by Cleo Coyle
Anything other than Maria Tobinski’s medical history, and the saga of Pinto, the dog who rides around in a little red wagon.
I touched the woman’s arm. “Try to stay on the subject of Enzo and his caffè. Police officers don’t have a lot of patience.” I shot Mike an apologetic look. In my experience, patience was Mike Quinn’s defining characteristic—although with Chatty Cathy here, who knew?
Mrs. Quadrelli settled into the plastic chair and looked up (way up) at the broad-shouldered cop now towering over her. Finally, she turned to me.
“He showed you his ID, right, Miss Cosi? You never said.”
With a barely perceptible sigh, Mike reached inside his sport coat, pulled out the well-worn leather wallet and flashed his shield.
“That’s a gold badge!” A scolding finger appeared in my face. “This man’s not just an officer, Miss Cosi. He’s a detective.”
“Oh?” I said, exchanging another look with Mike. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to demote you.”
Mike’s lips twitched. “No problem.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Quadrelli. “Now why don’t you start at the beginning . . .”
Contrary to my advice, Mrs. Q began filling Mike in on her relationship with Enzo, starting with their first passing conversation, the weather that day, and what clothes they were wearing.
I am going to need caffeine, I realized, as soon as possible.
The only visible source was a bank of machines on the other side of the waiting room.
Vending machine coffee. God help me . . .
Cringing, I crossed over. My handbag smelled of smoke as I opened it and gathered enough change to satisfy the DelishiCo Individual Brew coffee machine twice. Oh, sure, each cup was “individually brewed,” as promised, but that didn’t matter much when the water bin hadn’t been flushed in months, and coffee oils had built up along the internal spout.
I loaded up on the powdered cream, poured in a stack of sugar packets, and returned to Mrs. Quadrelli’s side, handing over the cup of coffee I’d promised her.
About then, Mrs. Q’s eyes went teary. “And I think maybe it was those men who did it, who set the fire . . .”
“Men?” I echoed. “What men?”
“Theo, the Greek boy, and the other one, Kareem—he’s from Morocco or Egypt or something. They run that nightclub next to Caffè Lucia—”
“The Red Mirage?” I asked, recalling the scruffy-chinned guy with the foreign accent who’d called my car a junk heap.
“That’s the one. Those are the two fellows who manage the place. Theo’s been here for years. His family lives by the park. But Kareem is a new émigré, a real shady type.”
“What do you mean by shady?” Mike asked. His deep voice remained measured, but his eyes betrayed the tiniest flicker of newly awakened interest.
“Just . . . shady.”
“You mean criminal shady?” I pressed.
The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Mike glanced at me a moment then focused back on Mrs. Quadrelli. “And why do you think these men would want to burn down Enzo’s shop?”
“They wanted to buy his place,” she explained. “Maybe two months after they opened the club, they began making offers. They were very insistent, if you know what I mean—threatening, that’s what Enzo said. You can ask him; he’ll tell you. They kept it up, too, even after Enzo dug in his heels and told them absolutely not.”
Mike leaned in a bit. “Why did they want him out so badly?”
“So they could double the size of that nightclub of theirs. When Enzo wouldn’t give in, they expanded in the other direction, after Mr. Ganzano moved his real estate office to that new building on Broadway. I think they forced him out. Did you know he left his wife after thirty-one years of marriage? I hear he has a Dominican floozy stashed in an apartment near LaGuardia Airport—”
“But they stopped bothering Enzo, right?” I said. “It sounds like these men got what they wanted. They were able to expand in the other direction?”
“Yes—and then the club doubled in size. Oh, the noise! My goodness the noise on that block was terrible! They kept the music blaring until three, sometimes four, in the morning. There were people crowding the sidewalk, fights every night! And the street was always jammed with cars!”
“Did Enzo complain?” I asked. “Get them into trouble?”
“Oh, no. After a time, there was no need to. All that noise and trouble went away.”
“Why is that?” Mike asked. “The club’s still there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the crowds aren’t. The place used to have lines around the block. But then the economy took a nosedive and a lot of the young people lost their jobs, thank goodness! Now very few of them have money for overpriced night-clubs, so it’s a quiet street again.”
