Roast Mortem

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 construction 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 spike 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.”

Matt frowned. “I don’t know, Clare, that scenario’s a little out there, don’t you think? And it’s not very smart. Wouldn’t a drug be detected in Noonan’s autopsy?”

“So what if it was? As long as the cause of death matches the manner of suicide, what difference does it make if James had a drug in his system? The case for murder is pretty thin with Val confirming her husband’s depression — not to mention that suicide note.” I shook my head. “The scenario I described isn’t out there. It’s ingenious.”

“But what if Ryan Lane isn’t the one who helped this Fairfield woman?”

“Well, if he didn’t, then I’m sure he won’t have any trouble telling a grand jury who did.”

Matt thought it over. “Okay, let’s do something about this. Get on the phone. Call — ”

I heard a meaty smack. Matt’s body went limp and fell against me. I stumbled, caught myself, but couldn’t stop my ex’s heavy form from sagging to the floor.

“Matt!”

“Shut up or I’ll hit you, too.”

One end of a Halligan tool now loomed in front of my face. I saw dried blood on it, pieces of hair. The other end of that gruesome object was in Ryan Lane’s right hand. His left was pointing a gun at me.

I lifted my gaze, met his stare.

Ryan tossed the fireman’s tool on the table and threw a bundle of rope at me. “Tie him up.”