Roast Mortem (34 page)

“So?”

“So what if Dean called Val to tell her the deed was done?”

“Come on, Clare. You're starting to suspect conspiracies 24/7.”

“It makes perfect sense: Dean calls Val to tell her that James is dead. She now knows it's safe to come home, and she brings a witness,
me
. One more thing: Dean is part owner of the Mirage clubs.” I dug into my bag for the business card the man gave me, handed it to Matt. “Look at the locations.”

“North Jersey, Brooklyn, and—”

“Astoria! The Red Mirage club sits right next to Caffè Lucia, and their business has slowed. Before this whole thing started, I even had a run-in with one of Dean's shady managers, an argument over a parking space in front of his club. Yet when this same club was threatened by the caffè fire, this jerk was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Why? Because he knew about—or was involved in—setting the fire and was afraid of being questioned at the scene!”

I took a breath. “I think Dean's dirty. Given Val's
close
friendship with him and her marriage to a firefighter, she may have been the one to give him the idea to torch the business next to his club so he wouldn't be accused of arson. Then the marshals would pin it on Enzo, and Red Mirage clubs would walk away scot-free with a big fire-insurance paycheck.”

“Well, it didn't work out that way,” Matt said.

“Yeah, because James's fire company was too good. They stopped the blaze before it spread to the nightclub, and I turned out to be a fly in the ointment, too. I witnessed the start of that fire, gave Marshal Rossi reasons to look beyond Enzo for motive. That's why they threatened me! To get me to butt out. That was the reason they set the second fire, too, the one that killed Bigsby, then sent a fake letter to the newspaper—they needed to throw off the scent.”

“So why kill James?”

“Maybe James figured it all out—maybe Val slipped and James overheard a phone call with Dean. Maybe James threatened to go to the authorities unless Dean turned himself in. He and Val could have plotted to kill him to keep him quiet.”

Matt rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The midnight rain had stopped by now, but the combination of chilly outside air and steamy coffee had fogged the wet car windows. The effect was far from intimate. It felt almost threatening, as if a gray curtain were closing around us.

“Okay, Clare. If you still feel that strongly in the morning, you can call the police, right? Give them your new theory? So, can we go now? I'm parked behind you. I'll drive you back to the Blend, and we'll come back here tomorrow to get your car.”

“I didn't bring you here to be my chauffeur, Matt. I need you to watch my back.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm paying a visit to Mike's cousin—right now.”

Matt blinked and stared. “You mean the
drunken
fire captain who felt you up and had a fistfight with your boyfriend?”

“Yes. You don't think I'd be stupid enough to confront him alone?”

“So I'm your muscle again?”

“You don't mind, do you?”

“Me? Why should I mind taking on a giant, inebriated firefighter awakened from a stupor in his own home? Presuming he isn't armed, of course. You do know how to drive to Elmhurst Hospital, right? Because I don't want to bleed to death waiting for an ambulance.”

“Things won't go down like that.”

“He's a Neanderthal, Clare. And your boyfriend let himself get dragged right down to his level. I see enough of this crap on my buying trips: Family feuds. Tribal wars. Old grudges flaring up into new violence. Why should I let myself get dragged in, too?”

“Because I asked you . . .” I sighed, weary of playing this card again, but . . . “I was always there for you, Matt. Remember? Your addiction, your rehab, your relapses—”

“I know you were. And for
you
, Clare, I would do anything. But this isn't for you. It's for Dudley Do-Right and his hose-wielding cousin.”

“Have a heart, okay?” I said. “Someone has to tell the captain he just lost another man in his company. And I need to find out exactly what he knows about Bigsby's death.”

“What makes you think he knows anything?”

“Back at the pub, when we were alone together, Michael confided that he put important evidence in a package for me.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“What?”

“A minute before the randy fire captain goes octopus on you, he whispers that he has a special
package
for you.”

“He didn't mean it like
that
!”

“Clare, you're so gullible. Some guys will spin anything to get you in their bed. I promise you, there's no package.”

“And I promise you there is. He even confided he wanted me to show it to Mike—and I was glad to hear it. I thought it might be a way for those two to finally reconcile. I thought Mike would want that, too.”

“Who cares what the flatfoot wants?” Matt threw up his hands. “Why do you want to stick your neck out for Mike Quinn anyway?”

“Because I
love
him, that's why!”

My voice sounded almost amplified in the confined space. I'd never said those words out loud before, not even to Mike, and after all I'd been through in my life, I knew Matt understood what it took for me to make that declaration. For a long moment, he fell silent.

“Okay, Clare . . .” he finally said. Lifting his arm, he used his coat sleeve to wipe away the smothering curtain. “Where does Captain O'Lunkhead live?”

“See that redbrick row house three doors down? Val told me he just moved here from Astoria about three weeks ago. He wanted to live closer to work.” I pointed farther down the rain-swept street. The captain's fortresslike firehouse was just half a block away.

“And you're sure he's not on duty?” Matt asked.

“Not the way he was drinking.”

Matt popped the car door. “Let's hope we can wake this guy up.”

“I'll make the man some coffee,” I said. “It'll be fine.”

I climbed out from behind the wheel and fell into step behind my ex. As he moved to dodge a wide puddle, I caught a striking image in the blue-tinged pool: a perfect reflection of the captain's redbrick row house, only in reverse.

It was exactly how I'd paint the two cousins, I realized, as mirror images; back-to-back monochrome profiles, like Warhol's prints, cool blue and raging red. I'd always seen those men as primary colors. I understood why now. Each was singular in his own characteristics; neither able to change the other . . .
And when they mix, the shade is violence . . .

“Clare? Are you coming?”

“There's something here . . .”

