by Cleo Coyle
His first question (beyond my name, address, and relationship to Matt) was my connection to Michael Quinn.
“He’s my boyfriend’s cousin,” I said. “We’re on friendly terms.”
“And why did you pay him a visit so late?”
“One of the men in the captain’s firehouse died a few hours ago, under mysterious circumstances. We came here to tell Michael about it.”
I told Hoyt everything that happened regarding James Noonan, along with my theory that James’s death and the captain’s assault were related.
“Come again, Ms. Cosi? The Noonan case sounds like a suicide.”
“I think Michael Quinn was attacked because of something he knew or something the attacker thought he might have. He spoke to me earlier this evening about a package—”
“A package? Are you talking about drugs?”
“No, the captain said he had evidence in this package, information about the death of one of the men in his firehouse.” I explained about Bigsby Brewer’s death, about the Coffee Shop Arsonist. “I’m sure that’s why this place was ransacked.”
Hoyt glanced around, scratched the back of his head with a pen tip. “Not much to ransack, you have to admit . . .”
That was true. A single recliner, a standing lamp, and a barstool subbing for a table were the extent of Michael Quinn’s living room furniture. He’d set a small television on top of a stack of cardboard boxes, but the shattered unit had been knocked down and the contents of those boxes—mostly clothing—were scattered all over the parquet floor.
“Does anything appear missing?” I asked.
“We generally learn that kind of thing from the victim,” Hoyt replied in a tone that indicated I’d just asked the stupidest question in the world.
“Okay, well . . . here. You better take this . . .” I dug into my handbag pocket, held out the damp glove.
“And what’s this, Ms. Cosi?”
“I found it in the puddle in front of this building. I’m betting it belongs to Mrs. Josephine Fairfield. She and the captain used to be engaged. There was a scene at the pub. He rejected her pass. I think you should question her.”
The detective waved over a uniform officer who bagged the glove for the detective. “Okay, Ms. Cosi, spell that name for me. Fairfield, you said?”
“I said: Get the hell out of my way! I want to see my captain!”
The roaring male voice echoed up the staircase, an audio assault on my tired brain. The Bad Lieutenant was here—Oat Crowley. He’d either heard the 911 call while buffing, seen the emergency vehicles down the street, or both.
A few seconds later, Detective Ramirez appeared. He stood on the landing, just beyond the open front door. Oat Crowley loomed behind him—at more than a head taller than the detective, Crowley could easily see into the apartment.
“What the hell is she doing here?!” the lieutenant bellowed.
Ramirez jerked a thumb in Oat’s direction, announced his name. “This guy claims to know the victim.”
“Victim?” Oat said, now looking alarmed. “Where the hell is Michael Quinn?”
Hoyt narrowed his eyes on the blustering firefighter. “By now I’d say he was in the intensive care unit at Elmhurst. Unless he graduated to the morgue.”
“It’s her fault!” Oat rushed toward me. Hoyt blocked him, the cop in uniform stepped up to help. “I don’t know what story she’s telling you, but she started this thing, and her cop boyfriend obviously tried to end it—”
“You’re crazy!” I shouted.
“Ask her!” he shouted right back, stabbing the air with his finger. “Ask her how she played two men against each other: my captain and Mike Quinn.”
“I didn’t play anybody!”
Hoyt exchanged a glance with his partner.
“You want them separated, Sarge?” Detective Ramirez asked.
“Not yet. Let’s see where this goes . . .” Hoyt turned to Oat. “You clear this up, okay? Mike Quinn is the name of the victim.”
“It’s a family name,” Oat said. “Michael Quinn is my captain, Mike Quinn is an NYPD detective with some hotshot squad in Manhattan. The two are first cousins—and she’s the reason it came down to fists earlier this evening.”
“How do you know about that?” I challenged. “You weren’t even there.”
“Half the firehouse was there, lady! It’s all the shift’s talking about tonight!”
“Then you haven’t heard yet?” I said, hardly able to believe it. “None of you have heard about James?”
