Roast Mortem

Twenty-One

Struggling to keep up with the man’s long strides, I followed Captain Michael across the kitchen, down a hallway, and into a narrow stairwell. We traveled north a level then moved along another industrial green hallway, passing an office door with a plastic plaque that read Lieutenant Crowley. The door was ajar and I heard papers rattling, but I couldn’t see the occupant.

The captain’s office was no fancier than mine although it was a great deal larger. A battered wooden desk dominated the room. There were two chairs, banks of metal filing cabinets, and an old leather couch. The dark, heavy office felt warm to me. I attributed this not to my hormones (or the captain’s, for that matter) but to the clanking, hissing radiator in the corner.

Michael felt the heat, too. He opened the room’s only window and gestured to his office door. “Close it if you want privacy.”

I did. Then I settled onto a chair opposite his desk. He leaned back on his creaky office throne and cradled his fingers.

“So, I’m guessing you want to know what the fire marshals are sayin’, right?”

“That’s an ongoing investigation,” I said with a straight face. “I’m a civilian, remember? It’s none of my business until it’s a part of the public record.”

Captain Michael blinked, obviously surprised by my answer.

“I have another matter on my mind.”

He smirked. “My love life?”

“No. The other fire. The one that happened on the very same night as the fire at Caffè Lucia.”

His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware there was a second fire.”

You’re lying again. “It made the papers. A privately owned coffee shop in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious? Two coffeehouse fires the same night, at almost the exact same time?”

Captain Michael opened the top button of his pristine white uniform shirt, and then, almost impatiently, he waved the question aside. “This firehouse caught two bakery delivery van fires this morning. Does that strike you as suspicious?”

“No, but — ”

“There are just about as many coffee shops in this town as bakery delivery vans. Two vans, two coffee joints. I’d call it a coincidence either way.”

“What if both fires turn out to be arson?” I asked. “What then?”

“Then the crimes will be investigated and it’s not your business, right? Isn’t that what you just said?”

I folded my arms. “Yes. I’m a civilian. But I have a coffeehouse, too. I want to know what you think is causing these fires if it’s not arson? I mean, considering the two fires, I’d like your opinion on fire prevention. As a civilian, I think that’s a fair question.”

We stared at one another for a few silent seconds. He was obviously considering how to handle me.

Your move, chum.

He finally made one — a dodge. “You may be a civilian, Clare, but I’ll give you this, you’re a big-hearted one. Coming out here tonight after a long day of work, helping out my guys. It was very kind of you.”

“I was glad to help.” I was, too. Even if I hadn’t come to gather information for Fire Marshal Rossi, I would have come to help these men.

A phone trilled just then. It wasn’t the land line on the captain’s desk. It was a cell phone.

“Excuse me.” Michael didn’t bother checking the caller ID. He answered quickly, and when the other party spoke, his expression chilled, his lively eyes went dead. With an abrupt lurch, he swung the chair around until all I could see was the starched cotton shirt stretched across his hunching shoulders.

“What do you want?” he said.

He listened for another few seconds, then replied, “No, Josie, and this is the third time you’ve asked. Three strikes you’re out.”

Josie? I tucked that name away. I couldn’t glean much more from the conversation — just grunts and one word replies. It was also obvious Josie was a woman.

With the captain’s back to me, I decided to take advantage of the moment. Rising, I glanced around, looking for any sign the man might be seeing Lucia — a photo of her maybe? Whoever Josie was, she was clearly on the outs, and I found myself curious about the raven-haired woman who’d made the captain so happy in those photos from years ago.

One of the office walls was peppered with framed diplomas, citations, and awards. An “I love me” wall was what they called it in the military because every officer above a lieutenant has one at home or in the office (according to a former U.S. Navy SEAL I’d crossed paths with one summer). But in Captain Michael’s case, it was an “I love my little brother” wall. As I moved closer, I realized every single item posted had something to do with Kevin Quinn: from a faded high school newspaper picture in his varsity football uniform to more recent images of Michael bowling with Kevin at Sunnyside Lanes, shooting hoops on a Queens outdoor court, and fishing on the rocky banks of the East River. It was the kind of devotion and pride one usually reserved for a child, not a brother.

I’d heard someone mention Kevin at the Quinn St. Patrick’s Day bash. He’d just relocated to Boston this past fall. The most recent photos attested to this, showing Kevin with his family on Boston Commons, at a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway Park, hanging out near Plymouth Rock.

