by Cleo Coyle
“You’ll need to say you’re a family member if you want to see him,” I warned.
“Yes, dear, I’ve already thought of that.”
“Well, don’t say you’re his sister, okay? He may think you’re Rita Quadrelli!”
“I plan to inform the nurses that I am his sister-in-law. I will be sure to give my name so Enzo knows my true identity.”
“Great. Please let me know how he’s doing, okay?”
“Of course.”
“And there’s one more thing . . . Last night, while I was questioning Enzo, he mentioned to me that Lucia was still seeing a fireman.”
“Old flame?”
“Very funny.”
“Yes, dear, well, it would have to be an old flame, wouldn’t it? She described herself as engaged to that other boy, Glenn, didn’t she?”
“See if you can get Enzo to tell you who this fireman is. Get a name.”
After a pause, Madame said, “Did this fireman have something to do with setting the firebomb, dear?”
“You’ve certainly had your coffee this morning.”
“With or without the java, I’m a lot sharper than you think.”
“I think you’re plenty sharp.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Enzo.”
“Thank you . . .”
By the time I hung up, it was after nine—late for me, but just about the perfect time to contact my favorite FDNY fire marshal. I dug his card out of my charcoal-scented handbag and dialed.
“Rossi.”
“Hello,” I said, envisioning the big man’s slightly mashed nose, blue nylon jacket, and clanking tool belt. “This is the woman you spoke to last night at the Astoria fire. My name is Cla—”
“Clare Cosi. Yes, Ms. Cosi? What can I do for you?”
The speed and clarity of Rossi’s response caught me by surprise. Obviously, the man had mainlined his morning joe. “Last night I spoke to the man who owns Caffè Lucia—”
“Lorenzo Testa? You went to the ICU?”
“I did, and I have some information for you. I spoke at length to a friend and neighbor of his, a Rita Quadrelli?”
“Yes.”
I took a deep breath, feeling as righteous as Don Quixote—which was apropos. Five minutes from now, Rossi would probably dismiss me as tilting at windmills. But the stakes were too high to be indulging my pride. If I looked like an ass, so be it.
“Let me just say, Marshal, that when you find the evidence that the fire was intentionally set, as I know you will, I’m aware you’ll be looking at Enzo as your prime suspect because he’s the sole beneficiary of the fire insurance policy. But there are a number of much more viable suspects around Mr. Testa with very strong motives to torch his caffè.”
I paused, waited.
“Go on.”
“Mr. Testa’s adult daughter, Lucia, has no interest in running the business, yet she’s set to inherit the store and building when her father finally decides to retire. I think she may have hastened that retirement by having that fire set.
“Then there’s the widow Quadrelli. That woman clearly views the caffè as the only thing standing between her and Enzo having some sort of ‘happily ever after’ scenario.
“And I also think you should look at the two men who run the Red Mirage nightclub: Theo and Kareem. These guys have been losing business since the economy tanked and may have tried to get a fire insurance payout by starting a suspicious fire next door, in Enzo’s caffè, hoping it would spread to their property.”
I listened for a reaction. But there was none. The line went silent. “Marshal Rossi?”
“Hold on, Ms. Cosi—”
Damn. “I really do think this is important information.”
“So do I, ma’am. I’m taking notes . . .”
I blinked. He’s actually listening to me? “So you’ll follow up then?”
“That’s my job.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that.”
“Do you have anything else to add, Ms. Cosi?”
“I do. If Lucia Testa is responsible for setting that blaze—or even if she conspired to do it with Rita Quadrelli—I doubt very much she would have created the actual firebomb herself.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s a fastidious fashionista, that’s why. Building a firebomb set on a timer might ruin her manicure. Ditto for the widow.”
“So what’s your theory?”
“I think it’s possible that Lucia hired an accomplice or persuaded one to help her, either for personal reasons or a monetary payoff.”
“And . . . ? Do you have any thoughts on who Ms. Testa or Mrs. Quadrelli may have worked with on that?”
