Roast Mortem

For some reason Crowley didn’t agree. First his gaze pingponged back and forth between me and his superior. Then he came right out and said, “Uh, Cap. Not a good idea.”

“Why?” the captain replied. “Someone’s got to drop by the ER, look in on Ronny Shaw. The poor man may have snapneck.”

“Sure,” said Crowley, “and that’s where I was headed after we pack up here. Tell you what? Why don’t I save you the trouble and drive Ms. Cosi to Elmhurst myself?”

“And why don’t you follow orders?”

Silence ensued for a good five seconds. Crowley’s cheeks turned the color of pink peppercorns. Then he spoke through a pair of calcified jaws.

“Yes, sir. Meet you at the hospital.”

Six

After pointing out my car to the lieutenant, Michael Quinn led me to his official vehicle and helped me into the passenger seat. The Chevy Suburban might have been roomy if all kinds of extra gear hadn’t been jammed into the compartment — a computer and GPS unit, a radio that constantly crackled with chatter from all over the borough, and a rack between the passenger and driver to hold a shorter version of the claw-topped shaft every fireman seemed to carry.

“It’s called a Halligan tool,” the captain replied when I asked.

“I see. Why were the firemen tearing out the café walls with it, after the flames were out?”

“You mean after the flames appeared to be out.” The captain tossed his helmet into the backseat. “Fire’s a canny beast. She can hide in the walls, the ceilings, the floorboards.”

She, I noted. He thinks of the fire-beast as a she. There must be a story behind that...

The captain leaned over, opened the glove compartment. “Here,” he said, handing me a plastic packet of some kind of snack food. “Eat.”

I didn’t argue — or care, frankly, what the heck it was. There were carbs here and I was light-headed. I ripped it open.

“So what else is the Halligan tool used for? I mean, besides breaking things?” (I said this around a less-than- ladylike mouthful of what tasted like cheddar cheese filled pretzel bites. If it had been royal beluga on a half baguette, I couldn’t have shoveled it in any faster.)

“Let me put it to you this way,” the captain said, swinging the Suburban around to get clear of the trucks. “King Arthur civilized the British Isles with Excaliber. Babe Ruth broke every record with his Louisville Slugger. And every man jack of us in the FDNY tames the beast with his Halligan tool.”

The she-beast? Hmm... “I think I’m getting it,” I said. And, brother, does it sound Freudian.

The captain peered through the windshield. “Now where the hell is Oat and that car of yours?”

My mouth full again, I pointed then swallowed. “Up the block. He’s driving the red Honda.”

“If that’s your clunker, then you really shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now — or ever.”

“You’re the second man to insult my car tonight. Not everyone can afford the latest model, you know? It might not look like much, but my Honda’s got pep. And it still gets good gas mileage.”

“So does a horse. Really, honey. I’m worried about Oat’s safety. Running into a fire is one thing, driving that death-trap is another.”

“Why do you call Lieutenant Crowley ‘Oat’?”

“You haven’t seen him without his bottle top — ”

“His what?

“His soup bucket, his umbrella.”

“English?”

“His fire helmet. You haven’t seen him without his head gear.”

“Oh.”

“He’s prematurely gray,” the captain explained. “When Crowley was still a probie, someone at breakfast noticed his hair was the same color as the milky oatmeal being served and the name stuck.”

“He’s named after oatmeal? I’m sure he hates that moniker.”

“Trust me, it could have been worse.”

As we came to a red light, the Number 7 train rumbled loudly along the elevated train tracks over our heads. When it finally passed, the captain turned toward me.

“Clare...” His tone was different, no longer playful. “Earlier you said someone else might have a motive to torch old man Enzo’s shop.”

“Yes.”

“Who exactly were you thinking of accusing?”

I may have been tired and feeling a little weak, but a part of me came alert with that question. Maybe it was the way the man asked — as if he were afraid of knowing the person. Maybe it was something else. But I went with my gut and held my tongue.

“You were right, Michael,” I replied carefully. “It’s not my line of work. Forget I said anything.”

Elmhurst Hospital was an incongruous sight: a shiny, ultramodern facility planted in the middle of a hardscrabble neighborhood of worn-out storefronts and rundown row houses, most of them packed with recent immigrants from Ecuador, India, Colombia, and Pakistan. By the time we turned onto the hospital’s drive, I’d decided that I would put some questions to Enzo Testa. I didn’t believe the old coffeehouse owner was responsible for torching his own business. But I was far from convinced that the fire was accidental.

Fire Marshal Rossi had given me his card and told me I could contact him with any further information that I believed was pertinent. As far as I was concerned, that was an invitation to find some.

As I checked my watch again, Captain Michael swung his official vehicle up to the ER entrance and cut the engine.

“You know, darlin’,” he said, “it’s not too late to forgo the hospital’s oxygen for a little mouth to mouth at my place.”

Give it up, man. “I don’t think so.”

“You sure? It’s late and you’re taking your chances in there. The ER will be packed. You could be here for a long time, only to be seen by an exhausted intern with a funny-sounding name on the unlucky thirteenth hour of a fourteen-hour shift.”

I popped the door. “Thanks — but I’ll take my chances with the exhausted intern.”

My knees nearly gave out as I jumped down from the high vehicle, but I felt a whole lot better a moment later, when Mike Quinn, my Mike Quinn, pushed through the ER’s exterior doors, his ruddy complexion looking pale in the halogen-flooded entryway.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

I nodded.

Mike’s arms went around me. The embrace was much needed, but it came with the slight, familiar stab from the handle of his service weapon, tucked into the holster beneath his sport coat and trench. The momentary prod perfectly summed up our relationship — extraordinarily affectionate, punctuated with the occasional, unexpected jab (metaphorically speaking).

My ex-husband once called the man Dudley Do-Right, but Mike wasn’t perfect or even above using a dodgy ploy to get the job done. He hadn’t started out as a suit-wearing detective, either. He’d earned his gold shield by coming up in the ranks, which included decorated undercover work as an anticrime street cop, so he was far from naïve or a guy you’d want to cross.

Still my ex was right about one thing: Crime solving wasn’t a game to Mike Quinn. It was the fulfillment of what he saw as an almost sacred obligation to remove murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and predators from the