Roast Mortem (7 page)

“Wait a second! I was with Enzo in that basement minutes before the fire started. He could have found an excuse to get out, but he didn't. He was trapped down there, in harm's way. Surely that exonerates him.”

“It does not. He may have played a part in the event to throw off suspicion.”

“So now you're saying Enzo could be guilty?”

“No! I am not saying that. Listen, Clare, you and I know Enzo's a stand-up guy. To these marshals, Mr. Testa is just another victim, but if this fire is found suspicious and he's the beneficiary of an insurance payout, he'll be their number one suspect. Then they'll tear his life apart looking for evidence of guilt.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But what if someone else had a motive to burn Enzo's shop?”

The captain studied me again. He bent his head closer. “Like who? And why?”

Before I could reply, a voice called out: “Ma'am? Are you still here? Ma'am?”

It was my fireman, the one who'd been so kind to me earlier, the one who'd risked his life to rescue Madame and Enzo. He was wandering along the sidewalk, searching for me.

“I'm here, James!” I called. “In back of the fire truck!”

With perceptible reluctance, the captain put distance between his head and mine. A moment later, my young hero firefighter appeared wearing a grin and two handbags.

“YO
, ma'am, check it out!” James made a show of pointing to the women's purses dangling off his broad shoulder. “Can you ID these so I can turn them over to you?”

“Of course. That one's mine and the other is my employers. They're the bags I asked you to look for.”

Bigsby Brewer strolled up behind James. His shoulders were so wide, I couldn't imagine the guy going through an average doorway without tilting to one side. Massive muscles notwithstanding, Bigsby was far from intimidating. His manner was so happy-go-lucky, his spirit so energetic, he came off about as threatening as an excited puppy.

“So, how do I look, Bigs?” James said, showing off the women's handbags to his friend. “Too last season?”

Shaking his head, Bigsby tugged the bags off James's arm and thrust them into my hands. They reeked of smoke.

“You better take these back, ma'am.” Bigs jerked his thumb in James's direction. “Noonan is too dumb to see they clash with his bunker gear!”

The two men laughed.

“Sorry it took so long,” James said. “The fire marshals had to inspect them before we could take them out. They wanted to make sure we weren't removing evidence.”

“It's okay. I'm just grateful you located them.” I regarded James again. “Did I hear your friend right? Is your last name Noonan?”

James nodded.

“You aren't by any chance related to Valerie Noonan, the banquet manager at Union Square West Hotel?”

James opened his mouth to answer but Bigsby interrupted: “Oh, no, ma'am, you've got that wrong.”

“I do?”

“James isn't
related
to Val. It's much worse than that—” As if someone had died, Bigsby took off his helmet and placed it over his heart. “He's
married
to her.”

With one sharp, hard thrust, James shot his elbow into his partner's gut. It was a real blow, and Bigs doubled over, gasping and cussing.

“So, you know Val?” James said, ignoring Bigsby's groans while calmly extending his hand. “I'm her husband. Very nice to meet you—”

I stared in horror for a second until Bigs came up again, red-faced but laughing. Apparently, this was business as usual between the two men because James's affecting smile never wavered—as if he hadn't just sucker punched his best buddy right in front of me.

“I, uh . . . I'm Clare Cosi, manager of the Village Blend, and I love Val. I mean, I just met her last night, at the Quinn's St. Patrick's Day party—”

I paused to glance at the captain, wondering why he hadn't shown at the biggest family gathering of the year. He looked away.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Val and I are both in the same general trade, so we shared a nice conversation. My boyfriend's mother asked me to help with the Five-Borough Bake Sale, so we had even more to talk over. I understand Val's on the coordinating committee?”

At the mention of the bake sale, the corners of James's mouth turned down. “If you ask me, she
is
the coordinating committee. Or at least it seems that way from all the hours she's been working on it.”

Woops.
Obviously a touchy subject. “Well, the sale is for a good cause, right? Scholarships for children of fallen firefighters—and it will all be over in a week or so.”

“Just take my wife in stride,” James said. “She can turn into a little dictator when it comes to organizing public events.”

Bigsby, still nursing his bruised torso, risked a snicker. “Not just public events, brother. From what I've seen, Val is no slouch at ordering you around, either.”

Still sitting next to me, the captain finally made a comment: “Women.”

It was the second time tonight he'd grunted the single word. I turned on the man. “What is that supposed to mean exactly?”

“You don't know?” he said.

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

The captain glanced at Bigsby. “You want to tell her?”

“Hell no!”

James winked at me. “Don't let them jerk your chain, Ms. Cosi. Two confirmed bachelors—what do they know about women, anyway?”

Bigsby snorted. “We know enough not to hitch our horse to one post, right, Captain?”

“Listen, bro,” James replied, “I saw your last one-night stand. She was about as dumb as a post.”

“And that would be a problem because . . . ?”

“You guys are terrible,” I said.

“They are, aren't they?” James gave an exaggerated nod. “They're really a sad pair. They
wish
they had a beautiful woman in their lives, telling them what she wants.”

“On the contrary,” the captain replied. “Beautiful women tell me what they want all the time.” He threw a suggestive gaze my way. “Even if it's not in so many words . . .”

“Ho!” Bigs nudged James. “Looks like the cap'n's workin' here.”

James's brow furrowed. “Working on what?”

“You've been married too long, brother. Four's a crowd.” Pulling on James's collar, Bigs headed back to the sidewalk.

“See you at the bake sale, Ms. Cosi,” James called as Bigsby dragged him away.

I cleared my throat. Bigsby's joking implication might not have bothered me if the captain's proximity hadn't changed. He was still sitting next to me on the running board, but he'd gradually eased his body closer to mine, so close I could feel the heat from his thigh against my leg.

