Coffeehouse 09 - Roast Mortem

by Cleo Coyle

  Dante took off at a run, shielding the camera with his coat. Unfortunately, we’d parked over three blocks away—so Wren wouldn’t see that we’d arrived in my clunker instead of a news van.

  I went back to the corner and crossed the street. The water was really coming down now, and I was getting very wet, but I had to get a closer look.

  Thunder rumbled a warning. I stepped up to the Mustang anyway, peered into the side window, hoping to spy some identifying item, solve my problems faster. That’s when I felt it, hard and cold, pressing into my back.

  “It’s a nine-millimeter, Ms. Cosi,” the man’s voice informed me. “That’s a gun, in case you didn’t know.”

  “What do you want?”

  Glenn Duffy reached around fast, opened the car door. “Get in. Move.” I could see the gun in his hand now. He held it low, aimed at my belly. “I said move!”

  I moved.

  “Crawl across. Get behind the wheel.”

  Oh God. Isn’t anyone seeing what’s happening to me? I looked up and down the street, but the storm had cleared the sidewalks.

  “Buckle up,” Glenn insisted, ignoring his own belt.

  Everything felt hyper-real. I could smell the dampness of the raindrops, the sharp peppermint scent of the gum Glenn must have discarded before he ambushed me. I forced myself to stop staring at his weapon, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. The boyish, blond Elvis was gone; the younger man’s bland, amiable expression was replaced with a mask of frustrated rage.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Jason called me. When I saw you staring at my ride across the street, I knew I was made . . . Christ, Jason thinks he’s the brains, but he was duped by a reporter act and a bad wig. What a publicity hog.”

  “Don’t do this. You’re just making things worse for yourself. Why don’t you—”

  “Why don’t you shut up?” He reached over, shoved a key into the ignition and turned it. “Drive. We’re going somewhere to talk things over. Maybe we can reach an understanding.”

  I pulled away from the curb, frantically glancing in the rear view mirror, praying I’d see Dante. But there was no sign of him. Was Jason Wren going to take care of my barista while Glenn kidnapped me? Oh God . . .

  I swallowed hard. “Where to?”

  “Stay on Bay Parkway.”

  I tried again to engage him: “So whose idea was it to copy Strangers on a Train?”

  Glenn snorted. “That boring movie? That was Jason’s idea.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You said he was the brains.”

  “Shut up and drive!”

  I counted to three. “It’s obvious you burned Jason’s business, and he burned Enzo’s place. Wren gets to start a cone pizza franchise with his insurance money. What do you get out of it?”

  “I get Lucia and her insurance money.”

  “Lucia Testa? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s Oat Crowley’s sex toy. Do you know Crowley? He’s a fireman.”

  Glenn’s face flushed. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I smelled that cheap cigar smoke in Lucy’s ’Vette. But that’ll change once I get her over to Jersey, away from her sneering old man, away from this city and that fat fireman!”

  The low rise buildings were gone now. We were driving through a lonely stretch of two-lane road bordered on either side by rusty chain-link fencing.

  Oh God, I know where’s he’s taking me . . .

  The flat, featureless acreage of Washington Cemetery was so isolated it seemed almost rural. The only indication we were driving through one of the world’s most populated cities was the elevated subway ahead of us and the Art Deco towers of the Veranzano Narrows looming like pale head-stones on the hazy horizon. A lone vehicle rolled maybe five hundred feet in front of us—a city garbage truck.

  “Make the next left,” Glenn said. “It’ll take you right through the cemetery gate. Nice private place for us to have our little talk.”

  We weren’t going to talk and I knew it. Once I pulled into that graveyard, I was never coming out—a sacrifice to the fast-food franchise dreams of Jason Wren and the twisted love of Glenn Duffy.

  Do something, Clare . . .

  Ahead, the huge garbage truck pulled over to the side of the road. Two men jumped out and flanked a large metal Dumpster. The driver stayed in the cab, began lowering the lift.

  “Pass them nice and slow,” Glenn warned.

  “Slow, okay . . .” At the edge of my vision, I saw Glenn shifting. He was moving the gun from one hand to the other!

