by Cleo Coyle
“You are no longer boss to me!”
Oh, no. Now what?! Looking up, I realized Dante Silva was looming over me. “What’s this all about?” Was he angry? Was he quitting?
“I can’t call you boss anymore, Clare, because you’re my hero!”
Before I knew what was happening, Dante put his arms around me and lifted me off the floor.
“Hey! Put me down!”
Instead, my crazy barista spun me around. The flight path was much the same as Air Matteo, but with a much higher altitude.
“Did you hear me, Clare? You’re my hero!”
“A hero is a sandwich!”
“A hoagie is a sandwich. A hero is my boss!”
Now I knew how James Noonan felt—embarrassed. “Okay, okay, I get the idea! Down, please!”
Dante finally obeyed.
“What’s with the hat?” Esther asked, pointing to his fedora.
He removed it to show her. His shaved head was swathed in bandages.
“Look, look, everyone!” Esther cried. “It’s the Thief of Baghdad! Tell me, oh, genie of the lamp, if I rub you the right way, will you grant me three wishes?”
“Esther, you don’t rub anyone the right way,” Dante replied, “except maybe your commie ex-pat boyfriend.”
“Boris was never a communist. He believes in freedom of expression.”
“Okay then. You won’t care if I express myself.” Dante reached into his backpack’s pocket, pulled out a digital camera, and snapped her photo. “That’s going on my Facebook page. Amy Winehouse hair and all.”
“Good. Link to my page while you’re at it. I’m about to post a new poem about a coworker with brain damage.”
Dante took another photo. “For Twitter.”
That did it. Esther turned on her heel and marched away.
“Well, my friend,” Tucker said, gesturing to his swathed head, “my only advice to you is: Do not grow a goatee. Homeland Security might mistake you for Osama bin Laden.”
“Oh, yeah? As-Salamu Alaykum to you, too, my brother.”
“Hey, you said that pretty well.” Tuck tapped his chin. “Maybe you should grow a goatee. Fox is filming another one of those thriller franchise movies in New York this summer. I think my agent could get you hired as an extra.”
“Stop teasing Dante,” I shook my finger. “He’s lucky to be alive. So is Madame—”
The camera flash went off. I blinked.
“Good one,” Dante said, lowering the camera.
“You did not just take my picture!” My scolding finger was still hovering in the air. I instantly dropped it.
Matt laughed. “Hey, Dante, do me a favor. E-mail a copy of that one to Joy. If it doesn’t keep our daughter in line, I don’t know what will.”
“Not funny.” I folded my arms. “And that blaze last night was no joke, either. But I’m going to nail whoever set it.”
Matt cursed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Don’t start, Clare.”
“Don’t start what?”
“I know that look. You’re getting all sleuth-y on me.”
“I am not getting sleuth-y,” I lied.
Madame tilted her head and smiled. “It’s like you’re both still married, he knows you so well.” Then she glanced at the picture in her hand and sighed. “I would so love another grandchild. A little boy this time.” She pinned her son with a formidable look. “Perhaps you and Breanne could work on that. She’s not menopausal yet, is she?”
Matt paled.
The man was not having a good morning.
LUNCH rush came and went. Madame departed for a date with Otto, and as the pace of the café wound down again, Matt pulled up a stool at my espresso bar.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What’s going on with this arson thing you mentioned?”
“I’m determined, Matt, enraged and determined. That’s what’s going on.”
“If you care so much about who started the fire at Enzo’s place, why didn’t you share your theories with the fire marshal?”
“I did. I called the man this morning.”
“And?”
“And Marshal Rossi strongly implied that he wouldn’t mind my help as an informant—”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Are you telling me that snooping around for the NYPD isn’t providing enough of the thrills you missed as a stay-at-home mom? Now you want to play with the FDNY?”
“I am not playing. Rossi is going to find the forensic evidence to prove arson, and I don’t want him going after Enzo. I’m certain, down to my bones, that others were responsible. You’d feel the same way if you’d been there. Your own mother was almost burned alive.”
“Burned alive!” Matt’s olive-skinned face went paler than the cream in my espresso con panna. “I thought you said she was never in any real danger!”
Woops. “Okay, maybe I, uh, downplayed things a little, but you were in a state—”
“And I’m getting there again! Did the marshal at least say it was arson?”
“I told you, they won’t discuss the case with me—”
“Then drop it, Clare. Let the pros handle it.”
“Excuse me,” Dante said, interrupting us. “But the pros didn’t pull me out of the fire last night. It was Clare who saved my life.”
Tucker tapped my shoulder. “Now that you bring it up, sweetie, I think you may be onto something with this arson thing.” He slapped Matt’s New York Post back on the bar top and paged quickly through it. “Look at this.” Tuck’s finger touched a small square of newsprint deep inside the paper: Blaze Burns Bensonhurst Beanery.
“According to the story, there was a coffeehouse fire last night on Avenue O in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It started around the same time as your Astoria fire. Très coincidental if you ask me.”
I frowned, scanned the story. “This is odd.”