An object was floating in the puddle.
A ball of cloth?
I bent down. No, it was a glove. In the uncertain light, it looked black, but when I picked it up, I saw it was cranberry colored. A mirrored
F
pattern was embedded in it . . .
Just like Mrs. Fairfield's House of Fen scarf.

“What is it?” Matt asked.

“A woman's glove.”

“And I care because . . . ?”

“Because”—I tilted my chin toward the second-floor windows—“it may mean we won't find Michael alone in his bed.”

“Great,” Matt muttered. “Another reason for the guy to be just
thrilled
with out visit.”

I tucked the designer glove into the outer pocket of my handbag and followed Matt to the building's front porch. Unlike Val's row house, the three floors had been divided into three separate apartments. New tape over the bell confirmed that Michael Quinn lived on the second floor. Matt touched the button.
Nothing.
We waited and buzzed again.

“He's passed out.” Matt glanced at his Breitling. “It's almost three AM and he probably won't wake up until noon.”

Matt was ready to leave when I noticed the interior door hadn't closed properly. The last person to leave had left it ajar. I pushed through, entering a narrow hall. “Come on.” I hit the carpeted staircase. But when I got to the top, I stopped so abruptly that Matt's nose jammed into the small of my back.

“Clare—”

“The door's open,” I whispered.

Matt gripped my arm, holding me back as he stepped around me. He crossed the narrow landing, used one foot to nudge open the door a little wider. I leaned around him, peered inside.

Captain Quinn was lying facedown on the bare hardwood floor. His arms were splayed wide, legs folded over one another. His face was unrecognizable under a scarlet mask of blood. Blood pooled on the floor, too.

“No!”

Matt tried to hold me back again; I broke away hard, rushed to the captain, dropped to my knees. I touched his bloody cheek. It was still warm—and he was breathing!

“He's alive! Call for help!”

Matt pulled out his cell, dialed 911, gave the address. I yanked open Matt's leather jacket, pulled out his stack of handkerchiefs, pressed them against the bleeding wound on Michael's head.

“Your boyfriend's lucky,” Matt said as he closed the phone.

“What? What did you say?” Blood was seeping through the thick wad of cloth, staining my fingertips like my oils used to.

“I said your boyfriend didn't kill his cousin. So he's lucky.”

“What are you talking about? You can't
think
Mike had anything to do with this!”

Matt didn't reply. He stepped away, found some clean towels, and returned to help me staunch the bleeding.

“Neanderthals . . .” he murmured.

A
Detective Sergeant Hoyt caught Matt's 911 call. He arrived with a younger, shorter detective named Ramirez and a slew of uniforms, just minutes after the paramedics. The moment the medical team carted the still-unresponsive Michael Quinn off to the ambulance, the two investigators sealed the apartment.

The detectives separated Matt and me for questioning. I remained with Detective Hoyt in the apartment while Ramirez escorted Matt downstairs.

Hoyt was a tall man, about my age with a ruddy complexion and a dramatically receding hairline that made him appear bald (from my angle below him, anyway). His ill-fitting suit was bread-crust brown, and the only design on his pineapple gold tie was a fresh coffee stain. He was thick through the middle yet his craggy face was lean. Given the hour, I half expected him to be as worn out as I was, but Hoyt was wide awake; his eyes giving off an aggressive vitality, like twin flames trapped inside a shrunken pumpkin.

His first question (beyond my name, address, and relationship to Matt) was my connection to Michael Quinn.

“He's my boyfriend's cousin,” I said. “We're on friendly terms.”

“And why did you pay him a visit so late?”

“One of the men in the captain's firehouse died a few hours ago, under mysterious circumstances. We came here to tell Michael about it.”

I told Hoyt everything that happened regarding James Noonan, along with my theory that James's death and the captain's assault were related.

“Come again, Ms. Cosi? The Noonan case sounds like a suicide.”

“I think Michael Quinn was attacked because of something he knew or something the attacker thought he might have. He spoke to me earlier this evening about a package—”

“A package? Are you talking about drugs?”

“No, the captain said he had evidence in this package, information about the death of one of the men in his firehouse.” I explained about Bigsby Brewer's death, about the Coffee Shop Arsonist. “I'm sure that's why this place was ransacked.”

Hoyt glanced around, scratched the back of his head with a pen tip. “Not much to ransack, you have to admit . . .”

That was true. A single recliner, a standing lamp, and a barstool subbing for a table were the extent of Michael Quinn's living room furniture. He'd set a small television on top of a stack of cardboard boxes, but the shattered unit had been knocked down and the contents of those boxes—mostly clothing—were scattered all over the parquet floor.

“Does anything appear missing?” I asked.

“We generally learn that kind of thing from the victim,” Hoyt replied in a tone that indicated I'd just asked the stupidest question in the world.

“Okay, well . . . here. You better take this . . .” I dug into my handbag pocket, held out the damp glove.

“And what's this, Ms. Cosi?”

“I found it in the puddle in front of this building. I'm betting it belongs to Mrs. Josephine Fairfield. She and the captain used to be engaged. There was a scene at the pub. He rejected her pass. I think you should question her.”

The detective waved over a uniform officer who bagged the glove for the detective. “Okay, Ms. Cosi, spell that name for me. Fairfield, you said?”

“I
said
: Get the hell out of my way! I want to see my captain!”

The roaring male voice echoed up the staircase, an audio assault on my tired brain. The Bad Lieutenant was here—Oat Crowley. He'd either heard the 911 call while buffing, seen the emergency vehicles down the street, or both.

A few seconds later, Detective Ramirez appeared. He stood on the landing, just beyond the open front door. Oat Crowley loomed behind him—at more than a head taller than the detective, Crowley could easily see into the apartment.

“What the hell is
she
doing here?!” the lieutenant bellowed.

Ramirez jerked a thumb in Oat's direction, announced his name. “This guy claims to know the victim.”