  NOW, Clare! Do it NOW!

  I slammed my foot so hard on the gas pedal I broke my stacked heel. The Mustang shot forward, tires spinning on the wet pavement. We fishtailed into the other lane, then back again.

  Duffy shouted obscenities but he didn’t shoot (or couldn’t). Instead, he threw himself at me, tried to punch the brake. I impaled his foot with my other heel while I pressed the horn and held it.

  The impact came in seconds, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. Glenn wasn’t so lucky. Like fragile candy the Mustang’s front end crumpled against the mammoth truck. The windshield shattered as a large object flew through space—Glenn Duffy’s body.

  God knows where the gun landed.

  The sanitation crew was shouting at me or each other; I couldn’t tell. They were speaking English, but nothing registered, just my own hard breathing, the hiss of the shattered radiator, and the occasional moan from Duffy.

  I unbuckled my seat belt, stumbled out, and pointed at the groaning hood hanging off the ruined hood.

  “Lady, are you okay?” one of the men asked.

  “Call the police,” I said. “That man is a killer.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “CLARE . . .”

  My eyes were happily closed, my body stretched out beneath the warm, soft bedcovers. A man’s voice was calling my name. I felt his strong hand on my shoulder. I smiled, waiting to feel more.

  “Mmmm . . . Mike?”

  “Clare! Wake up!”

  I opened my eyes. My ex-husband was shaking my shoulder. He stood beside the bed, holding out my cell. “It’s that detective, the one you mentioned before you hit the sack. Sullivan something . . .”

  “Sully!” I sat up, grabbed the phone. “What’s going on? Is Mike free? Tell me this is over.”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Good news. Please. I could use some.”

  “You bagged your firebugs, Clare. Much to the dismay of a few smug suits and a whole team of Feds, the case of the Coffee Shop Arsonist is now closed.”

  “Duffy and Wren confessed?”

  “Yeah, those two geniuses broke when the boys in Brooklyn played one against the other. The shields told Jason Wren that Glenn Duffy confessed on his ‘deathbed’—that’s what they called it, even though the little punk is going to be just fine. Then they turned around and told Duffy that Wren blamed everything on him. Both went for plea deals and signed confessions . . .”

  When Sully’s positive patter stopped, so did my breathing. “A but is coming, right?”

  “I’m sorry, Clare. What you accomplished doesn’t clear Mike. Neither Wren nor Duffy had anything to do with that midnight assault on Mike’s cousin. They both had solid alibis and claimed they had never heard of Captain Michael Quinn—or James Noonan, for that matter.”

  I glanced at Matt.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “What happens now?” I asked Sully.

  “My hands are tied. Mike’s case is with the Manhattan DA and the Department of Investigations, which means Franco and I still can’t go near it. We were hoping you had another theory.”

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m going to need a little time—” And a lot of coffee. “I’ll call you back, okay?”

  “That’s fine,” Sully said, “but listen . . . I’ve been put in temporary charge of the squad. We’re heading over to the const
ruction site for another all-night tour. Franco’s still undercover. If you need anything, call him, okay? You have the number. I’ll be in the surveillance truck and can’t use my cell. I’ll check in with you again when I get the chance.”

  “Wait. One more thing . . . what’s next for Mike?”

  “He’s downtown, Clare. They’re holding him in the Tombs. And unless something changes, he’s going to be arraigned in the morning. The charge is attempted murder.”

  I think I said good-bye. When Matt called my name again, I was staring at the bedcovers, the phone still in my hand.

  “Clare, are you okay? What did the guy say?”

  I told him, feeling so numb I hardly even cried. My tear ducts finally went as dry as the Dead Sea.

  “Come on,” he said. “Get up. You’ll want an espresso, right?”

  “A double . . .”

  AN hour later, I was showered, dressed, and sitting at the Blend’s bar. In an atypical switch, Matt was behind the espresso machine, pulling shots for me and our last lingering customers.