“Why?” Matt said. “Tucker is right. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
Was it? Another one of Mike Quinn’s pithy pieces of law enforcement philosophy suddenly came to mind: In a criminal investigation, there are no coincidences. I couldn’t help wondering what Mike’s cynical cousin would say to that.
WITHIN an hour of my thought, the cell in my pocket vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen—a 718 area code, which meant a borough other than Manhattan—so I answered tentatively.
“Hello?”
“Clare Cosi. Guess who it is callin’ ya, darlin’?”
Although the man’s voice was keyed an octave lower than usual, I would have recognized Captain Michael’s roguish lilt even without the played up brogue.
“Don’t hang up on me now.”
“How did you get this number?”
He didn’t tell me. What he said was: “Now I’m sure my cousin told you to steer good and clear of me—”
“As a matter of fact he did.”
“Well, I can’t blame him. But I’m not callin’ for my own account. I’m callin’ for my guys. They’re in trouble.”
I bet they are.
I assumed Rossi had started questioning his men, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“They need help, Clare,” the captain went on. “The kind only you can provide.”
“Me? Why would a crew of New York’s Bravest need my help?”
“Simple, dove . . .” I could almost see the man’s gold tooth flashing from across the East River. “You know how to make coffee.”
EIGHTEEN
FOR twenty minutes the Arsonist observed the activity in the slick chain coffeehouse—the customer traffic, the counter service, the café tables—all while nursing the contents of an absurdly large cappuccino . . .
This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man’s place was supposed to be empty. It’s all because of that bitch things got so screwed up . . .
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Across t
he room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the knob.
There’s my ticket . . .
The Arsonist stayed focused on that closed door, listened to sounds of running water, continued taking hits off the twenty-ounce paper cup. But the dregs of steamed milk tasted cold, the last drops of espresso bitter.
If only I could set off the damn bomb right now . . .
All around the Arsonist, young urban professionals were complaining about stalled careers and condo costs, lost benefits and airline delays, needy kids and presumptuous parents—a petty list of privileged problems. A few more minutes of listening to whining in quad and the Arsonist wanted to nuke the place, not just torch it.
Impatient, the Arsonist bent over the orange shopping bag. A small alarm clock sat inside, along with a large battery, a giant jar of high-octane spiked petroleum jelly, and a bleach bottle with no bleach inside. The Clorox bottle had been refilled with a mix of gasoline, naphtha, and benzene—all of it rigged to that clock. When the alarm went off, a quiet spark would awaken the sleeping beast. Then the petroleum jelly would ignite and poof, instant napalm.
Highly destructive, hell to put out . . .
The Arsonist reached into the orange bag, attached two wires sprouting from the battery, fixed them to circuits on the converted bleach bottle.
All ready . . .
The young coffeehouse worker finished cleaning the unisex facility. After tucking her cleaning products back onto her stainless steel cart, she rolled it into a closet adjacent to the restroom.
Time now . . .
The Arsonist rose and walked—easily, casually—to that restroom. Pretending to choose the “wrong” door, the Arsonist opened the closet, quickly slipped the bag onto the bottom shelf of the cart, between two giant bottles of cleaning fluids. The closet door was closed and the restroom door opened.
No one took notice of the Arsonist’s “mistake”—not one customer or employee.
After leaving the Long Island City shop, the Arsonist turned for one last look at the posted hours of operation. The timer on the bomb was set for 10 PM, well past the seven o’clock closing. Outside, the day was still pleasant, but the chill was coming.
Another package still had to be delivered—to the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. This one would be for that troublemaking bitch who’d tipped off the fire marshals to look beyond Testa for their torcher . . .
Two firebombs started us down this road. Two more will end it. And if that Cosi bitch doesn’t get the message after tonight, we’ll just have to end her.
NINETEEN
LOCATING the captain’s firehouse wasn’t a problem. Amid a sea of tiny clapboard row houses, Michael Quinn’s sovereign domain towered over the landscape like a redbrick citadel.
I parked my near-vintage Honda on the quiet street just off Northern Boulevard. Despite the temperate twilight air, I slipped on my coat and gloves. March was a tricky time in New York. Days might feel bright and balmy, but nightfall could bring the kind of cruel winds that would kill every plant foolish enough to put out its vulnerable buds.
On the face of it, I’d come back to Queens for one reason: Lucia Testa had donated the still-functioning espresso machine from her father’s caffè to this firehouse, and the men needed some lessons in how to use it. With Enzo’s comatose condition, Lucia was too busy to teach them, so I agreed.
Of course, this was the least I could do to pay these guys back for their rescuing of Madame. But the truth was my little visit this evening would give me the chance to question these guys, find out who among their ranks might be seeing Lucia.
Along the curb I noticed a line of parked cars. Every one displayed FDNY-related placards or window clings. One of the SUVs had a bumper sticker that caught my eye: Honk If You’re Buffing.
“Buffing?”
I wondered if it had something to do with weight lifting, that is, becoming buff? Maybe it was something one did in the buff? Did that make it a sexual reference? I craned my neck at the towering red challenge in front of me.