“James?” Oat said. “What about James?”
“Quiet! Both of you!” Hoyt said. Now he turned to me. “What was this fistfight about earlier in the evening, Ms. Cosi? You didn’t mention it to me.”
“It was nothing,” I said. “A misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“That’s what you call it?” Oat barked a laugh. “Listen to me, Sarge, earlier this evening, in front of a dozen witnesses, her boyfriend—Detective Mike Quinn of the NYPD—worked over his cousin at Saints and Sinners pub in Woodside after he caught her making out with him—”
“I was doing no such thing!”
“Call it what you want, honey, your lousy cop boyfriend obviously came here to finish the job he started on his cousin.”
“Well, it didn’t go down like a fistfight here,” Hoyt said. “It appeared the victim was struck from behind with a blunt instrument. The attacker shook down the premises, stole the victim’s watch, wallet, rifled his pockets, and then fled with the weapon.”
“To make it look like a robbery,” Oat said. “Quinn’s been on the job all his life! He knows how to cover up his own crime!”
“You’re wrong!” I said. “Mike might have thrown a punch in a bar, but he would never ambush a man with a club, beat him into a coma.”
“Calm down, Ms. Cosi,” Hoyt said. “I’m just looking at all the angles, and it sounds like this fight was a heat of the moment thing, except that you never mentioned it, which makes it clear to me that you’re far from an objective party.”
“But that fight has nothing to do with what happened here,” I said.
“Bull!” Oat bellowed. “There’s been bad blood between the pair of them for years. A real history. Listen to me, Hoyt, you better not try to protect Detective Quinn just because he’s another cop, or I’ll—”
“You don’t want to threaten me,” Hoyt said, his own threat clear under the tight reply. “Just tell me about the history.”
I expected Oat to spill that old Kevin Quinn story or tell Hoyt how betrayed Michael felt about his cousin quitting the fire academy. Instead, he said a name that I never expected to hear.
“Leila Quinn.”
“Mike’s ex-wife?” I whispered, feeling a creeping sense of dread. “What about her?”
“So your boyfriend never told you?” Surprised by my ignorance, Oat turned disgustingly smug. He played to Hoyt. “About ten years ago, my captain nailed her boyfriend’s wife, Leila—a real hot broad, too, former lingerie model. The captain invited Leila down to Atlantic City for a weekend. She took him up on it. Who knows what lie she told her dumb-ass cop husband to get away for the weekend, but off she scampered making herself very available.”
I felt cold inside, so cold I shivered. Matt was up the stairs by now, lingering on the landing beside a uniformed officer. Needing a friend, I met his eyes.
“Was there any violence back then?” Hoyt asked.
“Oh yeah,” Oat replied. “Detective Quinn didn’t find out for months. The wife finally brought it up when they were having some fight, just to stick it to Mikey, and when she told him the truth”—Oat looked skyward and made a fist—“whammo.”
“Define ‘whammo’ please,” Hoyt said.
“Your fellow detective went nuts, how’s that? The captain’s got a gold tooth in his mouth for a reason. Mike Quinn knocked out the real one.”
Hoyt exchanged a long glance with Ramirez—and the sight made my stomach turn. They’re making Mike
for this.
Oat folded his arms. “That guy is no damn good. What he did to my cousin Pete, I’ll never forget.”
“Pete,” I said. “Pete who?”
“Pete Hogarth,” Oat replied. “My mother’s family knows all about Mike Quinn. The prick framed Pete’s old man on some trumped-up murder charge, planted evidence in his bird coop on the roof of his building.”
“That’s not true,” I said, struggling now to hold my temper. Matt stepped up behind me, put a hand on my shoulder.
“What do you know about it?” Oat spat. “Quinn wasn’t even a cop back then, just some rat kid with a Hardy Boys complex. He even got some phony civilian award from the mayor. The jerk was working the angles before he even set foot in the police academy, laying the groundwork to move right up the ladder.”
