by Cleo Coyle
“Sorry, Clare! I have to take this!”
“Sure, of course.”
The tinny tune sounded like one of those club hits of the 1980s: “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record).” Val answered the cell without bothering to check the caller ID.
“Dean! I can’t believe you called back . . . What? . . . You’re here? Really?” With her free hand, Val felt the condition of her hair, adjusted her lopsided name tag. “I’m on the north side of the park, across the street from that big Barnes & Noble—Huh? Turn around?”
She did and laughed when she saw a man with sun-bronzed skin in a black leather jacket, standing right behind us, cell phone at his ear.
Val closed her phone and air-kissed the newcomer. “Thank you so much, Dean.”
“My guys are at the podium right now, setting things up.” Dean’s voice was deep, with a slight foreign accent. Greek?
“You have a band?” I interrupted.
Val turned to me. “He has a sound system—and that’s what I desperately needed. The one I leased for the day cut out, and their so-called technician couldn’t fix it. The mayor’s coming, so is the fire commissioner and a whole bunch of celebrities. I was in a total panic, so I put in a call to my old friend here . . .” She turned back to the man. “I didn’t think you’d get here in time.”
“My darling, you sounded so distressed on the phone that I rushed it here from Brooklyn. The nightclub’s main system is permanent, you know, so I brought the portable stuff. We use it for live acts, but you’re welcome to it for as long as you need it.”
“I so appreciate this,” Val said, again patting her wind-ravaged twist. “Make sure I send you a charitable giving form to fill out. You can declare you labor as a tax deduction.”
Dean waved away the thought. “I did this for my dear friend, not for a tax break.”
“Clare, I want you to meet the man who saved my life. Clare Cosi. This is Constantine Tassos—Dean for short.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “So you run a club?”
“Oh, yes.” Dean nodded, handing over a business card in a smooth, practiced gesture. “The Blue Mirage in Bensonhurst. Actually I own several catering halls in Brooklyn and Queens, and I have two other Mirage clubs. The Purple Mirage in North Jersey—”
“And the Red Mirage in Astoria?” (It was right there on his card.)
Dean nodded. “That’s correct.”
He was a compact man, a little shorter than Val, with not an ounce of spare weight on his slight form. His eyes were dark and intense under unruly ebony curls. I guessed the man’s age around forty, but it was only a guess. His smile looked whiter than bleached sheets, contrasting strikingly with his tanned face. Florida golf courses or a day spa’s tanning booth? My guess was the latter, given the manicured state of his fingernails when he’d handed over his card.
“Are you a patron of my Queens establishment, Ms. Cosi?”
“I’ve seen the place,” I replied, recalling the garish neon reflected in the wet black pavement the night Caffè Lucia went up in flames. “I met one of your managers.” (The jerk who called my car a junk heap.) “And he was kind of . . . pushy.”
“Ah, well, the business can do that to you. There’s rough trade around every nightclub and tavern. I’m compelled to operate with managers who know how to handle many situations, some of them ugly.” His Clorox smile returned. “I hope the experience wasn’t too unpleasant.”
“Not at all.”
“Listen, Dean,” Val said, squeezing his arm. “I need to know how soon we’ll have sound.”
“It’s probably ready,” he replied. “Let’s go check.”
Val turned to me. “Sorry, Clare, I’ve got to get back to work—”
“I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tassos.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he replied, politely shaking my hand.
I watched Val and Dean walk toward the podium. They paused for a moment, while Dean lit a cigarette for Val with a silver Ronson lighter. Then he lit one for himself. Smoking together, they strolled in the direction of the stage. I noticed Dean’s hand rest familiarly on Val’s waist. She did nothing to shrug him off.
After Val’s tirade, I assumed James was having the affair. Now I wondered if my assumptions were misguided. Or maybe it was both partners finding sympathetic ears and arms outside of their unhappy marriage.
How sad it all seemed . . .