  As Esther ended her shift, she gave me an unexpected hug (“You looked like you needed it, boss.”) Then she told me about a roast list Tucker left on the basement work table, wrapped her mile-long black scarf around her neck, and headed into the night with her boyfriend Boris.

  By now, Matt and I had gone over my theories twice, but I still couldn’t be sure who’d attacked Michael Quinn or why. I considered Oat Crowley again, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that House of Fen cranberry glove I found lying in the puddle.

  Was it Josephine Fairfield who assaulted the captain? If she didn’t, did she see something? Hear something? Know something?

  “Tomorrow morning, I’ll talk with Mrs. Fairfield,” I decided.

  “What about that mysterious package,” Matt reminded me. “The one Captain Octopus claimed he had for you? Did it ever arrive?”

  “No. I rifled the mail before I sacked out. Junk, bills, tax forms from the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund, and a few invoices addressed to you. Maybe it will come tomorrow.”

  “Well, don’t count on it,” said Matt, sliding over another espresso. “Like I said, the whole thing was probably just another ploy to get you into bed—”

  “Stop! Please. Let’s not speak ill of the comatose, okay?”

  I’d called Elmhurst earlier, but the word on Michael Quinn wasn’t good. Just like Enzo, he was in the ICU, his condition touch-and-go.

  With a sigh I picked up Matt’s demitasse and sipped the burnished crema, hoping another golden shot of warmth would revive my weary mind.

  “You mentioned invoices for me?” Matt said.

  “They’re upstairs—check the desk in my office.”

  “I’ll look them over after we close up.” He stared at me. “You should move around a little. It’ll help you think. Why don’t you bake something?”

  “I’d rather roast something.”

  “Okay,” Matt said, glancing up at the sound of the front door’s bell. A few final customers were just walking in. “I’m giving these orders wings. Then I’m closing up. You go on downstairs.”

  OUR back stairs were narrow but the basement was expansive—and the ambient smells incredible. Generations of coffee roasting permeated these stone walls and thick rafters, and under the overhead lights, my crimson cast-iron Probat gleamed shinier than a ladder truck.

  I hit the starter button and turned up the gas, then watched the digital numbers on the infinite temperature control tick upward. A muted roar from the fans filled the enclosed space, and the chilly basement began to warm. Soon the drum would be hot enough to add the first batch of green beans.

  But what to roast first?

  Tucker had left me a list of the coffees we needed: our signature Espresso Blend, the smooth yet sparkling Tanzanian Peaberry, and the amazing Amaro Gayo from Ethiopia with those exotic berry overtones.

  I looked over the line of drums, which held superb Arabicas from around the globe. The right kiss of heat would bring out the absolute best flavors in these green beans—and the wrong would destroy them forever.

  Matt was right. The act of roasting (like cooking) held a singular magic for me. Simply warming up the roaster gave me a renewed sense of head-clearing comfort.

  I was just reaching for my roasting diary when—

  “Clare! Clare!” Matt’s voice was so loud I could actually hear him over the roasters’ lively hum. Turning, I saw him waving a sheaf of papers.

  “What is that?”

  “Captain Octopus wasn’t playing you! That package came!”

  “When? Where?”

  “It was upstairs with the mail. That Fallen Firefighters Fund envelope you mentioned? The man used it as a cover. When I looked inside, I didn’t find tax forms . . .”

  Matt moved over to our wooden work table—the one Tucker and I used to sharpen burr grinder blades. He spread out the pages and we looked them over.

  “They’re schematics for some kind of tool,” Matt said. “But I don’t get why the guy sent these to you? Do you even know what this is?”

  “It’s a roof spike,” I said. “I saw one at the captain’s firehouse. And look what it says there: ‘Property of Fairfield Equipment, Inc.’”

  “There’s a cover letter from someone named Kevin Quinn.”

  “That’s Michael’s brother.”

  Matt scanned the letter. “Kevin says he hacked into the computers of his old employer and got this evidence of product fraud.”

  “Old employer? Michael never mentioned his brother worked at Fairfield!” But then I remembered. He didn’t—not anymore. Kevin lost his job in New York and was forced to relocate to Boston.

  I read the rest of Kevin’s long letter side by side with Matt.

