by Cleo Coyle
Esther licked some marshmallow off the corner of her darkly glossed lip. “Sticky, but good.”
“I wonder if Joy could bake this?” Franco said.
I was about to inform the sergeant that my daughter’s interest in Fluffernutters ended when she quit the Girl Scouts. But I bit my tongue. I’d learned a thing or two during Joy’s teen years. Better not encourage their relationship by discouraging it.
“So, Coffee Lady, I heard something about a free cuppa joe with a purchase.”
I nodded. “That’s right. And for a purchase that big he deserves a large.”
Esther presented Franco with his coffee—black, no sugar.
“Mmmm, hot stuff,” he said after a sip. “Kind of like that new batch of digital goodies Joy sent me from France.”
When he waggled his eyebrows, I nearly lost it. “Just what kind of photos is my daughter sending you?!”
“Calm down, Momma Hen.” Franco laughed over his coffee cup. “They’re pictures of some of the dishes Joy’s been making. A sweet roasted chicken, some pretty vegetable medleys, a glistening glazed duck, and a very sexy puff pastry.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said, relieved—until I noticed Tucker exchanging a look with Esther.
“Did you know Frenchies eat pigeons?” Franco asked, completely serious.
Esther folded her arms. “You mean squab?”
“Squab? Is that what—” Franco suddenly stopped. He seemed to be listening to something that we couldn’t—like a micro radio receiver in his ear. “Sorry. I’d love to continue this discussion about what Frenchies call rats with wings, but I gotta go.”
“What a relief,” I said to Esther when Franco was out of earshot. “I thought my daughter was sending him . . . Well, never mind what I thought.”
“Oh, boss . . .” Esther gaped at me with pity. “You are so naïve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Franco may come off as a mook, but Joy’s really into him. She says he’s got these way wicked magic hands, and when they’re alone together—”
“Stop! I don’t want to know!” Now I was the one holding my head like the kid from Home Alone.
Tuck put his hand on my shoulder. “Add it up, Clare. Joy’s a professional cook. It’s her passion. And she’s sending Franco pictures of her dishes.”
“So?” I said, still feeling clueless.
“Hello!” Esther’s eyes bugged. “You never heard of food porn?”
The thought of my daughter sending that cocky sergeant any form of porn left me sufficiently horrified. For a moment, I was so distracted, I didn’t notice what Dante already had.
“Boss . . .” He said, gently tapping me. “James Noonan is here . . .”
Dante lifted his chin and I looked in the direction he’d subtly indicated. The crowd was breaking up after the bagpipers turned the stage over to a local politician. James stood only a few feet away from our tent. He was surrounded by firefighters. I didn’t recognize the other men, but it was clear they knew James and were offering their condolences.
“He looks like a freakin’ zombie,” Dante whispered. “Even worse than at the funeral.”
It was true, James seemed to have recovered little since that heartbreaking day. He’d been inconsolable at the church—so overwhelmed by grief that he’d left the mass early. He never showed up at the wake, either, though his wife made a brief appearance. I’d hoped to see Captain Michael step in and help, but he had his hands full comforting Bigsby’s mother and two sisters.
I waited until the other firemen drifted away, and then I brought James a double espresso.
TWENTY-FIVE
“HEY, Ms. Cosi.”
“Hey to you,” I replied, giving him a smile.
He brightened a little when he saw me, but his smile was barely there. In the strong morning sun, James’ complexion looked like stale bread dough, his bloodshot eyes were dulled and shadowed, the crimson webs as pronounced as wild mace growing over nutmeg seeds.
I pointed to a bench just vacated by a pair of EMS workers, and we sat down. “So, what do you think of the sale?” I asked, starting with what I hoped was a neutral question.
“It’s nice. Real nice. And thank you for the espresso.” James sipped once then stared across the park. “Bigs was looking forward to today. All the ‘tempting offerings’ as he put it.”
“He enjoyed home-baked goodies?”
