no doubt picked up from my black sheep cousin. But listen to me now: You’re not a fire marshal, and you’re not trained to recognize the cause of a fire—”
“But—”
“The real marshals are inside that building.” He extended his long arm for a sustained point. “They’re taking pictures, evaluating burn patterns, looking for traces of chemical accelerants or electrical damage. They’re going to determine how and where the blaze started, and document how my smoke-eaters knocked the monster down, too. They don’t need help from an amateur.”
I met the man’s stare. “I may be an amateur, but I’m also an eyewitness.”
The captain straightened up, moved his hands to his hips. “Now why would you want to worry that lovely head of yours about this, anyway? The marshals will make the final determination on what caused the fire, and they’ll do it based on proven investigative techniques, not some womanly hunch.”
“I never said anything about a hunch, womanly or otherwise. And this head was there, in that café, when the fire started, remember? I only told you what I saw and what I heard.”
“What you saw and heard is all you should be telling anyone—without speculation.”
“Why?”
“Why . . .” The captain rubbed his eyes, loudly exhaled. Finally, he sat down beside me. When he spoke again, his tone was no longer combative. “Do you know what a fire triangle is, Clare?”
“No.”
“Fire is a chemical reaction that occurs when three elements are present: oxygen for the fire to breathe, fuel for it to consume, and heat to ignite the other two in a chain reaction.” He ticked off the three points on his fingers. “You followin’ me?”
“Three elements. Combustibility.”
“Any time these elements are combined, the fire can occur—whether intentionally or accidentally.”
“But I witnessed more than the fire itself. I heard a whoosh, saw the initial blast. It must have been arson.”
“You’re so sure, eh? Well, factor this in, darlin’. Of the hundreds of fires I put out last year, there were two that were practically identical. Both started in the kitchen trash can of a row house on a quiet street. In the first fire, a woman lit the end of a cigarette and intentionally tossed it into the can. She was broke, couldn’t make the mortgage payment, and needed an insurance pay out to stay afloat.”
He paused, met my eyes. “That’s arson.”
“Yes, obviously.”
“In the second fire a man emptied a cigarette ashtray into a closed metal can, not realizing there were still burning ashes. The ashes ignited tissues stuffed into the can. The fire smoldered, contained and unnoticed, until it reached critical mass and burst out of the metal can, immediately setting the walls and ceiling ablaze. And because an un-challenged fire doubles in size every thirty seconds, the fire spread throughout the house in minutes, destroying everything. You see?”
“No. I’m sorry but you lost me. What’s your point?”
“The first fire was arson—obviously, as you say, once the facts were discovered. The second was accidental, but not so obvious. If a witness had been present to hear and see that second fire break loose, he might have sworn that exploding trash can was a bomb, too.”
I thought about that. “Okay. I understand. I do. And nothing against your fire triangle, but have you ever heard of the blink theory of trusting your first impressions? As a detective, Mike believes—”
“Mike?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mike. Your cousin. He believes—”
“To hell with what my cousin believes! He’s not a fire investigator and neither are you. Stick to the facts, Clare, not what anyone believes.”
I sat very still for a moment, letting the man’s anger dissipate like those black balloons of smoke released by the burning caffè. Then calmly and quietly I asked—
“Why do you care what I think, anyway?”
“Because Enzo’s a good man, and I won’t have him accused of arson. He’s the last person who’d put his own life at risk, or anyone else’s, for some lousy insurance money.”
“I’m sure Enzo is a good man. My friend Madame has known him for years, decades—”
“But if you start shouting bomb, the press may get wind of it, and the marshals will be forced to start treating Enzo as a suspect before they even finish with the forensics.”
“Wait a second! I was with Enzo in that basement minutes before the fire started. He could have found an excuse to get out, but he didn’t. He was trapped down there, in harm’s way. Surely that exonerates him.”
“It does not. He may have played a part in the event to throw off suspicion.”
“So now you’re saying Enzo could be guilty?”
“No! I am not saying that. Listen, Clare, you and I know Enzo’s a stand-up guy. To these marshals, Mr. Testa is just another victim, but if this fire is found suspicious and he’s the beneficiary of an insurance payout, he’ll be their number one suspect. Then they’ll tear his life apart looking for evidence of guilt.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But what if someone else had a motive to burn Enzo’s shop?”
The captain studied me again. He bent his head closer. “Like who? And why?”
Before I could reply, a voice called out: “Ma’am? Are you still here? Ma’am?”
It was my fireman, the one who’d been so kind to me earlier, the one who’d risked his life to rescue Madame and Enzo. He was wandering along the sidewalk, searching for me.