“You know, darlin', my tour's nearly over.” His voice had gone sweeter than maple tree sap. “How 'bout I take you home, make sure you get there safe . . .”

And there's the pitch.
“Thanks, Captain, but you know very well I have someone to do that for me. Someone I care for very much.”

The captain's little smile twisted into a smirk. “So it's official, then? You're still wasting your time with Mikey—”

“
Mike
is a good guy.”

Captain Quinn looked at me as if I'd just declared Adolf Hitler a great humanitarian.

“What's the beef between you two, anyway?”

He folded his arms. “Better you find out from my cousin.”

“I asked Mike twice. Both times his answers were so vague I didn't bother asking a third.”

“Then do yourself a favor and take the hint.”

Touchy, touchy.
I studied the man, wondering if I could needle it out of him. “You know what? . . . I'm betting the reason neither of you will answer that question is because neither of you can even remember how the whole thing started. No doubt it was some childish, testosterone-fueled competition back on your parochial school playground.”

The captain glared.

“Why two supposedly intelligent men can't work out their differences is beyond me.”

“Yeah, honey, it is beyond you. So take my advice and keep it that way.”

“Men,” I muttered, getting a clue what the captain's single-word epithet was all about. “Well, Michael, it's been a barrel of fun, but now that I have our fire-roasted handbags back, I better get going.”

I began to rise, but the captain took hold of my upper arm, pulled me back down. “You're not going anywhere.”

“I told you already, I'm not interested—”

“You're not going anywhere until you
give your statement
.”

“My statement?”

“Wait here,” the captain said. “I'll be back with one of the marshals.”

True to his word, the captain returned with one of the FDNY's fire marshals, clipboard in hand. By the newcomer's size, I judged him to be a former firefighter, but there was evidence of more than that here. His nose was mashed a bit, his ears crooked. One was larger than the other, the lobe puffy and swollen into a permanent cauliflower—clearly he'd done some serious boxing. His mind didn't appear to be addled from it, however, because there was astuteness in his gaze; and in the few seconds before he spoke, I could see he was looking me over with a practiced eye, absorbing, evaluating, just like my Mike. Before he even asked a question, this FDNY detective was beginning his interview.

“Are you Miss Cody?”

“
Cosi
,” I corrected. “
Ms
. Clare Cosi.”

“Spell it for me, please.”

I did. Then I smiled and offered him my hand. He shook it but didn't smile back. With every movement his nylon jacket swished, and the array of tech devices on his belt clanked. He flashed the badge clipped onto his jacket.

“I'm a fire marshal, Ms. Cosi; my name is Stuart Rossi. Captain Quinn here tells me you were on premises when the event began?”

“That's right.” I felt Captain Michael's intense gaze on us as the marshal asked me a series of standard questions. How did I know they were standard? Because the man made continuous checkmarks on a standardized form.

About five minutes into the interview, Crowley appeared. He signaled the captain, who took a few steps away to speak with his lieutenant. With the man's attention diverted, I lowered my voice to tell Marshal Rossi what I felt in my gut was true.

“I also want to add that I believe this was arson.”

“Excuse me?”

I explained how I saw and heard the fire start—with an explosion that I'd witnessed and that felt extremely suspicious. I led the man to the remains of Caffè Lucia. Rossi wouldn't allow me to cross the threshold, so I pointed out the area near the curtain and basement door, where I thought the blaze might have begun. Then I directed his attention to the intact espresso bar and the machines behind it.

“Minimal damage there,” I said. “So with the espresso machine and the gas line ruled out as possible culprits, what else could it have been but a bomb?”

“Ms. Cosi, were you a witness to any threats or discussions that involved perpetrating arson on this or any other premises?”

“No. I didn't overhear anything or witness any threats or confessions
directly
, but—”

“So your arson charge is based solely on—”

“What I saw and heard. What I witnessed at the start of the fire.”

I left out the part about my gut feelings. Captain Michael made it abundantly clear that these guys wanted hard proof, not guesses, theories, or (God forbid) womanly hunches.

Marshal Rossi went silent as he finished scribbling notes. Finally he slipped the pen into his pocket, tucked the clipboard under his arm, and looked up.

“I want to thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Cosi.”

“You're welcome, but won't you tell me what you think about all of this? From what you've seen, what do you think happened here?”

“Thank you again,” he said politely. “We have your address and phone number, so if we need to get in touch with you for any reason—”

“Aren't you going to answer my questions?”

“No, Ms. Cosi, I'm not.”

“Why?”

“Because it's too early in the investigation to come to any conclusions. Arson is a serious charge with serious consequences. There are tests that have to be done before we'd even consider launching a criminal investigation.”

“When will you know?”

“Here's my card. If you think of any other information that you believe is pertinent, give me a call. If I'm not at my desk, leave a message.”

The fire marshal gave a polite but final little nod; then, with the swish of his dark blue nylon jacket and the clanking of his gear, he reentered the ruined caffè.

And I thought cops in this town were closemouthed
.
Compared to New York's Bravest, New York's Finest are downright chatty.

I let the card dangle between my fingertips for a moment and realized my hand was now shaking. My heart was racing, too, and breathing was no picnic. I didn't know if this was some sort of posttraumatic aftershock, exhaustion, hunger, or all three. Maybe it was just plain old ordinary frustration with the bureaucratic wall of silence.

I stuffed the card into my jeans pocket then dug into my bag for my car keys.

“Going somewhere?”

The captain's voice startled me. “Yes. I'm headed for Elmhurst's ER. Now that I have my keys back, I can drive myself. Mike should be at the hospital by now and I've got to meet him—”