“Yeah . . .” James glanced at me. “Those, too.”
He tipped his head and I followed his gaze to a trio of young women—chic, fashionable, and thin as celery stalks—flirting with two young firefighters. The Manhattan girls were shopping for something warm, sweet, and comforting, and it didn’t appear to involve chocolate, sugar, or pastry flour . . .
“This town’s raining estrogen, you know?” James said. “Ladies in hose and heels. Bigs loved them.”
“I noticed. So did Dante. The number of single white roses at Bigsie’s funeral was hard to miss . . .” (Not to mention the number of single, well-dressed women.)
“Yeah, Bigs liked to send a white rose to a girl after he had a nice, uh . . . evening with her.”
James paused and his frown deepened. “You know the worst part of it, Ms. Cosi? My best friend died for nothing. It shouldn’t have happened. He did everything right. It was someone else who screwed up . . .”
“I don’t want to cause you any more pain,” I said as gently as I could, “but I’d like to know more about what happened that night. I’d like to know exactly how your friend died.”
James rubbed his neck for a moment then finally spoke. “Two companies were fighting the flames when we got there. It had already spread to the ground floor of the building next door. Oat ordered us up the fire escape to vent the second structure—me, Bigs, Dino Elfante, and Ronny Shaw.”
A cloud crossed James’s pallid features. “Everything was going okay, by the book. The roof was flat with no apparent hot spots, not much smoke, either. Bigs kind of moved away from the rest of us, poking the roof with his Halligan tool. Then all hell broke loose. There was a blast, and a chunk of the roof flew into the air. It was like a volcano of fire that suddenly just blew.”
James paused, gulped at his double.
“The fire marshals said the basement had an illegal conversion. That’s what funneled the fire so fast from the coffeehouse to the office building next door. And the second floor of that office structure was undergoing some kind of unlicensed renovation. There were combustibles all over the place. So when the first floor started cooking the second, everything went up without warning.”
James drained his cup dry. “We hit the same fire escape we came up on. Dino and Ronny were long gone when I realized Bigs wasn’t behind me.”
He crushed the paper cup in his fist.
“I went back up. The roof was still partially intact. There wasn’t much smoke, but the heat and fire were unreal. I could see Bigs on the other side of that burning hole. There was no way he could make it back to the fire escape, but he was ready.”
“Ready?”
“Bigs had already found a heavy rafter and pounded down his roof spike. He’d hooked the safety line to the spindle, and he was about to jump over the side—”
“Roof spike?” I interrupted. “That’s the same tool Bigs had me holding the night I came by the firehouse, right?”
“Yeah,” James said.
“So what happened next?”
“Bigs saw me through the flames and he kind of waved. He was even laughing, looking forward to testing out the spike, I think. Then he jumped over the side. That’s when the secondary hit—”
“Sorry. What’s a secondary?”
“A second explosion. Almost as big as the first. Flames shot up from the lower floors and knocked me on my ass. I hit the fire escape and didn’t stop until I kissed the ground.”
“Was it the second blast that caused Bigs to fall?”
James stared straight ahead. “That’s what Oat said. But that�
�s not the way I see it. I think Bigs was murdered, Ms. Cosi, just like someone shot him with a gun.”
I thought I understood. “Don’t worry, James. The authorities will catch this arsonist—”
“It wasn’t the arsonist.” His whisper sounded more like a hiss. “It’s worse than that—”
He suddenly stopped talking and his entire body tensed. I followed his stare and realized for the first time that we had an audience. Not far away, Lieutenant Oat Crowley was watching us.
Now I was tensing, too. I noticed Oat take a cigar out of his jacket and light it. Every smoker I knew used lighters. Not Oat. He’d just lit his cigar with a wooden match.
Oat wasn’t standing alone. Another man was conversing with him—and doing most of the talking. With Oat’s gaze still on James and me, he slipped the box of matches back into his hip pocket.