The final picture showed Captain Michael standing between Kevin and the man’s wife, two smiling preteen daughters on either side. All were bundled in sweaters and coats, and snow dusted the suburban lawn behind them. The handwritten inscription read: “Hey, bro... Your visit made our first Thanksgiving in Boston feel like home. Love, Kev, Melody, Melinda, and Megan.”

“Look, Josie, I’m on duty. I’m hanging up now.”

Michael ended the call. He swung around, noticed me by the Kevin wall and immediately strode across the room.

“Where were we, Clare?”

“I’m a civilian.”

“With a big heart, that’s right...” He relaxed himself, shedding the uneasy business of that call with the ease of a practiced chef crumbling old skin from an onion. “I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done. I mean it. Personally thank you.” He smiled down at me, it actually appeared genuine.

“No thanks necessary.”

“No baloney now, Clare. It’s not every day I meet someone like you. You’re something special. All those guts and brains inside that alluring little package — ”

“I have some serious questions for you.”

“Okay, all right.” He showed me his palms. “If that’s what it takes. You can go ahead and question my past. I’ve had my share of women, it’s true. At my age, what do you expect? I wasn’t exactly a monsignor in my youth.”

“Were you ever in a relationship with Lucia Testa?”

The captain’s eyebrow arched again. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Were you?”

He took a breath, exhaled it. “No.”

I didn’t believe him. “Then why is she in a photo on the wall downstairs? Was she seeing one of your men at any time? Maybe a few over a period of years?”

“There are no Firehouse Annies here, and I won’t be spreading any gossip. But weren’t we talking about you and me, Clare — ”

“You’re delusional. There is no ‘you and me.’”

“But I’d like there to be. You’re different. I can see that... special.”

“I’m involved with your cousin. Is that what you mean?”

“Just give me a chance.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a weekend getaway? Maybe Cape May, the Jersey Shore. How about Atlantic City? Dinner. A show. A little Texas Hold ’Em — ” His gold tooth flashed.

“Don’t hold your breath — ”

“I know my cousin, Clare. The guy lives for his job. When was the last time you two went out and had some fun, eh?”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t offer one.

“Then consider the invitation open-ended. Some weekend when my cop cousin lets you down or ticks you off and you need a nice strong, sympathetic shoulder to lean on, ring me up. Mikey never has to know about it — ”

This is a waste of my time.

I wasn’t going to get anything more out of this guy. That was obvious. My decision was clear. I would give Rossi all eight names of the men who’d attended my espresso-making lessons this evening: Captain Michael Quinn, Lieutenant Oat Crowley, and firefighters Dino Elfante, Ronny Shaw, Ed Schott, and Alberto Ortiz. Bigsby Brewer and James Noonan would be on that list, too. I hated adding their names. To me, they were heroes who’d risked their safety to carry Madame and Enzo out of that collapsing caffè — but if there was a chance they were guilty, then I had to tell Rossi, let him investigate, decide for himself.

“Good night, Captain,” I said, cutting him off midpass.

“Wait.” Michael moved with me, blocking my way. “One more thing, Clare...”

“What?”

“I want you to know: Whatever Mikey told you about Kevin” — he lifted his chin toward the I-love-my-brother wall — “it’s his version of events. Remember that...”

Confused for a moment, I turned back to the Kevin Quinn shrine, looked over the photos again. “Your brother is the reason you and Mike have been feuding all these years — is that what you’re saying? Because that’s not what Mike told me...”

“What did he tell you?”

I conveyed the story about Mike’s old girlfriend Leta, about her dad being shot in cold blood during a bodega robbery, about his classmate Pete Hogarth’s father being the killer and Mike’s being labeled a narc at the academy because of Hogarth’s two relatives being in the same class. “Mike chose to be a cop instead of a firefighter,” I finished, “so you felt betrayed, like he let you down and you never got over it.”

“My cousin’s very good at twisting the truth.”

“So are you.”

“That’s not why we want to take each other’s heads off, Clare.”

“Okay then. What is it your brother did to Mike?”

“Other way ’round.”

I narrowed my eyes at that one. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Because you ought to hear this. And once you do, you’ll know why he never told you the truth about our feud...”

I exhaled. “Never told me what exactly?”