“I’m here, James!” I called. “In back of the fire truck!”
With perceptible reluctance, the captain put distance between his head and mine. A moment later, my young hero firefighter appeared wearing a grin and two handbags.
FIVE
“YO, ma’am, check it out!” James made a show of pointing to the women’s purses dangling off his
broad shoulder. “Can you ID these so I can turn them over to you?”
“Of course. That one’s mine and the other is my employers. They’re the bags I asked you to look for.”
Bigsby Brewer strolled up behind James. His shoulders were so wide, I couldn’t imagine the guy going through an average doorway without tilting to one side. Massive muscles notwithstanding, Bigsby was far from intimidating. His manner was so happy-go-lucky, his spirit so energetic, he came off about as threatening as an excited puppy.
“So, how do I look, Bigs?” James said, showing off the women’s handbags to his friend. “Too last season?”
Shaking his head, Bigsby tugged the bags off James’s arm and thrust them into my hands. They reeked of smoke.
“You better take these back, ma’am.” Bigs jerked his thumb in James’s direction. “Noonan is too dumb to see they clash with his bunker gear!”
The two men laughed.
“Sorry it took so long,” James said. “The fire marshals had to inspect them before we could take them out. They wanted to make sure we weren’t removing evidence.”
“It’s okay. I’m just grateful you located them.” I regarded James again. “Did I hear your friend right? Is your last name Noonan?”
James nodded.
“You aren’t by any chance related to Valerie Noonan, the banquet manager at Union Square West Hotel?”
James opened his mouth to answer but Bigsby interrupted: “Oh, no, ma’am, you’ve got that wrong.”
“I do?”
“James isn’t related to Val. It’s much worse than that—” As if someone had died, Bigsby took off his helmet and placed it over his heart. “He’s married to her.”
With one sharp, hard thrust, James shot his elbow into his partner’s gut. It was a real blow, and Bigs doubled over, gasping and cussing.
“So, you know Val?” James said, ignoring Bigsby’s groans while calmly extending his hand. “I’m her husband. Very nice to meet you—”
I stared in horror for a second until Bigs came up again, red-faced but laughing. Apparently, this was business as usual between the two men because James’s affecting smile never wavered—as if he hadn’t just sucker punched his best buddy right in front of me.
“I, uh . . . I’m Clare Cosi, manager of the Village Blend, and I love Val. I mean, I just met her last night, at the Quinn’s St. Patrick’s Day party—”
I paused to glance at the captain, wondering why he hadn’t shown at the biggest family gathering of the year. He looked away.
“Anyway,” I continued, “Val and I are both in the same general trade, so we shared a nice conversation. My boyfriend’s mother asked me to help with the Five-Borough Bake Sale, so we had even more to talk over. I understand Val’s on the coordinating committee?”
At the mention of the bake sale, the corners of James’s mouth turned down. “If you ask me, she is the coordinating committee. Or at least it seems that way from all the hours she’s been working on it.”
Woops. Obviously a touchy subject. “Well, the sale is for a good cause, right? Scholarships for children of fallen firefighters—and it will all be over in a week or so.”
“Just take my wife in stride,” James said. “She can turn into a little dictator when it comes to organizing public events.”
Bigsby, still nursing his bruised torso, risked a snicker. “Not just public events, brother. From what I’ve seen, Val is no slouch at ordering you around, either.”
Still sitting next to me, the captain finally made a comment: “Women.”
It was the second time tonight he’d grunted the single word. I turned on the man. “What is that supposed to mean exactly?”
“You don’t know?” he said.
“If I knew, why would I ask?”
The captain glanced at Bigsby. “You want to tell her?”
“Hell no!”
James winked at me. “Don’t let them jerk your chain, Ms. Cosi. Two confirmed bachelors—what do they know about women, anyway?”
Bigsby snorted. “We know enough not to hitch our horse to one post, right, Captain?”
“Listen, bro,” James replied, “I saw your last one-night stand. She was about as dumb as a post.”
“And that would be a problem because . . . ?”
“You guys are terrible,” I said.
“They are, aren’t they?” James gave an exaggerated nod. “They’re really a sad pair. They wish they had a beautiful woman in their lives, telling them what she wants.”
“On the contrary,” the captain replied. “Beautiful women tell me what they want all the time.” He threw a suggestive gaze my way. “Even if it’s not in so many words . . .”
“Ho!” Bigs nudged James. “Looks like the cap’n’s workin’ here.”
James’s brow furrowed. “Working on what?”
