Roast Mortem (30 page)

Lucia shook her head, glanced in the direction of the firehouse. “Oat and I were hot and heavy once. When he started hanging around Dad's caffè again, I decided to have a little fun with him, a last little fling. I needed a break from the hospital today, and Oat's the kind of guy who can make a girl forget her troubles . . .”

“So you have no interest in Oat? You're just leading him on?”

“Oat doesn't want to get married.” She waved her French tips. “He's a confirmed bachelor, just like his captain. He knows I'm just playing around, waiting for my stupid boyfriend to get off his ass and marry me. I'm actually hoping Glenn will get wind of what's going on. Nothing like a little jealousy to get a man off his behind and make him commit.”

A match made in heaven.
“Here.” I handed the bag back to her. “If you didn't set the fire, then who do you think did?”

“Some
nut
obviously. Haven't you read the papers?”

Matt tugged my arm. “Let's go, Clare.”

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing, Lucia.”

“What?”

“The arsonist threatened to burn down my coffeehouse. An unmarked package was left for me with a box of wooden matches inside.”

I closely watched Lucia's reaction. Her raccoon eyes widened; her glossed lips parted. She looked genuinely surprised.

“I don't know whether you're telling me the truth or not,” I said. “But I want you to know: I'm going to
get
this arsonist. I'm going to nail him—or her—right to the wall.”

“I hope you do, Ms. Cosi,” she said. “As long as you leave
me
alone and stay out of my business. Or I'll nail you to the wall with
real
nails.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

Matt tugged my arm again, harder this time. “Let's
go
, Clare.”

As he pulled me away, Lucia returned to her Corvette and slammed the door. I watched her drive away, then I faced my ex.

“I'm not giving up.”

I half expected a lecture or at the very least a smirk. Instead, Matt put his hands on my shoulders and said—

“I know you won't.”

The guy always did come through when I least expected it.

HOURS
later, the bake sale over, the Village Blend kiosk packed up and put away, I found myself back in Queens, sitting across from Val Noonan in the shamrock green booth of Saints and Sinners.

The Irish pub had all the traditional trappings: darkly paneled walls, a long bar, authentic Gallic hops on tap, and shiny brass fittings everywhere you looked. (I would have given half my New York lottery winnings for a
doppio
espresso—if I had lottery winnings—but the only coffee this pub served was Irish, so I'd ordered up a Harp.)

Val, who preferred a darker brew, was now nursing a pint of Guinness, eyes riveted on the front door, while I finished up my cell phone conversation.

“Say that again? You're going to be late because of . . . ?”

“A pizza delivery,” Mike replied. “We got a last-minute tip. A delivery is scheduled for tonight. The
stuff's
coming in a pizza-delivery car, but it's
not
pizza. You follow me, sweetheart?”

“I do.”

I was happy for Mike. I was. Sergeant Franco had ferreted out a solid lead in their current case. A pizza car was the method of delivering the buffet of club drugs to key players on the construction site—at least Mike thought so. His squad still had to prove it.

“I'm sorry, Clare. I wanted to be there with you tonight, but this is the break we've been waiting for . . .”

I heard the regret in Mike's tone, followed by the barely suppressed excitement. I didn't mind. I knew how he felt—and in more ways than one.

My confrontation with Lucia left me feeling like Don Quixote again, although I wasn't kicking myself for charging a pair of stiletto heels instead of a fire-breathing beast because I'd seen Mike make the same kind of run. He and his squad would spend days, even weeks, racing after some lead only to find their well-meaning lances lodged in a windmill.

“So I won't be seeing you at all tonight?” I said, banishing any timber of disappointment.

“If this turns out to be bogus, I'll be there in an hour or two. But if we make an arrest—”

“I won't see you until morning, I know. Okay, well . . . good luck, Mike. I hope you nail them . . .” I cringed, remembering Lucia's threat to use
actual
nails on me.
Time for a new go-to catch phrase.

“I'll miss you,” I added, “but I understand.”

“Thanks, Clare.” Mike paused. “You know how much I appreciate what you just said, right?”

“I know . . .”

The man's ex-wife never would have been so understanding (that's what he meant). Every time Mike had to cancel, delay, or let me down because of his job, I always heard the same tension in his voice, as if he were bracing for a Leila-like tongue lashing. But he never got one. Not from me. I wasn't Leila.

“Be careful, okay?” I whispered.

“I always am.”

I sighed as I hung up, not because I was left dateless for this post-bake sale shindig. I'd hoped Mike's skills would help me loosen up James Noonan, get him to explain what he'd meant earlier today when he'd declared Bigsby Brewer was murdered. Now it was up to me alone—if James ever showed.

I glanced around the pub. The place was jammed with firemen and their wives or significant others. I'd already said my hellos to everyone I knew. Many of the faces still packing the place included guys from Michael Quinn's house: Manny Ortiz and the flirtatious Mr. Elfante. The veteran of the company, Ed Schott, was here, too . . . but no James, no Oat. Not even Captain Michael had shown—although for that I was profoundly relieved.

In the corner, an acoustic band played: singer, fiddle, frame drum, tin whistle. The scent of beer saturated the air, the cacophony of laughter and lyrics making it hard to concentrate, which was, of course, the point.

This isn't the time for thinking, Clare. This is the time for drinking . . .
(Matt's words from years ago . . .)

We were young then, having a night out downtown, but I couldn't relax. I was too worried about our daughter, our bills, our books, our marriage. Matt couldn't stand that about me, and I'd spent half my life feeling bad about my nature, trying to pretend my mind wasn't working. But that time was good and over: The beverage I pushed was sobering, and I preferred to think . . .