On my way back to the Blend’s kiosk, prerecorded music blared, signaling the sound system was working again. A moment later the master of ceremonies took to the podium. Corey Parker, action-hero star of Six Alarm! a show about the trials and travails of the hunky men on the FDNY, was greeted by applause and whistles from the women—and a few gay men.
Finally I moved on and spied Matt standing at the door of a dingy white rental van that had seen better days.
Dante was just walking away from the truck’s open side doors with an arm full of paper products. Matt doubled-checked the interior to make sure it was empty.
My ex had changed out of his morning sweats, into blue jeans, retro sneakers, and a black crew-neck sweater. He’d shaved and worked on his hair, too, and as I approached, I detected the musky citrus scent of the latest French cologne—compliments of his new wife, no doubt.
“Thanks for the delivery. I’m sure Esther was frantic,” I said.
I think my eyes bugged just then, because Matt stared at me with alarm.
“Clare? What’s the matter?”
My attention was fixed on a sleek gold car across the street, and the two people chatting beside it. One was Oat Crowley, still puffing up a storm. The other was a woman with short, slicked-back, salon-blond hair. I felt chilly just looking at her thin capri pants and four-inch metallic gladiator sandals—such was the woman’s chosen attire for this blustery March day, along with a silk scarf over a tight blouse with the kind of plunging neckline more appropriate for a night of clubbing than a day in the park. She was laughing, too, which is why it took me a moment to recognize her. The last time I saw this piece of work, she looked like she’d been sucking sour pickles.
“Matt! That’s Lucia!”
“Who?”
“Lucia Testa, Enzo’s daughter, and she’s laughing it up with Oat Crowley—oh God, they’re getting into her car—”
I opened the door of our rental van and shoved Matt into the driver’s seat. I didn’t waste time running to the passenger side and going through the door, either. I just climbed right over my ex.
“Clare, what the hell are you—”
“Quick, they’re leaving!”
“But—”
“Matt, shut up and drive!”
“Drive where?”
I pointed, my finger tapping the windshield like a mad woodpecker. “Just follow that car!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
OUR lumbering, weather-beaten rental van didn’t have a lot of pick up—and neither did Matt’s reaction time—so Lucia and Oat got a good head start. By the time we pulled away from the curb, their gilded coupe was five vehicles away, all ready to swing onto Fourteenth when the light turned green.
“Who exactly are we following?”
“The people in that car!” I pointed again. “The one with its stupid rear end sticking up!”
“Don’t you know anything about cars, Clare? It’s shaped that way to reduce resistance to air—”
Not that tone again! “We’re too far away.”
“It’s a Corvette, by the way. Looks like a 2009 C6 model. Breanne rented one when we were in Los Angeles. Handles nicely but—”
“Enough with the Motor Trend review! You need to get us closer! I want to spy on them!”
“Why?”
I leveled my gaze on the man. “Because these two might be the people who threatened to torch the Village Blend.”
Matt’s eyes went cold and his smirk vanished. He reached into the sun visor, brought down a pair of Ray-Bans, and slipped them on.
“Buc
kle your seat belt.”
I did. The green light flashed and Lucia’s Corvette took off like a Formula One car at the Grand Prix.
“You have to make this light. Pretend you’re driving in Zimbabwe.”
Matt gunned the engine then slammed the brakes, throwing my torso forward then back.
What the—? In front of us, a yellow taxi stopped moving!
“Do something!” I shouted.
Matt laid on the horn. The cabbie ignored us. Completely. He was picking up a fare.
“Go around! Go around!”
Matt jerked the steering wheel. Our van abruptly nosed into the other lane, rudely cutting off an SUV. The driver blew her horn so loudly I was sure I’d go deaf, but we made it. Matt veered around the taxi and slammed the gas pedal. We sped into the intersection, swinging into the turn so violently that we tipped onto two wheels.
“Holy cats!”
