Roast Mortem

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 number 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...”

The stars of my third scenario were Valerie Noonan and Dean Tassos. I laid out Dean’s motives for arson and Val’s desire to see her husband gone. As I talked, Sully and Franco both leaned farther forward in their chairs. The glances they shared felt increasingly energized.

“...and I think those two set the chain coffeehouse fire and sent a fake letter to the papers to throw off the authorities,” I said. “If James Noonan knew about Dean’s arson and gave evidence to the captain, Val could have tipped off Dean. She may not have killed her husband with her own hands, but she could have agreed to look the other way while Dean murdered James and made it look like a suicide, then beat down Michael Quinn and made it look like a robbery.”

“I think she’s got something here,” said Sully.

“So do I,” said Franco, “and it makes a helluvalot more sense than Homeland Security’s current theory.”

“Is that who’s in charge of the arson investigation now?” I asked.

Sully nodded. “They’re all over the threat you got here at the Blend. Word is they’re making a case against some anticaffeine fanatic connected to one of your customers.”

“Which customer?”

“Barry something or other.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Barry wouldn’t hurt a fly. And it’s hard for me to believe he’d hook up with a bomb-setting terrorist.”

“That’s the rumor,” said Sully. “This friend of Barry’s supposedly has a checkered history and some memberships in activist groups that have gone nuclear in the past. He lives in an apartment near the chain coffeehouse that burned, was seen near Caffè Lucia the day of that fire, and has friends near the coffeehouse in Brooklyn that went up — that’s where the backpack was purchased that held the package that threatened you. I’m not supposed to know any of this, of course, and neither are you, Clare.”

I blinked. “Who am I going to tell?”

“Your friend Barry for starters,” Sully said flatly. “So tell him to get a good lawyer for his boyfriend.”

Off my shocked look, Sully simply shrugged. “I’m ready to hang with Mike.”

“No!” I said. “I don’t want anybody to hang!”

“Ladies!” Franco sang. “Before you two get your panties in a twist over Barry and his buddy, can we come up with a strike plan?”

“Yeah...” Sully shot him a sour look. “And let’s make sure it’s better than our last one.”

“Hey, Sully, my intel was golden. Last night’s op failed because those dealers are smarter than the badges who conducted the stop-and-search. The drugs are in that pizza delivery car. I know it.”

“You know it, but you’re the only one,” said Sully. “Try, try, again, Detective...”

It took me a moment to catch up: These two were talking about their squad’s operation last night, the one that went down badly or else Mike would never have shown up at Saints and Sinners. Val had called it “bad timing.” I closed my eyes again, wondering what else it was.

“Clare, you okay?” Sully asked.

“No,” I whispered. “I’m thinking about Mike again and what happened last night in Queens...”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up. After our op went down in flames, Franco was almost made, which meant his life was endangered not just his cover. Believe me, Clare, by the end of it all, Mike was ready to punch out a choirboy, never mind the cousin who pawed you up.”

I opened my eyes. “Do you think Mike knows I never meant for it to happen? Does he know I’m not Leila?”

Sully put a hand on my shoulder. “Of course he does. Mike knows who you are, Clare. And he knows who his cousin is.”

“Mike trusts me?”

“Not just trusts, Clare. The man loves you. When he lost it last night at that pub, the reason was his cousin, not you.”

“Yeah...” Franco shifted, scratched the side of his head. “What he said.”

“So have you got anything more on this guy, Tassos?” Sully asked.

“Just his business card.” I went to my bag, brought it over.

Franco nodded as soon as he saw it. “I know this club. The Blue Mirage? It’s in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, on the same block as the coffeehouse that burned down.”

“That’s two connections,” Sully looked to me. “Right, Clare?”

“That’s right.” The pieces were falling into place. “Lorenzo Testa was hassled by guys from the Red Mirage club. The neighborhood busybody confirmed that to me the night of the fire.”

“How about the coffeehouse owner in Brooklyn?” Franco asked. “Was he hassled by Mirage club goons, too? That’ll seal the deal.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You have to find out,” Sully said. “Do you know the owner’s name?”

“Jason Wren. He was at the bake sale yesterday. One of my baristas even pointed him out to me. I could kick myself for not speaking to the man then, finding out more about his fire...”

“Take it easy,” Sully said. “You didn’t have these other leads then. Now you do. Just don’t let this guy Wren clam up on you.”

Easier said than done. “I don’t know anything about this man. I mean, I could confide that my own coffeehouse was threatened, but if he’s been threatened in the past, he might ask me why I’m not getting answers from the police, then start to wonder if I’m working for Dean Tassos...”

“She’s right,” said Franco. “We need an angle for her.”

“I’ve seen Wren give interviews on television,” I said, thinking it through. “If I could get him to believe I’m a reporter, I could actually get his statements about any threats from Tassos or his people on tape.”

“Do you need a video camera?” Franco asked.

“My barista Dante Silva is a serious painter. He has a lot of friends in the art world. He could probably borrow something convincing, act like my cameraman. I just need a credible way to set it up...”

We drank more coffee, discussed some options. None seemed very strong. Finally, the shop’s front bell jangled.

“Well, hello, gang!” Tucker called, his actor’s basso booming through the quiet shop. “What’s up? Will I read about it... in the papers?”

As my assistant manager waved his favorite New York tabloid, he continued talking about the headlines in a perfect Pat Kiernan accent. Pat Kiernan, the famous local anchor-man. Pat Kiernan the well-known voice of NY1.

Sully and I exchanged glances. Franco smiled.

“Oh, Tucker...” I sang. “I need a little favor.”