by Cleo Coyle
The Noonan kitchen was neat and well appointed. No surprise, considering the way James had manned his firehouse post. Every pot and pan hung efficiently on its pegboard hook. A sparkling clean coffeemaker stood at attention on the counter, its companion grinder on duty beside it. Flour and sugar canisters were lined up by descending height and a four-foot tall wine rack stood in the corner, fully stocked—again, not a surprise given James’s preferences.
I half smiled when my eye caught the bright orange of a shopping bag on the floor near the trash can. Yet another fan of UFC Korean Fried Chicken. Val, no doubt . . .
I was about to check the cupboards for whole bean Arabica when I noticed something on the kitchen table (other than the lazy Susan of condiments): a single bottle of beer. A pilsner glass sat next to it. The glass was nearly full, nearly because there was no head, the frothy white bubbles had died long ago.
But James doesn’t like beer . . .
I glanced up and noticed something curious beyond the back door window. A soft yellow light was glowing between the cracks in a small wooden shed—the garage Val mentioned. The structure was separated from the main house by a narrow concrete drive.
I moved to the kitchen’s back door and turned the handle. It was unlocked. I exited the house, feeling the chill of the night once more.
As I crossed the narrow drive, I became aware of a low rumbling. But this wasn’t the Number 7 train. This was the sound of an idling car engine. With every step closer to the shed, the rumbling grew louder. But why would someone want to run a car motor inside a garage?
Oh my God!
I lunged the last few feet to the door, tore it open, and gagged on the toxic white fog. A man’s body was slumped over the steering wheel.
I stumbled back outside, choking and coughing. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I charged back in, yanked open the car door, and used every molecule of strength to drag the big, inert body out to the cold concrete.
My heart was pumping, my adrenaline racing. Gasping violently, I turned over the unconscious man, desperate to help.
It was James Noonan, and there was no helping him. He was already dead.
THIRTY-THREE
METAL clinked against the windshield. I started at the sound. Disoriented, I licked my lips, tasted salt, and realized I’d cried myself to sleep. Then I remembered the reason and my eyes welled up all over again.
My ex-husband rapped the rain-flecked window a second time. To spur me to action, he pointed to the stainless steel thermos in his hand.
Coffee. Oh, thank goodness . . .
I sat up and popped the door lock. Matt climbed into the front passenger seat. His half-porcupine head looked like the before-and-after picture of a men’s hair gel commercial; his eyes were bloodshot; and twin emotions warred on his face, an epic struggle between concern and annoyance.
Without a word he unscrewed the thermos lid and poured. I grabbed the metal cup, bolted it, held it out for more, and gulped a second. Now I knew how Val felt, taking those first drags on the smokers’ patio.
“Okay, Clare,” Matt said, “I’m here. What the hell is going on? You were crying so hard I couldn’t understand half of what you were blubbering over the phone.”
I spilled the whole awful story: the drunken pass by Mike’s cousin, the unholy timing of Mike’s seeing it, the ugly bar fight, then my going home with Valerie and discovering her husband’s asphyxiated body in their small garage.
My hero firefighter was dead. As I described the baby pink color of James’s corpse, I broke down again. Matt handed me a handkerchief then put his arm around me. When I finished getting his leather jacket good and wet, I began telling him what happened after the police arrived.
“An army of them tramped all through the Noonans’ home,” I said. “Detectives interviewed Val and me in separate rooms, and I told them that I believed James was murdered.”
“Murdered? Why?”
“That’s what the detectives wanted to know.”
“And?”
“James was killed because of what he knew about Bigsby Brewer’s death. I’m sure of it.”
“What did he know?”
“James wouldn’t tell me. That’s why I went to see him. He was supposed to be at the pub, but he never showed. So I asked Val to help me try to coax the truth out of him . . . and I know there’s a truth. Michael Quinn even confirmed it.”
Matt looked about as convinced as those guys with the gold shields.