A dying business, in other words. Mike raised an eyebrow at me. He was thinking the same thing. Here was the perfect motive for a torch job—and what better way to make yourself look innocent than to start the blaze in the business next door?
Mrs. Quadrelli kept talking, but nothing else seemed as promising a lead as these Red Mirage guys. As she chattered on, I continued forcing myself to drink the vending machine coffee.
About a hundred years ago cowboys used to heat ground coffee in a sock placed in a pot of simmering water. When their campfire coffee was ready, they’d pour it into a tin cup. I’d never tasted boiled cowboy sock coffee, but I was absolutely sure it tasted better than this.
“So I told him he should call our city councilmen and complain. Those children of hers make such a racket; they should be made to play someplace else, not to mention that barking dog. Don’t you agree it’s a public nuisance? And what do you think about the lack of response from 311? Isn’t that a disgrace, Detective?”
Mike’s cop-neutral expression remained as firmly fixed as ever, but I could tell—from the deepening grooves around his eyes and mouth—that even the most patient detective in the NYPD was becoming exasperated.
“I think I got what I need for now, Mrs. Quadrelli . . .” He glanced at me, a trace of pleading on the edge of it. Are we done now, Detective Cosi?
With a twinge of guilt, I said. “Just one more thing, Officer—”
“Not officer!” Mrs. Q reminded me with a correcting tsktsk . “This man is a detective, remember?”
“Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Detective, weren’t you asking me earlier about Lucia? Maybe Mrs. Quadrelli here can help.” I turned to her. “How well do you know Enzo’s daughter?”
“Oh, very! She and I have so much in common. We just love to shop! She has such a good eye for shoes and jewelry, that one. We also have the same hairdresser—Gustave Flaubert—”
“Flaubert?” I said. “The nineteenth-century novelist?”
“You know him?” She asked. “He works on Fifth at Jean Michel Dubonnet—”
Mike caught my eye. Dubonnet on the rocks, he mouthed, and I nearly choked on the last dregs of my coffee (which would have been appropriate since I’d been gagging the stuff down for the past fifteen minutes).
“That’s where we met,” the woman continued. “It was Lucia who introduced me to her father, said it was time he started dating again—”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I interrupted as I shot Mike a hang-in-there-partner look. “The detective asked me about Lucia’s boyfriends. He might want to follow up with them, see if they have anything to add.” I lowered my voice. “Their statements could also help clear Enzo of suspicion.”
“Of course! She’s seeing a younger man now. His name is Glenn Duffy . . . I’ll spell it.” She stared at Mike. “Aren’t you going to write it down?”
Mike gave a little sigh, pulled out his notebook. “Go ahead . . .”
After Mrs. Q gave the background on Duffy, I waited for another name. There was none. Once again, I pressed—
“Enzo mentioned there was another man from Lucia’s past who’s been coming around lately. Do yo
u know about him?”
“Oh, you mean the fireman?”
Fireman? I glanced at Mike. Even he seemed surprised.
“What fireman would that be?” Mike asked, his pen poised over his notebook with much more readiness.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Quadrelli said.
“You don’t know?” I couldn’t believe it.
She threw up her hands. “I asked, believe me! Enzo mentioned ‘the fireman’ was back. He said it once, but then he dropped it, refused to say more. And Lucia insists that Glenn is the only man in her life. That’s all I know.”
She shrugged. “You want more? Go ask Lucia.”
ELEVEN
“CLARE? You okay?”
Two hours after our unorthodox interview with the widow Quadrelli, I was back home in my West Village duplex with a still-empty stomach and a head full of questions.
After we’d dropped Madame off at her Fifth Avenue digs, I ran down my theories with Mike. He agreed with my observations, encouraged me to contact Stuart Rossi, and reminded me that FDNY marshals assigned to a fire were like NYPD detectives working a crime scene.
Fire marshals weren’t “just like” law enforcement officers, they were officers. They carried guns, interviewed witnesses, and (if warranted) made arrests.