My rear left the seat and my head bounced off the foam ceiling. I dropped down, along with the van, and felt another jolt as Matt hit the brakes, then wrenched the wheel to get around a slow-moving delivery truck. He plowed right through a set of construction cones, bumped us onto a closed sidewalk then off again.
“What are you doing?!”
“Zimbabwe, Clare! Remember?”
Matt made another turn, onto Third Avenue. Now we were heading uptown, our rumbling white antique weaving through traffic at twice the speed of the cars around us. Finally, he slammed the brake for another traffic light.
“And that’s how it’s done!”
A cocky smile appeared below his Ray-Bans, and I took my first breath since we’d tipped onto two wheels. A single car now sat between us and Lucia.
“Thank you—”
“You’re welcome.”
“—for not killing us.”
“Have you ever been to Zimbabwe, Clare?”
“Not lately.”
“The airport minibus drivers don’t like to leave until all of their seats are filled. It can take hours before they depart, then they make up for lost time by racing along lousy roads, shaky bridges, and clogged villages in excess of ninety miles an hour.”
“Well, here in New York, we have a little thing called the NYPD. The last thing we need is a pull-over from a sergeant having a bad-cop hair day.” I checked the mirror. No sector cars, wailing sirens, or nickel-plated badges—yet.
“Okay, start explaining,” Matt said. “Why does Enzo’s daughter want to burn down our Village Blend? Something you did, no doubt.”
“I’m this close to snapping.”
The light turned green, and we started uptown again, at a normal speed, thank goodness.
“Clare?” Matt said. “Explain.”
“This Coffee Shop Arsonist is bogus. I’m sure of it.”
“You’re sure a terrorist threat is bogus. Right. Uh-huh. And have you told Homeland Security?”
“Matt—”
“The CIA will want to know, too. And don’t forget the FBI. They get very testy when they’re kept out of the loop.”
“Shut up and listen! The pattern of fires makes no sense. Not for a political activist. Terrorists choose targets that have high visibility, targets that will make an impact. Enzo’s place is just a small, independently owned caffè. Why would someone with an agenda target it?”
“Because the agenda’s crazy—and so is the someone. Maybe this mad bomber lives near Enzo’s caffè and found it a convenient target. Come on, Clare, you know very well the chain coffeehouse that burned last week has outspoken detractors all over the world. A few years ago, someone tried to bomb one in Manhattan, don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. And I’m sure Oat Crowley did, too.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I think Oat set that third fire to take the heat off the investigation of the arson at Enzo’s place. I think he and Lucia sent that letter to the newspaper to mislead the authorities, too.”
“What about the other fire, the one in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn?” Matt challenged. “It was set the same night and practically the same time as the fire that almost killed my mother in Queens.”
“I don’t know about that fire. Oat may have set it as well.”
“Why? How could that fire help him?”
“I don’t know . . . unless they were planning this coffee shop arson thing from the start to throw off the fire marshals.”
“That’s a stretch.”
I thought it over, glanced out the side window. “It could have been a coincidence.”
“Coincidence?” Matt laughed, short and sharp. “Aren’t you always quoting your flatfoot back to me when I say that?”
I slumped backward, unable to argue, and reluctant to admit (out loud, anyway) that Matt was right. Mike Quinn would never accept such a lame explanation from a fellow investigating detective. He would probably move forward by reviewing the facts related to that fire, which I didn’t have. Still . . .
“I want to start with what’s in front of me, okay? Oat has been acting hostile ever since he overheard me vow to find the person who set the Caffè Lucia fire. He used a wooden match to light his cigar in the park, a match just like the one I received as a threat. I want to see for myself where exactly Lucia and Oat are going together, what they’re up to . . .”
Matt frowned, the quipless quiet an indication the man was at least considering that I might be right. “Maybe I should have brought a weapon.”
“I think you’ve had enough run-ins with the police in this town. And don’t get too close to them! They might see us.”