“I told the detectives to speak with the captain. They wrote his name down in their notebooks, assured me they’d follow up in the morning, but I don’t know . . .” I shook my head.
“What’s the matter, Clare? The cops will follow up.”
“It’s just that . . . despite my assuring them that James was murdered, they began looking hard for a suicide note, and unfortunately they found one—in Val’s e-mail box.”
“What did it say?”
“Five words. ‘I am so sorry. Good-bye.’ It was a text message sent from James’s phone earlier in the evening.”
“That’s it?”
“Anyone could have written it! Especially if James had texted Val in the past. The addresses would be right there, stored inside his phone!”
“Did you tell the cops?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think they believed me. Val broke down at the sight of the message, sobbed openly about her husband’s depression; his erratic behavior and mood swings; how James was mourning the death of his best friend, Bigsby Brewer; how hard he’d taken the loss . . .”
I met Matt’s eyes. “Bigsby was a hero to me, too. He went with James into that collapsing caffè, helped save your mom and Enzo.”
I paused to gulp more coffee (and cry a little more).
“Here.” Matt pressed a second handkerchief into my hands (the first one he’d given me was already soaked).
With frustration I swiped at my uncontrollable waterfall. “Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. After your call, I laid in a supply.” He pulled open the right side of his jacket, the inside pocket was bulging with folded handkerchiefs.
I would have burst out laughing. But it struck me as touching and I started crying all over again.
“Oh, boy . . .” Matt held on to me.
“I don’t believe that lame text message,” I said against his jacket. “The killer sent it. I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t know, Clare . . . How can you be?”
“The beer on the kitchen table.” I leaned back, finally dried my eyes. “James hated beer. If he wanted to get drunk one last time, he had a four-foot rack of good wine he could have guzzled instead.”
“People who decide to off themselves do irrational things.”
“Right. So if you were going to end it all, you would add arsenic to an espresso made from freshly roasted Yirgacheffe peaberries? Or a cup of green tea brewed from a grocery store box?”
Matt scratched the back of his head. “I see your point.”
“And . . . there’s something else . . . As I was sitting here, waiting for you, before I nodded off?”
“What?”
“I remembered: At the bake sale in Union Square Park, I met this club guy, Dean Tassos, a ‘friend’ of Val’s, only he was acting like more than a friend: fawning words, lingering touches, sweet looks—”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Just listen: Dean called Val while she and I were at the pub. She didn’t want me to hear their conversation so she took the call in the ladies’ room.”
“And how do you know it was Tassos?” Matt asked.
“The ring tone—‘You Spin Me Right Round’ . . . Val had it set especially for him, and immediately after Dean calls her, she decides her husband isn’t going to show and asks me to give her a ride home.”
“So?”
“So what if Dean called Val to tell her the deed was done?”
“Come on, Clare. You’re starting to suspect conspiraci
es 24/7.”
“It makes perfect sense: Dean calls Val to tell her that James is dead. She now knows it’s safe to come home, and she brings a witness, me. One more thing: Dean is part owner of the Mirage clubs.” I dug into my bag for the business card the man gave me, handed it to Matt. “Look at the locations.”
“North Jersey, Brooklyn, and—”
“Astoria! The Red Mirage club sits right next to Caffè Lucia, and their business has slowed. Before this whole thing started, I even had a run-in with one of Dean’s shady managers, an argument over a parking space in front of his club. Yet when this same club was threatened by the caffè fire, this jerk was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Why? Because he knew about—or was involved in—setting the fire and was afraid of being questioned at the scene!”
I took a breath. “I think Dean’s dirty. Given Val’s close friendship with him and her marriage to a firefighter, she may have been the one to give him the idea to torch the business next to his club so he wouldn’t be accused of arson. Then the marshals would pin it on Enzo, and Red Mirage clubs would walk away scot-free with a big fire-insurance paycheck.”
“Well, it didn’t work out that way,” Matt said.
