Coffeehouse 09 - Roast Mortem

by Cleo Coyle

  The final picture showed Captain Michael standing between Kevin and the man’s wife, two smiling preteen daughters on either side. All were bundled in sweaters and coats, and snow dusted the suburban lawn behind them. The handwritten inscription read: “Hey, bro . . . Your visit made our first Thanksgiving in Boston feel like home. Love, Kev, Melody, Melinda, and Megan.”

  “Look, Josie, I’m on duty. I’m hanging up now.”

  Michael ended the call. He swung around, noticed me by the Kevin wall and immediately strode across the room.

  “Where were we, Clare?”

  “I’m a civilian.”

  “With a big heart, that’s right . . .” He relaxed himself, shedding the uneasy business of that call with the ease of a practiced chef crumbling old skin from an onion. “I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done. I mean it. Personally thank you.” He smiled down at me, it actually appeared genuine.

  “No thanks necessary.”

  “No baloney now, Clare. It’s not every day I meet someone like you. You’re something special. All those guts and brains inside that alluring little package—”

  “I have some serious questions for you.”

  “Okay, all right.” He showed me his palms. “If that’s what it takes. You can go ahead and question my past. I’ve had my share of women, it’s true. At my age, what do you expect? I wasn’t exactly a monsignor in my youth.”

  “Were you ever in a relationship with Lucia Testa?”

  The captain’s eyebrow arched again. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “Were you?”

  He took a breath, exhaled it. “No.”

  I didn’t believe him. “Then why is she in a photo on the wall downstairs? Was she seeing one of your men at any time? Maybe a few over a period of years?”

  “There are no Firehouse Annies here, and I won’t be spreading any gossip. But weren’t we talking about you and me, Clare—”

  “You’re delusional. There is no ‘you and me.’”

  “But I’d like there to be. You’re different. I can see that . . . special.”

  “I’m involved with your cousin. Is that what you mean?”

  “Just give me a chance.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a weekend getaway? Maybe Cape May, the Jersey Shore. How about Atlantic City? Dinner. A show. A little Texas Hold ’Em—” His gold tooth flashed.

  “Don’t hold your breath—”

  “I know my cousin, Clare. The guy lives for his job. When was the last time you two went out and had some fun, eh?”

  He paused, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t offer one.

  “Then consider the invitation open-ended. Some weekend when my cop cousin lets you down or ticks you off and you need a nice strong, sympathetic shoulder to lean on, ring me up. Mikey never has to know about it—”

  This is a waste of my time.

  I wasn’t going to get anything more out of this guy. That was obvious. My decision was clear. I would give Rossi all eight names of the men who’d attended my espresso-making lessons this evening: Captain Michael Quinn, Lieutenant Oat Crowley, and firefighters Dino Elfante, Ronny Shaw, Ed Schott, and Alberto Ortiz. Bigsby Brewer and James Noonan would be on that list, too. I hated adding their names. To me, they were heroes who’d risked their safety to carry Madame and Enzo out of that collapsing caffè—but if there was a chance they were guilty, then I had to tell Rossi, let him investigate, decide for himself.

  “Good night, Captain,” I said, cutting him off midpass.

  “Wait.” Michael moved with me, blocking my way. “One more thing, Clare . . .”

  “What?”

  “I want you to know: Whatever Mikey told you about Kevin”—he lifted his chin toward the I-love-my-brother wall—“it’s his version of events. Remember that . . .”

  Confused for a moment, I turned back to the Kevin Quinn shrine, looked over the photos again. “Your brother is the reason you and Mike have been feuding all these years—is that what you’re saying? Because that’s not what Mike told me . . .”

  “What did he tell you?”

  I conveyed the story about Mike’s old girlfriend Leta, about her dad being shot in cold blood during a bodega robbery, about his classmate Pete Hogarth’s father being the killer and Mike’s being labeled a narc at the academy because of Hogarth’s two relatives being in the same class. “Mike chose to be a cop instead of a firefighter,” I finished, “so you felt betrayed, like he let you down and you never got over it.”