“Just treat the man like a police detective,” Mike told me. “Call him first thing in the morning, give him everything you dug up, he’ll take it from there.”
Now I was descending my apartment’s staircase, dragging and tired, until a whiff of smoke hit me. Adrenaline instantly juiced my system.
“Clare? You okay?” Mike was gawking at me. I must have looked ill or gone pale or something until I realized the offending agent was safely contained in my living room fireplace.
“Did you hear me, sweetheart? You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
I wasn’t. Not really. But I didn’t want Mike feeling bad about his cozy fire-building gesture. The lengthening flames would warm the chilly room. Even the disturbing shadows flickering across the polished antiques made me conclude (in a whole new way) how lucky I was to reside in this place.
While this entire Federal-era townhouse was still technically my ex-mother-in-law’s, she’d made clear to me that she was legally willing its ownership to me as well as her son, so I felt like a caretaker now as much as a resident—an invaluable bonus that came with managing her coffeehouse two floors below.
As my sock-covered feet slipped across the chilly parquet floor, I noticed Mike’s gaze tracking me with unabashed interest. For a second, I couldn’t imagine why.
Sexy was not a word I’d use to describe me at the moment. Postshower, I’d dressed for sloppy comfort in a pair of black bike shorts and an oversized T-shirt that warned: Do Not Give This Woman Decaf!
The tee—along with an apron that said I Serve It Up Hot!—had been a gag gift from my staff last Christmas. But Mike had seen this shirt before. On the other hand, it was the first time I’d gone braless wearing it. (My street clothes, down to my underwear, had reeked of char, and my other bras were still damp from a morning’s hand-washing.)
Whatever the reason for the man’s open scrutiny, I was happy to return the gesture. With his sport coat tossed off, Mike’s muscular shoulders were nicely defined by his dress shirt—spotlessly white yet noticeably wrinkled from hours of wearing his leather holster. Tie well loosened, long, strong form folded into a relaxed crouch, he looked comfortably assured, entrenched in a zone of cool-blue control that was quintessentially Mike.
From our very first meeting, I’d been impressed by the man’s natural confidence, mainly because—unlike my exhusband—it lacked arrogance. Mike was often wary and sometimes skeptical, but he was never cynical, not in the way some people were, using it as an excuse for complacency or indifference. What attracted me most, I think, was his equilibrium. Mike was as hardened as any cop from the New York streets, yet he’d refused to let the job or the city kill his compassion.
Like a buttoned-down Ivanhoe, he now picked up the black iron poker and stabbed at the heart of the fire he’d built, not to kill the thing but to give it more air. And that’s when it hit me just how much Mike Quinn enjoyed igniting blazes in my hearth.
Hmmm . . .
Considering the occupation of the man’s cousin and younger brothers, I figured the desire to play with fire was probably a Quinn thing. Or maybe it was just some gene buried deep in the alpha-male string, a primal urge leftover from the DNA of grunting cavemen.
As I settled into the carved rosewood sofa, my gaze caught on his well-worn shoulder holster now hanging off the delicate lyre back of one of Madame’s heirloom chairs. Tucked inside the leather was his rather large handgun. Yet another kind of fire stick . . . ?
“You look a little funny, sweetheart. Do you need a drink?”
“I need to eat.”
I would have chowed down sooner, but I hadn’t been able to stand those reeking clothes another minute; so while Mike had taken care of parking my old Honda, I’d headed upstairs for a hot, soapy shower.
I could see from the shopping bag now sitting on the coffee table—not to mention the aromas of cooked meat assaulting my sensory receptors—that Mike had taken care of food, too. But what was it exactly?
The large, glossy bag didn’t look like your typical brown paper take-out sack. Vivid orange with a laminated exterior and nylon rope handles, it looked self-consciously hip, which was hardly ever a good thing when it came to authentically tasty takeout.
“UFC?” I said, reading the logo. “KFC I’ve heard of, but UFC?”
“It’s Korean-style fried chicken,” Mike said, putting down the poker.
I looked closer at the small print under the large UFC logo. “Unidentified Flying Chickens? I never heard of them.”