“My little brother, Kev, was all set to start at the fire academy. Some of his buddies took him out for a few rounds to help him celebrate. On his way back home, a couple of ex-jarheads in blue pull him over. You know why? Because his SUV had FDNY stickers plastered all over it.”

“Why should that matter?”

“The annual FDNY-NYPD football game had just gone down in favor of the fire boys. These cops lost a very juicy bet. So they took it out on Kev. He told them about Mike, said ‘Listen, I got a cousin who’s a detective, cut me a break.’ So they let Kevin call Mike on his cell, and you know what your asshole boyfriend told those cops?”

I stared.

“Mike told those mutts to arrest Kevin for DUI. The kid’s future was destroyed, Clare. The FDNY wouldn’t take him after that. He did jail time. Imagine if it were your little brother — or your child — for a few beers...”

The man’s eyes were flashing. He moved closer, invading my space. “Kevin and I were supposed to be FDNY brothers together. We had wanted that since we were kids, since our dad died. Now Kevin’s had to relocate for his civilian job — all the way up to Boston. I hardly see him anymore — my only brother, gone from my life because of my pigheaded cousin’s NYPD advancement dreams.”

“But... aren’t you blaming Mike for something that Kevin got himself into...”

“Aw, darlin’...” He shook his head, looking more heart-broken than angry. “Don’t you get it? Mike didn’t want to look bad. He didn’t want to risk someone finding out that he got the rules bent for a relative. Your precious boyfriend put his police career before helping his own flesh and blood.”

My mouth went dry. I wanted to chalk this up to the captain’s twisted version of events, but there was such sincerity in his tone, in his eyes... I couldn’t chalk this one up to baloney. Still, I had to tell him...

“That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

“You haven’t known him long enough, then.” His voice went low and soft, like he was doing me a serious favor, warning me of a coming earthquake. “I’m tellin’ you, Clare, you should move yourself good and clear of my cousin, for your own well-being...”

My reply came, but it was hardly audible. “I don’t agree.”

“You will, darlin’. Like I told you, my invitation is open-ended. One weekend when you see the jerkoff for what he is and you’re cryin’ you eyes out, you give me a call...”

A loud, throbbing electronic tone interrupted us. A second later, knuckles rapped on the door. The captain held my eyes a long moment then tore himself away, stepped into the hall.

“We got a hot one, Michael...”

It was Oat Crowley’s muffled voice. On the floor below there were shouts and pounding feet.

“One second, Oat...”

The captain ducked back into his office. “Stay here, Clare. I have more to tell you. Wait for me to come back.”

When he left again, I went to the doorway, watched his broad back moving quickly away.

“What’s the job?” the captain asked.

“Long Island City,” Oat replied, hurrying to catch up. “It’s a two-alarm, going to three...”

The heavy bang of the stairwell door cut off their voices. In less than a minute, I felt the massive trucks rumbling under my feet, heard the sirens screaming as the ladder and engine companies raced into the night. When the building was still and quiet again, I headed down to the kitchen to retrieve my backpack. I bundled up tightly — coat, scarf, hat, gloves.

A part of me was curious to hear what else the captain had to say, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever he wanted to tell me was going to come with those increasingly aggressive advances that had nothing to do with my “feminine charms” and everything to do with his vendetta against Mike.

The walk back to my car came with bitterly cold wind gusts. I had expected them, prepared for them, but I shivered just the same. This whole evening had ended badly, and I suddenly knew how those men felt at the end of my espresso lesson. Getting a few answers seldom settled anything, it only confirmed the need to ask more questions.

I didn’t want to admit it, but the captain’s story had shaken me. I’d always had so much faith in Mike Quinn. We’d been through so much together. But the same had been true with me and Matt — until I’d learned the truth of his behavior during our marriage...

When my cell phone vibrated in my front pocket, I was shivering so hard I almost didn’t feel it. I tugged off one glove, checked the screen. Who was calling from the Blend?

“It’s Tucker. Someone left a package for you.”

“What do you mean someone?”

“There’s no return address.”

“Well, didn’t you see who left it?”

“No, sweetie. Some NYU students noticed a backpack under an empty table. They looked inside and all they found was this brown paper package addressed to you so they brought it to the counter.”

It took me a second to add up two and two: abandoned package, nothing else in the backpack, addressed to me, left in our coffeehouse.

Oh my God. “Tucker, clear everyone out of the building! Call 911! Tell them to send the bomb squad! Now!”