My mind was racing now, but I refocused on James and something significant he’d said: “What did you mean when you said Bigs was murdered? If not by the arsonist, then by whom?”
James had been staring at his lieutenant. With my question, he lowered his eyes. “Forget it, Ms. Cosi. I didn’t say a thing, all right?”
“I can’t forget it, James. You helped me once, now I want to—”
“Forget it,” he repeated.
Oat and the other man were now approaching us. The stranger had a friendly, lopsided smile under shaggy, wheat-colored hair. A crooked line of freckles sprinkled his pug nose and his ears seemed comically large for his head. The awkward boyishness was not without charm, however, and the addition of small round glasses and laugh lines had him coming off more as an absentminded professor than a stand-in for Alfred E. Newman.
Cigar clenched between his teeth, Lieutenant Crowley wore his usual scowl. Blue smoke floated almost satanically around his head. The aroma washed over us. Not the crisp, woody scent of fine tobacco, but the sharp, rank stench of cheap stogies like the ones my bookie father used to hand out to winners, along with their pay out.
I stifled a cough as I rose to greet them.
“What are you two gossiping about?” Oat said around his cigar. The hostility radiating from the lieutenant was nothing new, but there was also suspicion.
The boyish bespectacled stranger picked up on the tension and stepped in fast to pump James’s hand. “You’re Noonan, right? We’ve met, haven’t we? I’m Ryan Lane,” he said, flashing a warm smile.
“Hello.”
“Oat told me about your loss. I’m really sorry. Brewer was a real hero.”
James nodded. “Thanks for that.”
“No thanks necessary,” Lane replied. “The sacrifice of men like Brewer is what the Fallen Firefighters Fund is all about.”
Lane’s practiced pitch came as no surprise. I’d noticed the name tag on his camel hair sport coat identifying him as a board member of the firefighters’ charity.
“You’re the woman responsible for this superb coffee, right?” Lane asked, looking at me now.
“I’m Clare Cosi. Thank you for the compliment.”
“The Village Blend is a landmark. I’ve been there several times,” he said.
I forced a smile, trying harder to remember if I’d ever waited on him.
“Excellent coffees, and a nice variety, too. Your espressos are as good as anything I’ve tasted in Italy. I do a cycling tour every five years.” He grinned, adjusted his glasses. “Unfortunately I live and work in North Jersey right now, too far away to be a regular customer. But I buy your whole-bean coffee whenever I’m in town.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“Well, I just love coffee, Ms. Cosi! I’d love to tell you about the time I visited a coffee farm—”
This Lane guy was a real talker, but I tuned out on his story the second I noticed Oat speaking to James: “So, kid, you got a shift coming up, right? You heading out soon?”
“Not yet,” James replied. “Got stuff to do first.”
Oat stared at James for a moment, and then his gaze shifted to me. He took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked the ashes off.
“Like what?” Oat said with a sneer, loudly enough to make Ryan Lane pause and listen, too. “Like hitting on divorced broads ten years your senior?”
I can’t believe he just said that. “Excuse me, Lieutenant?” I said. “But just what are you implying?”
Oat opened his mouth to respond when Mr. Lane (who appeared equally horrified by the man’s insult) interceded. “Hey, come on, we should go,” he said, touching Oat’s arm. “I’ve got to meet and greet the organizers, you know? And the mayor’s entourage is due any second.”
“Right,” Oat said, still openly glaring at me. Finally he stuck the cigar back in his mouth and walked off, puffing up a cloud like a two-legged dragon.
Ryan hurried to catch up, calling over his shoulder: “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”
I waited until James and I were alone before I spoke. “How does that nice guy know Oat?”
“Ryan Lane? He works for Fairfield Equipment.”
“What does Fairfield Equipment do?”
“They make rescue gear for firefighters.”
“And where does Oat fit into that?”
“Well, as I understand it, Oat’s father was a rookie firefighter with Ernest Fairfield back in the 1970s. Fairfield had a nose for business, and Oat’s old man was a do-it-yourself type. Together they made a bundle.”