“They don’t know me, Clare, and I’m wearing shades. As usual, you’re the problem. Scrunch down a little and they won’t see you.”
“Fine. I just don’t want to miss anything.”
“There’s nothing to miss because these two are not lovers.”
“How do you know?”
“Watch them,” Matt said. “There’s no evidence of intimacy that I can see . . .”
“Suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” I sat up again and looked for myself. The van was high, the Corvette low, so I could easily peer through its rear window. I watched the pair as Matt eased us into the left lane at Fifty-seventh, then climbed the Queensboro bridge on ramp.
“She’s laughing,” I said. “She must be having fun with him—”
“She’s being polite. See how stiff she is.”
“Look there! She’s reaching out her hand—”
“To adjust the radio. We’re on the bridge now; some stations won’t come in.”
I folded my arms. “So why are they in a car together?”
“I didn’t say there was nothing going on between them. The guy’s clearly interested. Look at the way he’s talking to her, waving his arms. He’s fully engaged and really trying to connect. But she ain’t buying.”
“You’re misinterpreting. She’s stiff because driving in this city is stressful!”
Through yet another game of urban bumper cars, Matt managed to fend off vehicular interlopers and hang close to Lucia’s Corvette from the lower level of the bridge all the way to a tree-lined block in Astoria.
About halfway down the sleepy side street, Lucia swung into a driveway beside a modest, two-family home. Matt had been hanging back and now stopped the van half a block away. Together Lucia and Oat emerged from the golden coupe and climbed the porch steps. She unlocked the front door, and he followed her inside, still puffing his cigar.
“Look! Lucia let Oat smoke that cheap cigar in her Corvette, and now she’s letting him stink up her apartment, too! That’s proof she’s hooking up with him.”
“Or she’s being polite,” Matt said.
“Trust me. Lucia Testa is not polite.”
Matt bet the pair would be out in minutes. They were in that house for well over an hour. Finally they emerged, strolling casually back onto the porch.
While they were inside, Matt and I had spent the time making up several scenarios for what they might be doing.
When Lucia paused to lock her front door, however, the answer was clearer than bottled spring water. Oat stepped close behind Lucia, snaked an arm around her waist, and kissed her neck.
“Matt, look!”
Lucia let the man fondle her for a few seconds then she turned to shake a naughty-boy finger at him. Oat laughed again and lit a new cigar. Then they descended the porch steps and climbed back into her Corvette.
“Where are they going now?” Matt griped as we turned off the side street and onto the main drag of Steinway.
“Admit it, Matt. You were wrong.”
He shot me a frown, admitted nothing.
A few minutes later, we were back on Northern Boulevard, then turning onto another shady block.
“I know this street,” I said. “They’re going to Michael Quinn’s firehouse.”
Lucia pulled up in front of the redbrick fortress, and Oat emerged from the car, still puffing up a noxious cloud. He walked through the open garage doors, between the two fire trucks, and vanished.
We sat, fifty feet away, waiting for Lucia to leave. But she remained sitting in her parked vehicle. A few minutes later, Oat appeared again, carrying a bright orange shopping bag.
I sat up straighter. “Matt! Do you see that bag?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s the same kind of bag that Sully and Franco brought for me and Mike the night of Caffè Lucia’s fire.”
“What’s in it?”
“Well, it’s supposed to hold UFC Korean fried chicken. But I doubt very much that bag has chicken in it.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What does it have inside, Clare?”
“Some kind of bomb-making material.”
“And you think that because . . . ?”
“Oat’s cigar,” I pointed. “It’s gone. I’m sure he was afraid to smoke while he was carrying combustible materials.”
Matt didn’t reply, but he didn’t argue, either. He started the van’s engine and rolled up behind Lucia as she left the curb.
“So where is she going now?” I said. “Where do you hide a bomb?”
“Drop down in your seat,” Matt snapped. “We’re right on top of her now.”