“Yes. I believe there are two strong suspects. The first man is Lucia’s boyfriend Glenn Duffy . . .” I told the marshal all I knew about Duffy, including his expertise as a mechanic. “And the second man is . . . actually, I don’t have a name, but I know for certain he’s a fireman.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Testa told me that a fireman’s been sniffing around after Lucia. It sounds like a sexual relationship. I would have tried questioning Lucia herself, but she’s not in town right now. She went away for the weekend, just a few hours before the bomb went off, which is highly suspicious timing, don’t you think? I mean, getting out of town certainly helps her look completely detached from what happened . . .”
Rossi said nothing.
“Anyway,” I added. “I think she may have used this fireman and his knowledge to help set off a firebomb and burn down the caffè.”
“And you don’t have any other information on this man’s identity?”
“The only thing I can tell you concerns the firefighters who responded—”
“You’re talking about Ladder 189 and Engine 335?”
“If that’s who responded.”
“It is.”
“Well, Enzo confessed to me that his daughter liked to play with men. And the captain of the firehouse that responded told me that a lot of his guys liked to frequent Enzo’s caffè, so . . .”
“So you think a member of the FDNY from Ladder 189 or Engine 335 helped Lucia Testa set the fire?”
“It’s one theory, but yes, I do . . .”
After another moment of silence, Rossi asked, “Are you sure you can’t get me a name, Ms. Cosi?”
The question confused me. It took me a moment to process it. “Marshal Rossi, are you saying that you’d like me to investigate further?”
“No comment.”
I took a breath. “You can’t officially ask me to investigate, can you?”
Rossi didn’t answer directly. What he said was: “Like I told you before, Ms. Cosi, if you have any new information for me, just give me a call.” He lowered his voice. “Call me anytime, okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do . . .”
I hung up and stood staring for a moment.
Given Mike’s talk with me last night, I shouldn’t have been so astonished by Rossi’s reaction. The man was a detective, after all, and I was an informant bringing him leads. It was no different from a street cop using snitches. Sure Rossi might have gotten the same leads once he started questioning Enzo, but I’d given him a head start and he knew it.
Obviously, the fire company was another matter. Those guys were tighter than family. James Noonan and Bigsby Brewer even referred to each other as brothers. The second an investigator like Rossi started asking questions, they’d stonewall him, especially if it meant protecting a man in their own firehouse.
And if Lucia has a history of sleeping with more than one of those men, that was just another reason for the entire company to make like irritated oysters and clam up . . .
I dug into the pocket of my robe for an elastic band, scraped my sleep-mussed hair into a taut, work-ready ponytail, and considered my options.
Enzo had been reluctant to give me the name of Lucia’s secret fireman lover. Would he give it to Madame? I wasn’t so sure.
Th
e strongest connection I had to Ladder 189 and Engine 335 was Captain Michael Quinn. I could talk to him. But Mike specifically asked me to stay away from his cousin.
Just wait, Clare. Calm down and wait . . .
Madame would get a name. That was the easiest solution. And if that failed, there was always next week’s Five-Borough Bake Sale to benefit the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund. I’d have a chance to question some of the guys there, though I had to admit the idea of pressing those men to betray one of their own made me a little queasy.
Now I know how Mike must have felt turning in his classmate’s father . . .
Feeling the acute need for some reassuring warmth, I went to the stove, poured filtered water into the lower half of my three-cup Moka Express. I ground the beans fine, piled them into the little filter basket, screwed the two pieces together, and placed them over medium heat.
The shimmering blue flame of the gas burner reminded me of Mike’s eyes in the firelight. I chewed my lower lip, still a little swollen from his kisses, and in the quiet of the kitchen, I felt the faintest echoes of his lovemaking still singing through my body—so sweet and slow at first then breathtaking in its intensity. I ached for him now, sorry he’d had to leave so early.
As the express water came to a boil, however, my thoughts began to turn . . .