“There are only three stores in the metro area,” Mike said, rising to his full height, “one in Elmhurst, one in Brooklyn, and one in North Jersey. Sully swears by them, says he’s addicted. He just dropped it off.”
“Sully was here?”
Finbar “Sully” Sullivan worked closely with Mike on the OD Squad, a special task force Mike supervised out of the Sixth Precinct here in Greenwich Village. Sully was one of the nicest men I knew—an openly cheerful forty-something guy with ready quips delivered in a native Queens accent.
“I left my car back in Elmhurst,” Mike explained. “I asked Sully and Franco to swing by, bring it back to Manhattan.”
“Wait, back up. Did you just say Sully and Franco? As in Sergeant Emmanuel Franco?”
Mike nodded and I tensed. Detective Sergeant Franco was the complete opposite of Finbar Sullivan. Edgy and volatile, the man was about as subtle as a ball-peen hammer to the forehead (something I had learned over this past holiday season).
Where Mike and Sully wore suits, ties, and their methodical patience on their sleeves, the younger Franco displayed cocky confidence and a street-tough attitude, with a wardrobe to match: a Yankee jacket, cowboy boots, and an in-your-face red, white, and, blue ’do rag.
Despite the guy’s bulldog approach to law enforcement, however, I did not dislike him. What concerned me was Franco’s interest in my daughter. He’d taken Joy out a number of times while she was visiting me on her last holiday break. But, thank goodness, my girl was back in Paris.
I didn’t relish the idea of Joy meeting and falling for another French line cook, which could sway her to remain in Europe indefinitely, but I was even less happy with her developing an attachment to a detective whose persona seemed to fall somewhere between Dirty Harry and Rambo.
“I can’t believe you’re working with Franco,” I said.
“Why not?” He crossed his arm. “I needed the manpower.”
“The construction site investigation?”
Mike nodded. Over the past two weeks, he’d been following up on recent OD cases, one of which had ended in death. Working closely with the DEA, he and Sully had supervised a covert investigation of a popular nightclub on
the Lower East Side, near the Williamsburg Bridge, where both victims had ingested the drugs.
Unfortunately, the place came up clean. No dealing had been uncovered on the premises. Now a source claimed the selling was being done at an adjacent construction site, where someone working on the site itself was dealing recreational drugs like ecstasy and Liquid E to club-goers.
“Well . . .” I tried to focus on the positive. (After all, I could see where a rough-edged guy like Franco would be an asset in working an undercover operation on a construction crew. And when it came to Mike’s choice of police personnel, who was I to argue?) “I suppose it was nice of the two of them to bring over dinner, along with your car . . .”
“Yes, it was.”
“Unidentified Flying Chickens . . .” I shook my head. “A Queens restaurant with an ironic name.”
“Yeah . . .” Mike sat down next to me. “It’s way too Manhattan hipster for the geography.”
“Have you tried it? What do you think of it?”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “You really care?”
He was right. I didn’t. The enticing aromas were making my stomach growl and my mouth salivate. I dug into the bag. The first box I opened was stuffed with warm chicken wings. A second later, my teeth were tearing into skin crispier than a newly fried kettle chip. The caramelized taste of slow-roasted garlic hit my palate first, next came a play of sweet brown sugar, slightly tingly ginger, and under it all, a low, meaty umami base note of soy.
“Oh my God,” I garbled as I masticated.
“Good?”
“Mm, mm . . . mmmmm . . .”
Mike joined me, opening another box, which was stuffed with fried drumsticks, glistening with a sweet-and-sour glaze. A third held containers of tangy cold slaw with a hint of Chinese mustard; cubes of cold, crunchy Korean radish; and sweet potato matchsticks.
“You know, I could duplicate this,” I managed to boast around a mouthful of soy-garlic wing.
“I don’t doubt it,” Mike said, who’d swooned over my cooking more times than I could count.
“They must fry their chicken twice to get it this crispy . . .” I munched some more, gathering flavor and textural clues, deducing the culinary technique. “Then after they fry it, they must roll it in the sticky glaze and dry it out in a warm oven . . .”