“Yeah, because James’s fire company was too good. They stopped the blaze before it spread to the nightclub, and I turned out to be a fly in the ointment, too. I witnessed the start of that fire, gave Marshal Rossi reasons to look beyond Enzo for motive. That’s why they threatened me! To get me to butt out. That was the reason they set the second fire, too, the one that killed Bigsby, then sent a fake letter to the newspaper—they needed to throw off the scent.”
“So why kill James?”
“Maybe James figured it all out—maybe Val slipped and James overheard a phone call with Dean. Maybe James threatened to go to the authorities unless Dean turned himself in. He and Val could have plotted to kill him to keep him quiet.”
Matt rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The midnight rain had stopped by now, but the combination of chilly outside air and steamy coffee had fogged the wet car windows. The effect was far from intimate. It felt almost threatening, as if a gray curtain were closing around us.
“Okay, Clare. If you still feel that strongly in the morning, you can call the police, right? Give them your new theory? So, can we go now? I’m parked behind you. I’ll drive you back to the Blend, and we’ll come back here tomorrow to get your car.”
“I didn’t bring you here to be my chauffeur, Matt. I need you to watch my back.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m paying a visit to Mike’s cousin—right now.”
Matt blinked and stared. “You mean the drunken fire captain who felt you up and had a fistfight with your boyfriend?”
“Yes. You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to confront him alone?”
“So I’m your muscle again?”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Me? Why should I mind taking on a giant, inebriated firefighter awakened from a stupor in his own home? Presuming he isn’t armed, of course. You do know how to drive to Elmhurst Hospital, right? Because I don’t want to bleed to death waiting for an ambulance.”
“Things won’t go down like that.”
“He’s a Neanderthal, Clare. And your boyfriend let himself get dragged right down to his level. I see enough of this crap on my buying trips: Family feuds. Tribal wars. Old grudges flaring up into new violence. Why should I let myself get dragged in, too?”
“Because I asked you . . .” I sighed, weary of playing this card again, but . . . “I was always there for you, Matt. Remember? Your addiction, your rehab, your relapses—”
“I know you were. And for you, Clare, I would do anything. But this isn’t for you. It’s for Dudley Do-Right and his hose-wielding cousin.”
“Have a heart, okay?” I said. “Someone has to tell the captain he just lost another man in his company. And I need to find out exactly what he knows about Bigsby’s death.”
“What makes you think he knows anything?”
“Back at the pub, when we were alone together, Michael confided that he put important evidence in a package for me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?”
“A minute before the randy fire captain goes octopus on you, he whispers that he has a special package for you.”
“He didn’t mean it like that!”
“Clare, you’re so gullible. Some guys will spin anything to get you in their bed. I promise you, there’s no package.”
“And I promise you there is. He even confided he wanted me to show it to Mike—and I was glad to hear it. I thought it might be a way for those two to finally reconcile. I thought Mike would want that, too.”
“Who cares what the flatfoot wants?” Matt threw up his hands. “Why do you want to stick your neck out for Mike Quinn anyway?”
“Because I love him, that’s why!”
My voice sounded almost amplified in the confined space. I’d never said those words out loud before, not even to Mike, and after all I’d been through in my life, I knew Matt understood what it took for me to make that declaration. For a long moment, he fell silent.
“Okay, Clare . . .” he finally said. Lifting his arm, he used his coat sleeve to wipe away the smothering curtain. “Where does Captain O’Lunkhead live?”
“See that redbrick row house three doors down? Val told me he just moved here from Astoria about three weeks ago. He wanted to live closer to work.” I pointed farther down the rain-swept street. The captain’s fortresslike firehouse was just half a block away.
“And you’re sure he’s not on duty?” Matt asked.
“Not the way he was drinking.”
Matt popped the car door. “Let’s hope we can wake this guy up.”
