Roast Mortem (37 page)

“Rescue?” Wren laughed. “Dealing with the insurance company involves miles of red tape, but with the arsonist coming forward in the papers, my situation should be resolved pretty quickly now.”

“But without an insurance settlement, how could you afford all of this? Were you maybe . . .
forced
to take on business partners?”

“I had some cash saved. Enough to get started.”

“What about the other business leaders in the community? Has the owner of the Dim Sum Palace offered to help? How about Mr. Dean Tassos from the Blue Mirage next door? Has he helped you? Or has Mr. Tassos and his club presented a problem for you? Now or in the past?”

“Well . . .” Wren's brows knitted. “I don't know Mr. Tassos, only by name. And the club guys are pretty good neighbors . . .”

“Mostly I'm doing the work myself,” Wren went on. “I used to work in a junkyard and later at an auto-body shop. And some of my friends have helped. One of them was here earlier. He ducked out for lunch.”

“I see . . .”
Come on, Clare, another question.
“I, uh, I guess you're eating cone pizza for lunch, then?”

“Soon!” He laughed, pointed to a bright orange shopping bag. “I grabbed some Korean fried chicken on my way to work. That's the way it is when you're trying to get your business started. You work all the time!”

“Let's talk about the arsonist who torched your coffee business.”
Okay, here we go . . .
“Any thoughts about who that person might be?”

“None at all. I just hope they get caught. I don't want anyone else hurt.”

“Do you think the arsonist was one of your customers, Mr. Wren? Did you get a warning letter or a threatening message? A
package
in a
backpack
, maybe? Another coffeehouse received a threat like that. Did you know?”

Wren's demeanor immediately changed. His open, friendly face went rigid; his smoky brown eyes went cold. “I didn't read about any packages in backpacks or see anything like that on TV. How do you know about it?”

“Surely you read the arsonist's letter. It was published. Do you—”

Wren abruptly stood. “I don't want to talk about the arsonist. I've talked enough about that—with the fire marshals, the insurance people, a whole army of officials. I thought you were here to talk about my
new
business.”

“Well, I just wanted to clarify—”

“You know what? I have major work to do today so maybe you better go.”

I glanced at Dante. “I think we have enough.”

We couldn't gather our stuff together fast enough for Mr. Wren, who looked at his watch three times before he hustled us back onto the sidewalk.

“He made us, right?” Dante said.

“Are you kidding? The guy didn't even ask when his piece would air.”

The wind kicked up and I shivered. Dawn's heavy gray clouds had ripened into an afternoon storm front. Holding down my wig, I glanced back through the pizzeria's plate glass window. Jason Wren was making a cell call.
Now who is he contacting so quickly after our interview?

“There must be some real motor heads around here,” Dante said, nudging me. “Check out that sweet number across the street.”

The restored Mustang hadn't been parked there when we'd arrived. I would have noticed. The coupe gleamed redder than strawberries in a newly glazed tart. The convertible top and leather interior were white as castor sugar. Racing stripes ran from bumper to fender, and rising on the hood was a classic bonnet scoop.

“Are you okay, boss?” Dante asked. “You look a little pale, or maybe it's the makeup. I'm not used to you wearing any.”

“That car,” I whispered. “I've seen it before . . .”

“Really?”

“That's Glenn Duffy's car. I'm sure of it.”

“That's an odd coincidence—”

“It's not a coincidence.” I faced Dante. “I had the right triangle all along—but the wrong guy!”

“What?”

“Listen,” I said, excited now. “Wren was using matches to light his torch; Glenn Duffy's car is parked across the street; and that old Hitchcock film that I saw inside? It was completely out of place with those car racing movies.”

Dante stared down at me. “Okay. I think you officially lost it.”

“No, I found it. I found our arsonists.” A chilly drop of rain splashed on the end of my nose. I ignored it. “Have you ever seen
Strangers on a Train
?”

“I'm into David Lynch.”

“It's the story of two men who meet during a rail trip. One wants to marry his lover, but he can't get a divorce. The other wants somebody dead so he can inherit a fortune. One suggests they swap murders.”

“Boss, maybe I'm slow, but—”

“Jason Wren is friends with Glenn Duffy. Glenn is the man who stepped out for lunch! Don't you see? The two swapped arson jobs. Jason burned Caffè Lucia. Glenn burned Wren's business.”

“How does swapping jobs help them?”

“Alibis, Dante. The day the firebomb was set in Queens, Glenn could have set up an all-day alibi in
Brooklyn
. Then he picks up Lucia in plain sight at the Queens caffè and is off to Jersey. If there's no sign of the guy anywhere near Caffè Lucia that day—even that week—how could he have set the firebomb?”

“And Jason Wren?”

“Same thing, only he sets up an alibi in Queens. Makes it impossible for a Brooklyn fire marshal to pin the firebomb on him.”

“What about the threat for you?”

“One of these guys must have set me up with that package the same night the other one set the bomb in the chain coffeehouse. Then they sent a fake letter to the papers to make it all look like some crazed fanatic . . .”

The wind was blowing harder now, the big drops falling faster.