“Pete Hogarth’s father was a killer!” I shouted, moving fast toward Oat. The man actually took a step back. “He murdered a Dominican bodega owner in cold blood while he was robbing him—”
“Shut your mouth—”
“That’s enough,” Hoyt said. He turned back to me. “Ms. Cosi, can you account for Detective Quinn’s whereabouts after the incident at the pub?”
“Not exactly . . . I mean, Mike left and then . . .” I swallowed. “I called him several times. He hasn’t returned my calls yet, but—”
“Then you can’t vouch for his whereabouts?”
“No, but I’m sure—”
“Thank you, Ms. Cosi.” Hoyt turned to his partner. “Get Detective Quinn’s shield number from One Police Plaza and bring him in.”
“Wait!” I cried.
“He had motive and opportunity, Ms. Cosi. Unless he can come up with a credible alibi for the last couple of hours, he’s going to be a person of interest in this case—”
“What about him!” I pointed at Oat. “He may have had a motive to do this. Let me tell you why—”
“I was on duty at the firehouse all night,” Oat replied levelly. “We had three runs, and every man I worked with is a witness. Go ahead, check me out. Have fun wasting your time.”
Oh God. I turned back to Hoyt. “You have to listen to me. Mike didn’t do this. The captain had evidence in this apartment—”
“Yes, I already have your statement about that. We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your help,” Hoyt said, waving over a uniformed officer. “You and your business associate are free to go now—”
“But—”
“Now.”
The uniform stepped up, hand on the butt of his night stick.
“Come on, Clare,” Matt said, tugging my arm. He deliberately moved his body between me and the smirking Oat Crowley. Good thing, too. I was close to ripping the lieutenant’s face off.
Outside, several police cars surrounded the apartment building. It was 4 AM, still pitch-dark, but the spectacle had drawn a cluster of gossiping neighbors, coats thrown over robes and pajamas. We stepped clear of it all and headed back to the Honda.
“Now I know why . . .” I said, voice hoarse.
“Why what?”
“I was angry with Mike for reacting so violently behind the pub, but I didn’t know about Leila . . . I didn’t know what his wife did to him behind his back.”
I stopped walking, faced Matt. “I can understand why the captain didn’t tell me. He wanted to play me. But why didn’t Mike tell me the truth?”
“I’ll tell you why. He was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
Matt tilted his head back, as if he were going to read me the answer in the stars. “You women talk endlessly about your problems. With your girlfriends, your sisters, your mothers. Talk, talk, talk. But men aren’t like that. Mike didn’t tell you about his wife going to bed with his cousin because he was ashamed and embarrassed.”
“If he had told me, I would have understood.”
“Clare . . .” Now Matt was rubbing his neck, as if he were struggling to translate Portuguese into Mandarin. “If I know Dudley Do-Right—and I think I do—whatever he kept from you . . . he did it because he wanted your love, not your pity.”
I nodded then whispered, “So now what do I do?”
“Well, Clare, if I know you—and I think I do—you don’t give up.”
Then my ex-husband, business partner, and oldest friend put his hand against my back and pressed me into forward motion again.
THIRTY-FIVE
AN hour later, dawn broke—although it was hard to tell. Beyond the French doors of my Village Blend, gray buildings met gray clouds in an unending urban haze. Even the sun was too weary to shine.
“How bad is it?” I asked the men sitting across from me. I wasn’t due to open for another hour, but I already had two customers: Detective Finbar “Sully” Sullivan, Mike’s righthand man on his OD Squad; and Emmanuel Franco, his younger, street-wise protégé.
“How bad is it?” Franco echoed. “On a scale of one to ten: I’d say a ten.”
“The man’s not dead,” Sully countered. “He’s just in custody.”
Franco shook his shaved head. “He’s charged, which means he’s dead to the department, and for a guy like Mike Quinn, when they take away your shield, they might as well put you in the ground.”
I closed my eyes, from anguish as much as exhaustion. Matteo was sacked out upstairs. But I couldn’t rest, not with Mike in hell. What awful thoughts must be going through his mind and heart? Is he cursing me now? Sorry he ever met me, ever walked into my coffeehouse?