  “My cousin’s very good at twisting the truth.”

  “So are you.”

  “That’s not why we want to take each other’s heads off, Clare.”

  “Okay then. What is it your brother did to Mike?”

  “Other way ’round.”

  I narrowed my eyes at that one. “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Because you ought to hear this. And once you do, you’ll know why he never told you the truth about our feud . . .”

  I exhaled. “Never told me what exactly?”

  “My little brother, Kev, was all set to start at the fire academy. Some of his buddies took him out for a few rounds to help him celebrate. On his way back home, a couple of ex-jarheads in blue pull him over. You know why? Because his SUV had FDNY stickers plastered all over it.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “The annual FDNY-NYPD football game had just gone down in favor of the fire boys. These cops lost a very juicy bet. So they took it out on Kev. He told them about Mike, said ‘Listen, I got a cousin who’s a detective, cut me a break.’ So they let Kevin call Mike on his cell, and you know what your asshole boyfriend told those cops?”

  I stared.

  “Mike told those mutts to arrest Kevin for DUI. The kid’s future was destroyed, Clare. The FDNY wouldn’t take him after that. He did jail time. Imagine if it were your little brother—or your child—for a few beers . . .”

  The man’s eyes were flashing. He moved closer, invading my space. “Kevin and I were supposed to be FDNY brothers together. We had wanted that since we were kids, since our dad died. Now Kevin’s had to relocate for his civilian job—all the way up to Boston. I hardly see him anymore—my only brother, gone from my life because of my pigheaded cousin’s NYPD advancement dreams.”

  “But . . . aren’t you blaming Mike for something that Kevin got himself into . . .”

  “Aw, darlin’ . . .” He shook his head, looking more heart-broken than angry. “Don’t you get it? Mike didn’t want to look bad. He didn’t want to risk someone finding out that he got the rules bent for a relative. Your precious boyfriend put his police career before helping his own flesh and blood.”

  My mouth went dry. I wanted to chalk this up to the captain’s twisted version of events, but there was such sincerity in his tone, in his eyes . . . I couldn’t chalk this one up to baloney. Still, I had to tell him . . .

  “That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

  “You haven’t known him long enough, then.” His voice went low and soft, like he was doing me a serious favor, warning me of a coming earthquake. “I’m tellin’ you, Clare, you should move yourself good and clear of my cousin, for your own well-being . . .”

  My reply came, but it was hardly audible. “I don’t agree.”

  “You will, darlin’. Like I told you, my invitation is open-ended. One weekend when you see the jerkoff for what he is and you’re cryin’ you eyes out, you give me a call . . .”

  A loud, throbbing electronic tone interrupted us. A second later, knuckles rapped on the door. The captain held my eyes a long moment then tore himself away, stepped into the hall.

  “We got a hot one, Michael . . .”

  It was Oat Crowley’s muffled voice. On the floor below there were shouts and pounding feet.

  “One second, Oat . . .”

  The captain ducked back into his office. “Stay here, Clare. I have more to tel
l you. Wait for me to come back.”

  When he left again, I went to the doorway, watched his broad back moving quickly away.

  “What’s the job?” the captain asked.

  “Long Island City,” Oat replied, hurrying to catch up. “It’s a two-alarm, going to three . . .”

  The heavy bang of the stairwell door cut off their voices. In less than a minute, I felt the massive trucks rumbling under my feet, heard the sirens screaming as the ladder and engine companies raced into the night. When the building was still and quiet again, I headed down to the kitchen to retrieve my backpack. I bundled up tightly—coat, scarf, hat, gloves.

  A part of me was curious to hear what else the captain had to say, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever he wanted to tell me was going to come with those increasingly aggressive advances that had nothing to do with my “feminine charms” and everything to do with his vendetta against Mike.

  The walk back to my car came with bitterly cold wind gusts. I had expected them, prepared for them, but I shivered just the same. This whole evening had ended badly, and I suddenly knew how those men felt at the end of my espresso lesson. Getting a few answers seldom settled anything, it only confirmed the need to ask more questions.