The FDNY certainly counted women among its ranks. They drove ambulances and fought fires right alongside the men, but this engine and ladder company didn’t have a female among them.
This isn’t just a firehouse. It’s a Temple of Testosterone.
A granite cornerstone announced the original use for the building as a station for the Queens Company Rail Yard. But the structure’s odd Gothic flourishes—including carved stone moldings over the doors and a corner turret with a crenellated roof—gave the impression of a medieval strong-hold, complete with castle battlements.
A sudden freezing gust tore at my ponytail. I ignored it, moving with determination into the glowing, cavernous interior of the firehouse garage, the clanking barista supplies in my backpack making me feel like Cervantes’s crazy knight again, embarking on a quest in rusty armor.
Amid the industrial tangle of ducts, pipes, and hanging chains, I noticed tire scuffs on the concrete, evidence the fire trucks had been here.
So where are they now?
One thing I knew: Captain Michael absolutely assured me that he would not be here this evening, so there was zero chance of my going back on the promise I’d made to Mike to stay away from his cousin.
I guess a part of me was still curious about the captain (not to mention suspicious), and I wouldn’t have minded a crack at interviewing the man. On the other hand, with him out of the firehouse, I could freely question his men without the threat of a red devil looking over my shoulder.
“Ms. Cosi?”
I looked up to search the vast echo chamber for the source of the familiar, upbeat voice.
“James?” I called back.
“Yeah, it’s me.” James Noonan crossed the track-marked floor to greet me, passing under a high metal catwalk that ran along all four windowless walls. “Sorry the guys are gone. A call came in. But they’ll be rolling back soon.”
Under the banks of hanging florescent lights, the man I liked to think of as my own personal hero looked like a poster boy for All-American football: glowing skin, close-cropped hair, a dazzling smile. He was as warm and friendly as I remembered, and just about as tall as the two Mike Quinns. By the time he reached my side, I was bending my neck just to meet his translucent blue eyes.
He shook my hand with a wide grin, and then jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “Come on back. I’ll show you the espresso machine.”
I followed him down an industrial green hallway. At the end he opened a stout wooden door, and the taint of diesel exhaust gave way to a much more appetizing array of aromas—fresh, floral herbs and piquant spices intermingled with the pungent-sweet fragrance of roasting garlic and the heavy but alluring scent of sizzling pork fat.
With quick hands James draped a grease-spattered apron over his gray T-shirt and distressed denims, pulled the strings completely around his lean waist, and tied them at his belt buckle. (The front of the apron assured me the wearer was Also Good in Bed.)
I pointed. “Gag gift from the guys, right?”
“You must be psychic,” he said flatly.
I smiled. “My staff gave me one of those.”
“Oh? So you’re also good in bed?”
“No. I Serve It Up Hot.”
He laughed. “Come on . . .”
James led me around a corner, into a sprawling kitchen area with two huge refrigerators, a pizza oven, a deep fryer, and a grill-and-gas-range combination under a ventilation funnel.
“Whoa, does every firehouse have such great facilities?”
James snorted. “Are you kidding? I put this place together by my lonesome. Over the past two years I’ve gone to every restaurant closing and bankruptcy in the five boroughs to gather this stuff.”
The savory scent of roasting meat distracted me. I pointed to the
oven. “Something in there smells amazing.”
“Pork shoulder.” James opened the door to display his handiwork.
“¡Hola, pernil!” I admired the beautiful bone-in pork shoulders, four in all, slow-roasting on two cooking racks.
“A PR classic,” James noted.
“So you’ve got Puerto Rican guys in the company?”
“Only one, plus a dude from Cuba and one from the Dominican Republic. All the guys love the pernil, though. It’s economical, feeds a hungry crew, and leaves enough meat for Cuban sandwiches in the morning.”
“And what’s in the Dutch oven?” I pointed to the stovetop.
James lifted the lid. “A sweet onion and cheddar casserole.”
I sniffed. “Mild cheddar, right? And lots of milk and butter?”
“Yeah. The onions give up a lot of moisture so I use bread crumbs to keep it from getting too watery.”
I sniffed again. “A little bland, isn’t it? Especially for Latino guys. You should try some dry mustard in there. Maybe a dash of cayenne. I think you’ll like the result.”
James nodded, gave me a little smile. “Color me impressed.”
“Fire’s your job, flavor is mine.”
His smile widened. Then he replaced the lid and closed the oven.
“Do you cook like this at home?” I asked. “Val must appreciate it.”
At the mention of his wife, James’s good cheer fell away. “We hardly eat together these days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “If Val’s not working late, I’m on a mutual.”
“Mutual? Val used that term. What is it exactly?”
“A ‘mutual’ is when the guys juggle work schedules so we can do back-to-back shifts.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“If you work twenty-four or forty-eight hours straight, you can get three or even four days off in a row. It’s a nice arrangement for guys with kids.”
James glanced at his bright orange digital watch. “I don’t actually start my mutual for another thirty minutes. I came in early to get some dinner up and running before things got hairy.”