“A bundle? How? Gambling?” (Given my father’s bookie business, I rarely saw any other way for a working-class man to make real money.)
“Not gambling, Ms. Cosi. Patents.”
“Patents?”
“A lot of the old-timers would make their own tools on the job—anything they could think of to make their lives easier. Kind of what I did with our house’s kitchen, cobbled together a bunch of appliances.”
“Oh, I see . . .”
“So Crowley Senior invented a lot of useful stuff, and Ernest Fairfield quit the department and started a company to manufacture it.”
“And Ryan Lane works for Fairfield.”
“Yeah. He showed up at our seminar a few months ago when we started training with the roof spikes.”
James was shifting impatiently now. It was obvious he didn’t like my new line of questioning.
“James, I’m sorry to bring this up again, but when you were talking about your friend’s death earlier, you used the word murdered—”
“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi. I see my wife heading our way.”
A moment later, I heard the fast-clicking heels of Valerie Noonan.
TWENTY-SIX
“JAMES, I’ve been looking for you all over!” Val cried, close to breathless. “Where did you park our car? I went to the vendors parking area on Sixteenth and—”
“Couldn’t find a spot on Sixteenth,” James said tightly. “The designated parking area was full.”
“Oh, damn.” Valerie’s shoulders sunk. Her auburn French twist looked a little ragged from the March wind gusts. Her cucumber green linen suit was still crisp, but the name tag on its lapel sat askew.
“So where’s the car?” she asked.
“I parked it at the St. James garage on—”
“You paid for parking?” One arm rose and fell, taking her thick clipboard with it. “That’s like fifty bucks or more! You know my job situation, James. You know how tight things are going to get for us soon—”
“The fund has an expense account, doesn’t it? Take the money from there. You worked hard enough for it. Why do you need the car, anyway?”
“I don’t need the car. I left something in the trunk.”
James exhaled hard. He took her arm. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Oh, forget it now,” Val said, pulling away. “I’ve got a crisis with the sound system on my hands. I’ve just got to hope that—”
“Sorry,” James said, glancing at his watch. “But I ought to get back to the house.”
“Oh? Okay. Well, since you’re taking the car,
could you stop at the store first?” Val said. “I wanted a bowl of cereal this morning and we’re out of milk. Paper towels, too, and pick up—”
“I meant the firehouse,” James said.
Val’s mouth closed. Then she reached into her pocket. “You’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.
Val was referring to the post-bake sale party. Every borough was having its own for the volunteers, and I’d been invited to the one being held at a Queens pub. Mike was supposed to meet me around eight.
“I’ll be there at nine, maybe sooner,” James replied, his gaze was unhappily focused on Val’s cigarette.
“It’s at Saints and Sinners. That’s in Woodside—”
“I know where it is,” James said. Then he nodded in my direction. “See you tonight, Clare.”
Val frowned as she watched her husband’s back. I stood and touched her arm. “Are you okay? Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?”
Cigarette between her lips, Val shook her head as she flicked a disposable lighter a half-dozen times in rapid succession without coaxing a flame. She groaned and—in a broad gesture of disgust—tossed the lighter and cigarette into a Parks Department trash can.
“It’s been hell since Bigsie died,” she said. “James is shutting down. I can’t tell his family, his friends. They don’t want to hear it.”
“What do you mean ‘James is shutting down’?”
“He’s short with me when I ask questions, he’s miserable and pouting all the time, and he won’t discuss what’s on his mind. Not with me, anyway. He’s talking to someone, though, because he disappears once in a while, goes to the garage where he has these long conversations on his cell phone.”
Three in the long and tragic list of warning signs your husband is having an affair. Pretty soon he’ll be going out with the guys or spending time with a client, or he just won’t come home one night.
“Listen, Val, your husband is going through a really bad time, but I think—”
A loud ring tone interrupted us. I’d heard Val’s cell go off many times, but I’d never heard it play this set of notes before.