“Guys . . .” I said, unable to stop a few tears from spilling out, “isn’t there any way for me to see Mike? Talk to him?”
Sully reached across the café table, squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, Clare. We can’t even talk to him.”
“Or work his case,” Franco noted.
“But you can,” Sully said.
“His case?” I opened my eyes, wiped my wet cheeks.
Beyond the Blend’s windows, a ray of gold had broken through the morning fog, giving Sully’s carrot-colored cop hair an almost rousing vibrancy. The man’s shared glance with Franco, however, remained darkly pensive.
“You’re a civilian,” Sully reminded me. “IAB and the Department of Investigations can’t sack you for turning up some leads to exonerate him.”
“But I already have,” I said. “That’s why I called you two.”
The detectives exchanged glances again, but their expressions were no longer pensive. Now they looked hopeful.
“What have you got?” Sully asked, leaning forward.
“I have three theories,” I said.
“Good, let’s hear them.”
“Okay, but first . . . I need some coffee.” I rose from the table. “You guys want some?”
“Are you kidding?” said Franco.
“Please,” said Sully.
“A bite to eat would be nice, too,” added Franco.
Sully whacked the back of his billiard-ball head. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault the Coffee Lady makes excellent baked goods! I can see where her daughter gets her, uh”—he waggled his eyebrows—“talent.”
I stared at the man. “Detective, you are talking about my daughter’s cooking right?”
“Of course,” Franco said, although the wink he threw to Sully gave me pause.
“Well, you’re in luck,” I called, moving behind the counter. “The pastry delivery just came, and I have some warm pistachio muffins back here. I gave the recipe to my baker for St. Patrick’s Day, but the customers liked them so much they asked me to keep them on the menu.”
“I’ll have three!” Franco said.
“I actually wouldn’t mind a couple,” Sully added.
Franco snorted. “And I get a head whack? For what?”
“Just for being you.”
TEN minutes later, we were sipping hot mugs of my freshly roasted Breakfast Blend, devouring a half-dozen of my warm, green pistachio muffins, and going over my theories on Mike’s case.
“Theory numbe
r one,” I began. “The Crazy Girlfriend. Josephine Fairfield’s glove outside the captain’s house truly gives me the creeps. The woman already admitted to being an arsonist—in a bar full of firefighters, no less. And she was acting lovesick at the pub. I could easily see her waiting for Michael Quinn at his apartment. Maybe he was harsher with her in his own place, maybe he even slapped her or pushed her, and she retaliated by grabbing an object and braining him with it before running off. What do you think?”
“I think it doesn’t answer why the captain’s apartment was ransacked,” said Sully.
“Yeah,” said Franco. “Whoever put down Captain Quinn did it with a cool head.”
“And a ruthless one,” Sully noted.
Franco agreed. “While the man’s lying there, presumably bleeding to death, this scumbag preps the scene to look like a break-in robbery.”
“Well, if you want ruthless, I have the perfect candidate,” I said. “Theory number two: the Bad Lieutenant.”
I told them all about Lucia Testa’s secret love affair with Lieutenant Oat Crowley and his possible motive for setting fire to her father’s caffè (winning Lucia as his wife along with a fat fire-insurance inheritance that would help feather his retirement nest).
“But why would he attack the captain?” Sully asked.
“Because Michael Quinn had evidence against him,” I said. “When James’s best friend died during that chain coffeehouse fire, I think James got suspicious of Oat. So he went to the captain with some kind of evidence. Oat got wind of it and eliminated both men. The only problem is Oat’s alibi. He claims he was on duty all night and his crew will verify it.”
“So how could he have killed James and attacked Michael Quinn?” Sully asked.
“He might have slipped away,” I suggested (weakly).
Sully and Franco glanced at each other. Doubtful.
“What else have you got?” Sully asked.
“Theory number three: the Fireman’s Wife and the Arsonist . . .”