“Captain Michael,” I whispered to the empty air. He truly was my best bet for a source inside that firehouse, which made me reconsider Mike’s request to stay away from the man.
Given Mike’s fire-academy story, I didn’t doubt that things had gone down badly between the two cousins. But didn’t all of that stuff happen more than twenty years ago?
Last night’s Quinn vs. Quinn standoff came to mind—Captain Michael smirking at his cousin in the hospital drive; Mike doing a reach around for his handcuffs.
There must be more to the story. I moved to sit down at the kitchen table and that’s when I realized . . .
There is.
A powerful, roasted scent suddenly suffused the air. My espresso was done. I moved to the stove, sloshed the steaming liquor into a demitasse, and sipped it so quickly it burned my tongue. I didn’t care.
Quinn was one of the best interrogator’s in the NYPD. He could effortlessly manipulate any information exchange. I thought I was hot stuff, getting him to spill, but the reverse was true: Mike Quinn had manipulated me.
My fist hit the kitchen table so hard it sent the cats scurrying into the next room.
When I’d asked Mike what had started the beef between him and his cousin, he’d treated the phrasing literally: “What started it,” he’d said, emphasizing the started. “I guess you could say it started a long time ago . . .”
Then why is it still going on? That’s what I should have asked the man!
After downing the hot coffee, I banged open my cupboards and made a hasty breakfast—a giant popover pancake (aka Dutch Baby, Bismarck, poor girl’s soufflé): flour, eggs, milk, salt, all whisked up with more fury than Dorothy’s tornado.
I poured the batter into a preheated pan and flung it into a blistering oven where it quickly inflated like the puffy exterior of a Navajo bread; but instead of honey, I finished the whole thing in the bracing-sweet style of an espresso Romano, with a quick, tart squeeze from a lemon wedge and a generous dusting of powdered sugar.
My breakfast eaten, I went back to my cupboards and pulled out more ingredients: flour, baking soda, salt . . . I began throwing things together: brown sugar, cocoa powder, leftover espresso . . .
A few minutes later I had a batter for my Magnificent Melt-in-Your-Mouth Mocha Brownies. The manic activity made me feel less like an ineffectual sap, but only a little, so I poured the dark elixir into a square pan, set it aside, and went to the fridge once more . . .
Milk, eggs, butter, and a treasure from the spice rack. Nutmeg? Piquant yet soothing; exotic yet wistfully familiar. The Elizabethans believed it could ward off the plague; Charlie Parker and Malcolm X used it to get high . . . Good enough for me!
I took out my electric hand mixer and assaulted the butter and sugar with glee.
Sell me half a story? Sure! I’ll buy it!
I added the eggs, one at a time, ferociously beating between each addition.
Yeah, you’re one crack interrogator, Cosi. Homeland Security should put you on speed dial!
Stress always did this to me. I had to bake. At times, nostalgia was the reason. Baking brought me back to those early hours with Nonna in her grocery store’s kitchen: hot ovens warming the chilly air; sticky white dough coming together beneath flour-dusted hands; battered sheet pans emerging from their transmuting fire baths heavy with the gold of fresh Italian loaves and crunchy, sweet biscotti.
On a morning like this one, however, other things drove me to the beating of the batter: a sense of reassurance for one, a reclaiming of the feeling I had control over something.
Measuring the flour calmed me somewhat (a different part of the brain apparently calculated ounces and grams, sifted out lumps). Then I married the wet and dry ingredients.
“I now pronounce you Doughnut Muffin batter . . .”
In flavor and texture, the resulting muffin would indeed taste like an “old-fashioned” doughnut. It wasn’t magic, just a culinary trick. (Most quick-bread batters called for a simple stirring of ingredients, but the dump-and-stir muffin failed to yield an optimal product. Creaming sugar into butter whipped air into the batter’s foundation, substantially improving its texture. In this batter, the technique would evoke the same airy tenderness as a classic cake doughnut.)