  I didn’t want to admit it, but the captain’s story had shaken me. I’d always had so much faith in Mike Quinn. We’d been through so much together. But the same had been true with me and Matt—until I’d learned the truth of his behavior during our marriage . . .

  When my cell phone vibrated in my front pocket, I was shivering so hard I almost didn’t feel it. I tugged off one glove, checked the screen. Who was calling from the Blend?

  “It’s Tucker. Someone left a package for you.”

  “What do you mean someone?”

  “There’s no return address.”

  “Well, didn’t you see who left it?”

  “No, sweetie. Some NYU students noticed a backpack under an empty table. They looked inside and all they found was this brown paper package addressed to you so they brought it to the counter.”

  It took me a second to add up two and two: abandoned package, nothing else in the backpack, addressed to me, left in our coffeehouse.

  Oh my God. “Tucker, clear everyone out of the building! Call 911! Tell them to send the bomb squad! Now!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  IT was the longest drive of my life—with the possible exception of that predawn cab ride to the ICU all those years ago, when my young, stupid husband had nearly killed himself partying too hard.

  Northern Boulevard led straight to the Queensboro, and I ascended the bridge ramp in record time. Just one day ago, shades of magic hour light had gilded this span. Tonight’s lonely crossing felt blacker than outer space.

  Twice I smacked the button on my car’s heater, but the unit was hardly working. It failed to lessen my bone-cold chill, and the dark void between bridge and river only made me shiver harder.

  As I hurled my old car toward Manhattan’s wall of flickering windows, a distant memory flashed through my mind—the image of a luna moth, throwing herself against the glass of our porch lantern.

  “Why is she doing that, Daddy!”

  “Just her nature, honey. It’s how God made her . . .”

  “But she’ll burn up!”

  “She’s not worrying about that part, muffin. She’s just trying to get to the light . . .”

  Now I knew how that little moth felt. A part of me wanted to soar away, fly off somewhere to get some peace, think everything through. But that’s not how I was made. As long as I cared, there was no flying away.

  Traffic thickened at the bridge’s end and my impatience rose. Spotting an opening, I sped up. Angry horns bleated as I cut off slow-moving bumpers, swung in a careening arc onto the wide, multilaned spectacle of Second Avenue.

  Now I was racing south from Fifty-ninth, a straight shot downtown. Green lights tasted sweet, like seedless grapes; red lights were bitter. Yellow felt longer than midsummer days, my excuse to squash down the pedal.

  At Fourteenth I turned west, zoomed across the island to Manhattan’s West Side, traveled south again and looped around to Hudson. I parked in front of the Blend, cut the engine. The shop’s front door was locked but the lights were on. Tucker, Dante, and Matt were standing inside. I rapped on the glass.

  “Where is it!” I cried when Tucker threw the bolt.

  “Calm down, sweetie.” He held up his palms. “Like I told you before you hung up on me, there’s no bomb in the package.”

  “Where!”

  “Take it easy, Clare . . .” Matt’s face was in front of me now, gaze steady. “I looked the whole package over myself. It’s like Tucker told you. There was no need to call the bomb squad. There’s no firebomb . . .”

  My ex-husband’s hands felt firm on my shoulders, but worry lines were creasing his forehead.

  “Show me,” I said.

  Matt led me to the marble counter. Dante stood silently behind it, head still bandaged under his fedora, ropey arms folded. I met his eyes.

  “That arsonist’s ass is mine,” he said quietly.

  I’d never heard this tone from Dante before. I mean, sure, he was serious about his painting, but as a barista at the Blend, he was always a carefree dude, as mellow as his ambient playlists.

  Not at the moment. The burning demons in Dante’s retinas now rivaled Captain Michael’s.

  “Whenever you nail this asshole, you give him to me.”

  “She’s not nailing anyone,” Matt snapped. “Whatever lunatic quest she’s been on stops tonight.”

  I still didn’t understand what they were talking about—until I moved closer to the counter. A charcoal gray backpack was sitting there with every pocket unzipped and turned out. A small, brown box sat beside it, already opened. Inside was a plain piece of paper displaying three typewritten words.