  “Jesus,” Matt said. “Someone at that company replaced the central titanium core with metal that has all the durability of a cheap furniture rod.”

  “It was done for profit.” I pointed to the end of the letter. “The move cut production costs in half but left the roof spike with a fatal flaw. It couldn’t stand up to the high levels of heat the original prototype had been tested under.”

  “Why would the FDNY approve it?”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m sure all the testing and training was done on roof spikes that had been manufactured correctly . . . Oh, Matt, that’s what James meant when he said Bigsby Brewer was murdered. When Glenn Duffy and Jason Wren set that final coffeehouse fire, Bigsby was forced to use the roof spike to escape the flames. But the tool failed because someone at Fairfield changed the manufacturing specs.”

  “Yeah, but who?” Matt asked.

  We looked over the papers again. Kevin didn’t give any names.

  I thought it over. “Do you remember when I found that House of Fen glove in the puddle outside of Captain Michael’s apartment?”

  Matt nodded.

  “I think it was Josephine Fairfield’s glove. When her husband died last year, she took over the company. I’ll bet she changed the specs on the roof spike and found out the captain was investigating the fraud. Then she paid him a private little visit.”

  “Yeah.” Matt nodded. “Sounds like a strong possibility.”

  “There’s only one problem,” I said, pointing to Kevin’s documents. “Would a society wife be smart enough to do all this on her own?”

  “None that I’ve ever met,” Matt said. “Someone must have helped her.”

  I considered Oat Crowley or some other member of the FDNY. But it seemed to me the man most likely to help Josephine Fairfield execute this awful scheme was—

  “Ryan Lane.”

  “Who?” Matt asked.

  “Ryan works for Mrs. Fairfield,” I explained. “He hustled her out of the pub last night when she got drunk and loud. Ryan also talked to me about retiring soon, about giving Oat Crowley his job. And he said Fairfield Equipment was on the verge of a big corporate buyout.”

  Matt rubbed his chin. “Cutting costs on the roof sp
ike would definitely up the company’s profits, make the operation look more valuable to a prospective buyer.”

  “I’ll bet Lane’s an officer of the company, in a position to make big money from the sale—except time ran out for him and Josie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That buyout isn’t final yet,” I said. “So I’m guessing he and Josie simply played the odds. The roof spike worked in most situations. They took a chance there wouldn’t be any catastrophic failures before they sold the company. But there was—Bigsby Brewer lost his life.”

  “They must know there’s going to be an investigation, right?”

  “Yes, but typically something like that will take weeks, maybe even months. James Noonan got suspicious right away and started making waves. He went to the captain, and they bypassed the usual time-consuming bureaucratic process. Michael Quinn used his little brother Kevin to cut to the truth. Ryan and Josie must have found out about it, assaulted Michael, and murdered James—that would buy them enough time to make a clean getaway before the truth comes out.”

  “But, Clare, does Josephine Fairfield even know James Noonan?”

  “Ryan Lane does. He spoke to James at the bake sale, and I saw Lane talking to Oat Crowley, too. I’ll bet Oat blabbed the whole thing about James’s suspicions and the captain’s investigation. Lane could have approached James after that, told him he wanted to talk. He could have gone to James’s house last night under the pretense of coming clean about the roof spike—but instead Lane killed him.”

  “Killed him how? You said the police believe Noonan’s death was a suicide.”

  I considered the possibilities, thought again about that glass of untouched beer on James’s kitchen table, the Harp that Ryan had enjoyed at the pub. That’s when I knew: “James didn’t pour that beer for himself! He poured it for his killer!”

  “What?”

  “James hated beer. I’m sure he poured it for Ryan Lane—and Lane must have found a way to slip a drug into James’s wineglass, which he would have taken with him to eliminate any evidence. That would explain the single beer on the table. If Lane was careful not to touch the glass, it would only have James’s fingerprints on it. Then James passes out, Ryan hauls him to the garage and stages his suicide. Afterward, he meets up with Josie on her post-bake sale rounds and makes an appearance at Saints and Sinners to establish an alibi.”