“I’ll make the man some coffee,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
I climbed out from behind the wheel and fell into step behind my ex. As he moved to dodge a wide puddle, I caught a striking image in the blue-tinged pool: a perfect reflection of the captain’s redbrick row house, only in reverse.
It was exactly how I’d paint the two cousins, I realized, as mirror images; back-to-back monochrome profiles, like Warhol’s prints, cool blue and raging red. I’d always seen those men as primary colors. I understood why now. Each was singular in his own characteristics; neither able to change the other . . . And when they mix, the shade is violence . . .
“Clare? Are you coming?”
“There’s something here . . .”
An object was floating in the puddle. A ball of cloth? I bent down. No, it was a glove. In the uncertain light, it looked black, but when I picked it up, I saw it was cranberry colored. A mirrored F pattern was embedded in it . . . Just like Mrs. Fairfield’s House of Fen scarf.
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“A woman’s glove.”
“And I care because . . . ?”
“Because”—I tilted my chin toward the second-floor windows—“it may mean we won’t find Michael alone in his bed.”
“Great,” Matt muttered. “Another reason for the guy to be just thrilled with out visit.”
I tucked the designer glove into the outer pocket of my handbag and followed Matt to the building’s front porch. Unlike Val’s row house, the three floors had been divided into three separate apartments. New tape over the bell confirmed that Michael Quinn lived on the second floor. Matt touched the button. Nothing. We waited and buzzed again.
“He’s passed out.” Matt glanced at his Breitling. “It’s almost three AM and he probably won’t wake up until noon.”
Matt was ready to leave when I noticed the interior door hadn’t closed properly. The last person to leave had left it ajar. I pushed through, entering a narrow hall. “Come on.” I hit the carpeted staircase. But when I got to the top, I stopped so abruptly that Matt’s nose jammed into the small of my back.
“Clare—”
“The door’s open,” I whispered.
Matt g
ripped my arm, holding me back as he stepped around me. He crossed the narrow landing, used one foot to nudge open the door a little wider. I leaned around him, peered inside.
Captain Quinn was lying facedown on the bare hardwood floor. His arms were splayed wide, legs folded over one another. His face was unrecognizable under a scarlet mask of blood. Blood pooled on the floor, too.
“No!”
Matt tried to hold me back again; I broke away hard, rushed to the captain, dropped to my knees. I touched his bloody cheek. It was still warm—and he was breathing!
“He’s alive! Call for help!”
Matt pulled out his cell, dialed 911, gave the address. I yanked open Matt’s leather jacket, pulled out his stack of handkerchiefs, pressed them against the bleeding wound on Michael’s head.
“Your boyfriend’s lucky,” Matt said as he closed the phone.
“What? What did you say?” Blood was seeping through the thick wad of cloth, staining my fingertips like my oils used to.
“I said your boyfriend didn’t kill his cousin. So he’s lucky.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t think Mike had anything to do with this!”
Matt didn’t reply. He stepped away, found some clean towels, and returned to help me staunch the bleeding.
“Neanderthals . . .” he murmured.
THIRTY-FOUR
A Detective Sergeant Hoyt caught Matt’s 911 call. He arrived with a younger, shorter detective named Ramirez and a slew of uniforms, just minutes after the paramedics. The moment the medical team carted the still-unresponsive Michael Quinn off to the ambulance, the two investigators sealed the apartment.
The detectives separated Matt and me for questioning. I remained with Detective Hoyt in the apartment while Ramirez escorted Matt downstairs.
Hoyt was a tall man, about my age with a ruddy complexion and a dramatically receding hairline that made him appear bald (from my angle below him, anyway). His ill-fitting suit was bread-crust brown, and the only design on his pineapple gold tie was a fresh coffee stain. He was thick through the middle yet his craggy face was lean. Given the hour, I half expected him to be as worn out as I was, but Hoyt was wide awake; his eyes giving off an aggressive vitality, like twin flames trapped inside a shrunken pumpkin.
