Roast Mortem

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 — ”

“My cousin’s meeting you, is he?”

“Yes” — Didn’t I just say that? — “I called him right after they took my friends to the hospital.”

“Good, because a hospital is where you should be going, too, and not under your own power.”

“I’m fine — ”

“Your hands are trembling and you’re whiter than a jug of Clorox. Have you eaten anything lately?”

“Uh...” Enzo had shared some biscotti and pizzelles with us, but other than the Gatorade, that was it for nutrition. I hadn’t had a proper meal since brunch nearly twelve hours earlier.

“Okay,” I confessed, “I’m a little shaky and I could use a bite to eat. But I’m certainly capable of driving myself a few miles.”

Unfortunately, stating something firmly doesn’t make it so. When I took a few steps, my knees refused to go with me.

“Easy, darlin’,” the captain said, taking my arm. “An adrenaline crash is catching up to you and your blood sugar’s bottoming out.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should not be driving, and I won’t let you.” Slipping the keys from my fingers, the captain bellowed to Lieutenant Crowley.

“Oat! Drive Ms. Cosi’s car to Elmhurst’s ER and park it!”

Crowley frowned. “And how is she getting there?”

“In the captain’s car. She’s too queasy to drive herself.”

“Okay. I’ll get Sergeant Ennis — ”

“No, Oat, I won’t be needin’ my driver. I’ll be takin’ her myself. Sergeant Ennis can hitch a ride home on the engine.”

I tensed, not relishing the idea of getting into a car alone with Michael Quinn. Still, he wasn’t wrong to take my keys. I was depleted, my brain fuzzy. Driving a car in New York City was no mean feat; doing it at night, in my current condition, approached genuine stupidity.