“Okay, boss, you convinced me. So can we go back to the car now?” Dante eyed the violet sky. A white-hot slash seared the dark canvas. “I can't let this camera get drenched. I borrowed it from a friend—”

“Here, take my keys,” I said. “Put the camera in the trunk and come right back. I have to see Glenn Duffy for myself. Once I confirm his association with Wren, I can go to Fire Marshal Rossi with it.”

Dante took off at a run, shielding the camera with his coat. Unfortunately, we'd parked over three blocks away—so Wren wouldn't see that we'd arrived in my clunker instead of a news van.

I went back to the corner and crossed the street. The water was really coming down now, and I was getting very wet, but I had to get a closer look.

Thunder rumbled a warning. I stepped up to the Mustang anyway, peered into the side window, hoping to spy some identifying item, solve my problems faster. That's when I felt it, hard and cold, pressing into my back.

“It's a nine-millimeter, Ms. Cosi,” the man's voice informed me. “That's a gun, in case you didn't know.”

“What do you want?”

Glenn Duffy reached around fast, opened the car door. “Get in. Move.” I could see the gun in his hand now. He held it low, aimed at my belly. “I said
move
!”

I moved.

“Crawl across. Get behind the wheel.”

Oh God. Isn't anyone seeing what's happening to me?
I looked up and down the street, but the storm had cleared the sidewalks.

“Buckle up,” Glenn insisted, ignoring his own belt.

Everything felt hyper-real. I could smell the dampness of the raindrops, the sharp peppermint scent of the gum Glenn must have discarded before he ambushed me. I forced myself to stop staring at his weapon, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. The boyish, blond Elvis was gone; the younger man's bland, amiable expression was replaced with a mask of frustrated rage.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Jason called me. When I saw you staring at my ride across the street, I knew I was made . . . Christ, Jason thinks he's the brains, but he was duped by a reporter act and a bad wig. What a publicity hog.”

“Don't do this. You're just making things worse for yourself. Why don't you—”

“Why don't you
shut up
?” He reached over, shoved a key into the ignition and turned it. “Drive. We're going somewhere to talk things over.
Maybe
we can reach an understanding.”

I pulled away from the curb, frantically glancing in the rear view mirror, praying I'd see Dante. But there was no sign of him. Was Jason Wren going to take care of my barista while Glenn kidnapped me?
Oh God . . .

I swallowed hard. “Where to?”

“Stay on Bay Parkway.”

I tried again to engage him: “So whose idea was it to copy
Strangers on a Train
?”

Glenn snorted. “That boring movie? That was Jason's idea.”

“That's right,” I said. “You said
he
was the brains.”

“Shut up and drive!”

I counted to three. “It's obvious you burned Jason's business, and he burned Enzo's place. Wren gets to start a cone pizza franchise with his insurance money. What do you get out of it?”

“I get Lucia and her insurance money.”

“Lucia Testa? You've got to be kidding. She's Oat Crowley's sex toy. Do you know Crowley? He's a fireman.”

Glenn's face flushed. “You think you're telling me something I don't know? I smelled that cheap cigar smoke in Lucy's 'Vette. But that'll change once I get her over to Jersey, away from her sneering old man, away from this city and that fat fireman!”

The low rise buildings were gone now. We were driving through a lonely stretch of two-lane road bordered on either side by rusty chain-link fencing.

The flat, featureless acreage of Washington Cemetery was so isolated it seemed almost rural. The only indication we were driving through one of the world's most populated cities was the elevated subway ahead of us and the Art Deco towers of the Veranzano Narrows looming like pale head-stones on the hazy horizon. A lone vehicle rolled maybe five hundred feet in front of us—a city garbage truck.

“Make the next left,” Glenn said. “It'll take you right through the cemetery gate. Nice private place for us to have our little talk.”

We weren't going to talk and I knew it. Once I pulled into that graveyard, I was never coming out—a sacrifice to the fast-food franchise dreams of Jason Wren and the twisted love of Glenn Duffy.

Ahead, the huge garbage truck pulled over to the side of the road. Two men jumped out and flanked a large metal Dumpster. The driver stayed in the cab, began lowering the lift.

“Pass them nice and slow,” Glenn warned.

“Slow, okay . . .” At the edge of my vision, I saw Glenn shifting. He was moving the gun from one hand to the other!

I slammed my foot so hard on the gas pedal I broke my stacked heel. The Mustang shot forward, tires spinning on the wet pavement. We fishtailed into the other lane, then back again.

Duffy shouted obscenities but he didn't shoot (or couldn't). Instead, he threw himself at me, tried to punch the brake. I impaled his foot with my other heel while I pressed the horn and held it.

The impact came in seconds, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. Glenn wasn't so lucky. Like fragile candy the Mustang's front end crumpled against the mammoth truck. The windshield shattered as a large object flew through space—Glenn Duffy's body.

God knows where the gun landed.

The sanitation crew was shouting at me or each other; I couldn't tell. They were speaking English, but nothing registered, just my own hard breathing, the hiss of the shattered radiator, and the occasional moan from Duffy.

I unbuckled my seat belt, stumbled out, and pointed at the groaning hood hanging off the ruined hood.

“Lady, are you okay?” one of the men asked.

“Call the police,” I said. “That man is a killer.”

“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.”