  FOR CLARE COSI

  “What’s for me?” I whispered.

  “A warning,” Matt said. He reached in, lifted up the paper.

  Beneath it was a box of wooden matches. A single match had been taken out of its box. The slender charred stick had been struck, then blown out, half burned.

  FIFTEEN minutes later I was standing amid a sea of banged up desks in the Sixth Precinct’s detective squad room.

  “Mike, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said above the raised voices and ringing phones.

  “It’s okay . . .”

  Mike Quinn was jacketless, his weapon holstered under his left arm, leather straps making their usual indelible creases in his starched white shirt. Under the harsh fluorescence, his features looked just about as starched. Then his gaze moved over me and his expression softened, his voice melting with it.

  “What do you need, sweetheart?”

  For you to put your arms around me, that’s what I need. For you to explain your cousin’s ugly accusations. I need you to make love to me . . .

  “Can we talk? Privately.”

  “Yeah, Quinn.” Matt stepped out from behind me. “Make it as soon as possible.”

  A dunking in liquid nitrogen would have been warmer than the look Quinn gave my ex. His eyes found mine again, as if searching for an explanation. Then he looked back to Matt.

  “Give me a second.”

  “Why’s your flatfoot working so late?” Matt loudly asked after Quinn departed.

  “Lower your voice,” I whispered when a female detective glanced our way. “Mike’s launching an undercover investigation. It starts tonight.”

  My gaze followed Quinn as he strode back over to a cluster of desks in the corner. He spoke for a minute to the tight group of detectives he oversaw, one of whom I recognized immediately by his ruddy face and carrot-colored cop hair: Finbar “Sully” Sullivan.

  Sully was wiring up another man for surveillance. (I knew this because when I was helping Quinn on a case a short time ago, Sully had wired me.) This second man was also familiar—Sergeant Emmanuel Franco.

  Because Sully was still preppin
g him, Franco’s flannel shirt was open, revealing a weight lifter’s six-pack and part of a tattoo. A hard hat covered his shaved head and one hand gripped a bright orange vest. The construction-guy costume made sense for his new undercover assignment.

  After the trendy Manhattan club near the Williamsburg Bridge was cleared of dealing ecstasy and Liquid E to its clientele, the nearby construction site’s workers became the squad’s new target.

  Matt nudged me, pointed across the room. “That younger guy your flatfoot’s talking to, the one in the hard hat with his shirt open, he looks familiar.”

  “No,” I lied, “he doesn’t.”

  “Sure he does. That’s the cop who interrogated us last December. Franco was his name. I remember now. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco,” Matt spat. “I’ll never forget that mook.”

  I gritted my teeth. Our daughter had failed to inform her father that she’d had several “hot dates” with Sergeant “Mook” after our Christmas party. With Joy back in France, I figured their relationship was over and it didn’t matter, anyway. So why bring it up?

  Quinn returned and motioned for us to follow him. “I don’t have a private office,” he said as we crossed the busy floor. “We’ll have to talk in an interview room.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, expecting as much.

  Like the NYPD Bomb Squad, which was also based at the Sixth, the jurisdiction of Mike’s OD Squad spanned all five boroughs. With his work mostly in the field, there were no proper offices for his small crew, just that tight cluster of desks in the open squad room.

  “I’m not too keen on interview rooms,” Matt said as he dodged two suits and a uniformed officer. “You’re not planning to chain me to anything, are you, Quinn?”

  “I don’t know, Allegro. That’s entirely up to you.”

  Mike shut the door and we sat down at a metal table with four equally uncomfortable metal chairs. The interview room’s walls were concrete block and the only window had one-way glass.

  The space had all the warmth of a closet at the city morgue. But the stifling feeling was exactly the point. Detectives didn’t bring suspects in here for tea parties. They brought them here to extract confessions, and the only differences I could see between this airless space and the dimly lit confessional where I’d recited my girlish sins was the kneeler—and the lighting. In Father Pentanni’s box, I could hardly see a thing. Here in Quinn’s confessional the glare was even harsher than in the squad room.