“You’ve been married too long, brother. Four’s a crowd.” Pulling on James’s collar, Bigs headed back to the sidewalk.
“See you at the bake sale, Ms. Cosi,” James called as Bigsby dragged him away.
I cleared my throat. Bigsby’s joking implication might not have bothered me if the captain’s proximity hadn’t changed. He was still sitting next to me on the running board, but he’d gradually eased his body closer to mine, so close I could feel the heat from his thigh against my leg.
“You know, darlin’, my tour’s nearly over.” His voice had gone sweeter than maple tree sap. “How ’bout I take you home, make sure you get there safe . . .”
And there’s the pitch. “Thanks, Captain, but you know very well I have someone to do that for me. Someone I care for very much.”
The captain’s little smile twisted into a smirk. “So it’s official, then? You’re still wasting your time with Mikey—”
“Mike is a good guy.”
Captain Quinn looked at me as if I’d just declared Adolf Hitler a great humanitarian.
“What’s the beef between you two, anyway?”
He folded his arms. “Better you find out from my cousin.”
“I asked Mike twice. Both times his answers were so vague I didn’t bother asking a third.”
“Then do yourself a favor and take the hint.”
Touchy, touchy. I studied the man, wondering if I could needle it out of him. “You know what? . . . I’m betting the reason neither of you will answer that question is because neither of you can even remember how the whole thing started. No doubt it was some childish, testosterone-fueled competition back on your parochial school playground.”
The captain glared.
“Why two supposedly intelligent men can’t work out their differences is beyond me.”
“Yeah, honey, it is beyond you. So take my advice and keep it that way.”
“Men,” I muttered, getting a clue what the captain’s single-word epithet was all about. “Well, Michael, it’s been a barrel of fun, but now that I have our fire-roasted handbags back, I better get going.”
I began to rise, but the captain took hold of my upper arm, pulled me back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I told you already, I’m not interested—”
“You’re not going anywhere until you give your statement.”
“My statement?”
“Wait here,” the captain said. “I’ll be back with one of the marshals.”
True to his word, the captain returned with one of the FDNY’s fire marshals, clipboard in hand. By the newcomer’s size, I judged him to be a former firefighter, but there was evidence of more than that here. His nose was mashed a bit, his ears crooked. One was larger than the other, the lobe puffy and swollen into a permanent cauliflower—clearly he’d done some serious boxing. His mind didn’t appear to be addled from it, however, because there was astuteness in his gaze; and in the few seconds before he spoke, I could see he was looking me over with a practiced eye, absorbing, evaluating, just like my Mike. Before he even asked a question, this FDNY detective was beginning his interview.
“Are y
ou Miss Cody?”
“Cosi,” I corrected. “Ms. Clare Cosi.”
“Spell it for me, please.”
I did. Then I smiled and offered him my hand. He shook it but didn’t smile back. With every movement his nylon jacket swished, and the array of tech devices on his belt clanked. He flashed the badge clipped onto his jacket.
“I’m a fire marshal, Ms. Cosi; my name is Stuart Rossi. Captain Quinn here tells me you were on premises when the event began?”
“That’s right.” I felt Captain Michael’s intense gaze on us as the marshal asked me a series of standard questions. How did I know they were standard? Because the man made continuous checkmarks on a standardized form.
About five minutes into the interview, Crowley appeared. He signaled the captain, who took a few steps away to speak with his lieutenant. With the man’s attention diverted, I lowered my voice to tell Marshal Rossi what I felt in my gut was true.
“I also want to add that I believe this was arson.”
“Excuse me?”
I explained how I saw and heard the fire start—with an explosion that I’d witnessed and that felt extremely suspicious. I led the man to the remains of Caffè Lucia. Rossi wouldn’t allow me to cross the threshold, so I pointed out the area near the curtain and basement door, where I thought the blaze might have begun. Then I directed his attention to the intact espresso bar and the machines behind it.
“Minimal damage there,” I said. “So with the espresso machine and the gas line ruled out as possible culprits, what else could it have been but a bomb?”
“Ms. Cosi, were you a witness to any threats or discussions that involved perpetrating arson on this or any other premises?”
“No. I didn’t overhear anything or witness any threats or confessions directly, but—”
“So your arson charge is based solely on—”
“What I saw and heard. What I witnessed at the start of the fire.”
I left out the part about my gut feelings. Captain Michael made it abundantly clear that these guys wanted hard proof, not guesses, theories, or (God forbid) womanly hunches.
Marshal Rossi went silent as he finished scribbling notes. Finally he slipped the pen into his pocket, tucked the clipboard under his arm, and looked up.