I filled the paper lined cups, opened the heavy oven door, then slid my pans home with the satisfied sigh of a weary body slipping into a warm bath.
I guess what I most appreciated about baking was its transformative qualities, and not simply because the end product was more than the sum of its parts. The entire process served as a much needed reminder of a simple but profound truth: the fundamentals of cooking never changed.
In a world where firebombs went off in your face and your lover held back on you, just knowing that stirring sugar into liquefied shortening would always give a different result than creaming it into softened butter was an honest-to-God comfort.
I still didn’t know how I was going to get the whole truth out of Mike, but I would find a way. In my view, family feuds were ticking time bombs. I’d already had one incendiary device go off in my face. I wasn’t about to let it happen again.
WHEN I finally headed upstairs, I felt much calmer—less like a rube of an interrogator than a capable woman back in control. Entering the bedroom, however, my momentary illusion of calm was blown away by a brand-new storm.
The steady sound of beeping may have been weak, but its familiar meaning shot adrenaline through my body as effectively as a blaring ambulance siren.
My cell phone!
I rushed to the dresser and saw the blinking light. Someone had left me an urgent message.
Joy? Madame? Mike? Dante?
I played back the recording, and the frantic voice of my ex-husband assaulted my ear.
“Clare! Where the hell are you?”
I checked the time stamp on the message. Matt had phoned me during my lengthy talk with Rossi.
“I get off my plane at JFK, pass a newsstand, and what do I see? My mother on the front page of two tabloids! Why is she on a stretcher for God’s sake? And surrounded by firemen? What the hell happened? I can see you standing in the background! Why didn’t you call me, Clare? Now I can’t reach her! Or you! And my battery is dying. Will you please call me back when—”
Click.
A robotic voice followed. “End of messages.”
FOURTEEN
THIRTY minutes later, my hair still damp from a quick shower, I descended the back staircase to my coffeehouse. Grabbing a Village Blend apron off a pegboard in the pantry, I peered through the open archway into the main shop.
“Good morning,” I called to the lanky back of my assistant man
ager.
Tucker Burton turned around, tossed his floppy brown mop, and flashed a footlights-worthy grin. “Well, hello, sleepy head! How are you?”
I avoided a direct answer, which might have resulted in a primal scream. Instead I firmly tied my apron strings and pointed to our machine.
“How’s she running today?”
“Not bad.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to. Tucker already knew what to do next. He turned back to pull me a test shot, so I could judge how bad “not bad” really was.
The machine itself was a beauty, reliably stable when it came to maintaining temperature and pressure. The espresso was what worried me. Like a gifted but temperamental child, my favorite elixir had easy days and difficult days; days of generous glory with lush, oozing crema, and days of stingy infamy with thin, diluted sourness.
The process of coaxing every bit of sweetly caramelized flavor from Matt’s superlatively sourced beans was truly a kind of java alchemy. Three solid months of flight time had to be logged by my trainee baristas before they could attempt even one perfect shot for a customer.
What my newbie baristas had to fully understand was the array of variables that could devolve the process; how their perfectly dosed and tamped pulls of sultry-sweet nectar, executed in the exact same manner, with the same equipment and coffee beans, could suddenly turn into acidy slipstreams of espresso hell. Only when the untried learned to get comfortable with confusion, friendly with frustration, would the one-true-God shot be within reach . . .
As Tucker worked on pulling my taste test, I peered over the blueberry marble counter. Our tables were half empty, a normal pattern for a late weekday morning. The occupied seats were recognizable regulars—NYU students with open text books, neighborhood freelancers with open laptops, and a few hospital workers on open cell phones.
Tucker’s morning backup, Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather), appeared to be chatting with a small group of fans. (Yes, I said fans. Esther may have been one of my strongest latte artists, but her true renown as a local slam poetess had spread through at least two of the five boroughs. New customers, mostly aspiring “urban poets” and rappers, were showing up every day just to talk to her. Lucky for our bottom line they ordered coffee drinks from her, too.)