I still suspected Oat Crowley of something here. And the more I considered it, the more I decided I wasn't totally off base with targeting Lucia as the center of the arson spree.

Oh, I believed her claim today—that she was innocent. What I didn't believe was that Oat was a confirmed bachelor. I'd seen the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. And his intimate gift of lingerie looked more romantic than risqué: He'd chosen
white
, hadn't he? Bridal white.

If Mike was sitting across from me instead of Val, he'd probably ask me for a theory on motive. Well . . .

Maybe Oat was trying to do Lucia a favor—without her knowledge. Fire was his business, wasn't it? Burning down the caffè would force Lucia's father to retire and return to Italy, leaving Lucia free. And wouldn't a shocking event like a fire make Lucia see how much she needed a man in her life, a
real
man (as Enzo had referred to Oat) and not a boy like Glenn?

Getting Enzo out of the way—one way or another—already appeared to be working in Oat's favor. Lucia was clearly distressed today, but she hadn't sought out Glenn for comfort, she'd sought out Oat . . .

“What's up?” Val asked when she saw me spacing out. “You okay?”

“Sorry, yeah . . . Looks like I'm on my own.”

“You and me both, sister.” Val tapped her watch. “James was supposed to be here an hour ago.” She pulled an even longer face and drank deeply. Then she put down her Guinness and clawed inside her bag for a pack of cigarettes.

“Are you going outside?” I asked. Given my position, I knew chapter and verse of the no-smoking codes of New York's Health Department.

Val closed her eyes, shoved away the pack. “I forgot. I'll go out back later . . .”

I nodded, sipped my Harp, and heard a sudden eruption of voices—

“Hey! There he is!”

“How ya, doin', Cap?”

“Glad you came!”

“Let me buy you one . . .”

The commotion was behind me, near the front door. I turned in the booth but couldn't see—too many giant male bodies.

“What's going on?” I asked Val.

“Michael Quinn is here . . .”

Crap.
“Where is he exactly? Can you see?”

She silently tilted her chin. The man was striding past our booth that moment, a crowd of men around him. I couldn't see the guy, but I could almost feel his energy as he passed.

“I'm surprised he came . . .” Val said.

So was I. And I wasn't happy about it. My gaze tracked the mob across the room to the far end of the long bar. A few guys made way so Michael could have a stool. The men shook his hand, pounded his back. The bartender began to pour.

He wore jeans and a knobby fisherman's sweater, both black;
mourning
black, I realized. Behind his flame red handlebar, his complexion looked colorless. A charcoal grayness seemed to surround him now, like the creeping smoke that hissed off the caffè blaze as the engine company doused the life out of the roaring fire.

Michael abruptly glanced up from the bar. I didn't expect it. His eyes locked onto mine. He was surprised to see me here, too. I broke the connection, focused back on Val.

“He looks worn down,” I said. “Worse than the last time I saw him.”

“When was that?” she asked.

“At Bigsby Brewer's funeral. He's taking Bigs's death hard, isn't he? As hard as James . . .”

Val took a long sip of her dark beer. As she set the glass back down, her hand appeared to be shaking. The Irish band finished its set, and the pub suddenly got quieter, loud voices falling to murmurs and laughter becoming muted. I leaned into the table to hear Valerie's next words—

“Bigs is the first man the captain lost since 9/11. Did you know that?”

“No. I don't know all that much about Michael Quinn.”

“He lost every member of his company when the first tower fell. Did you know
that
?”

“No.” I risked a second glance at the man. He was knocking back a shot with one of his men. As the bartender refilled their glasses, his eyes found mine again.

“Well, Michael Quinn can be a class A jerk at times, I'll admit. But I always cut him some slack because of what he lost.”

“It must have been hard for him . . .”

“It messed him up. That's what James told me—not that he knew from personal experience. James only joined the FDNY seven years ago. But older guys like Ed Schott and Oat Crowley—they know Michael's whole story—passed it along to the younger guys on the down low.”

Val glanced at her watch again, checked the door. “Where
is
James . . .”

“Why don't you try calling him again?” I suggested.

“I left
two
voice mail messages, Clare. He hasn't bothered to return either. What good will a third one do?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

She studied the table. “I think he's having an affair.”

I tried to sound surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“I just think so.”

“With whom?”

Val took another hit of hops, lifted her head, and stared hard at me. “Exactly how long have you known my husband?”

“Not long. The night of the Caffè Lucia fire—that's when we met.”

“He talks about you a lot.”

“Oh?”

“I heard you went to the firehouse, helped the guys with something?”

“Espresso making. I gave them lessons.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And did my husband enjoy it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it . . .” She glanced away.

“Val, look at me.” I waited until she did. “I am not having an affair with your husband. I am in a very happy relationship at the moment, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“I'm sorry . . .” Despite Val's words, her expression remained stony. “It's just that . . . like I told you at the bake sale, James has been acting so odd since Bigs died. I mean, I expected grief. Those two guys were really tight. But this is something else. He doesn't want comfort from me. He's just snappish and then distant . . . but mostly so angry . . .”

A portrait of James came to me then, a quixotic image of the way he'd looked in the park. A gray fog surrounded him, just like the captain, shrouding his energy. His expression was haggard yet his eyes were wary, continually glancing at Oat Crowley . . . Oat with the wooden matches . . . Oat with his scowls and insults for me . . .

I cleared my throat. “Val, I think I might know what's bothering your husband.”

“You do?”

“He mentioned something to me at the bake sale. Something that's weighing on his mind. I'd like to talk to him about it. I'd like your help with that. Maybe if we can get him to open up—”