Roast Mortem

able to offer you some leads.” Please follow me, Mike. Please!

A nano-flash of annoyance crossed Mike’s rugged features. It was instantly replaced with his still-as-stone cop mask. Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his endless form to its full height. With his gaze holding mine, he said, “Have a seat, Mrs. Quadrelli. And talk to me...”

Oh, Mike, thank you...

“Tell me what you think is relevant,” Mike began. “Talk about anything you can think of — ”

Anything other than Maria Tobinski’s medical history, and the saga of Pinto, the dog who rides around in a little red wagon.

I touched the woman’s arm. “Try to stay on the subject of Enzo and his caffè. Police officers don’t have a lot of patience.” I shot Mike an apologetic look. In my experience, patience was Mike Quinn’s defining characteristic — although with Chatty Cathy here, who knew?

Mrs. Quadrelli settled into the plastic chair and looked up (way up) at the broad-shouldered cop now towering over her. Finally, she turned to me.

“He showed you his ID, right, Miss Cosi? You never said.”

With a barely perceptible sigh, Mike reached inside his sport coat, pulled out the well-worn leather wallet and flashed his shield.

“That’s a gold badge!” A scolding finger appeared in my face. “This man’s not just an officer, Miss Cosi. He’s a detective.”

“Oh?” I said, exchanging another look with Mike. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to demote you.”

Mike’s lips twitched. “No problem.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Quadrelli. “Now why don’t you start at the beginning...”

Contrary to my advice, Mrs. Q began filling Mike in on her relationship with Enzo, starting with their first passing conversation, the weather that day, and what clothes they were wearing.

I am going to need caffeine, I realized, as soon as possible.

The only visible source was a bank of machines on the other side of the waiting room.

Vending machine coffee. God help me...

Cringing, I crossed over. My handbag smelled of smoke as I opened it and gathered enough change to satisfy the DelishiCo Individual Brew coffee machine twice. Oh, sure, each cup was “individually brewed,” as promised, but that didn’t matter much when the water bin hadn’t been flushed in months, and coffee oils had built up along the internal spout.

I loaded up on the powdered cream, poured in a stack of sugar packets, and returned to Mrs. Quadrelli’s side, handing over the cup of coffee I’d promised her.

About then, Mrs. Q’s eyes went teary. “And I think maybe it was those men who did it, who set the fire...”

“Men?” I echoed. “What men?”

“Theo, the Greek boy, and the other one, Kareem — he’s from Morocco or Egypt or something. They run that nightclub next to Caffè Lucia — ”

“The Red Mirage?” I asked, recalling the scruffy-chinned guy with the foreign accent who’d called my car a junk heap.

“That’s the one. Those are the two fellows who manage the place. Theo’s been here for years. His family lives by the park. But Kareem is a new émigré, a real shady type.”

“What do you mean by shady?” Mike asked. His deep voice remained measured, but his eyes betrayed the tiniest flicker of newly awakened interest.

“Just... shady.”

“You mean criminal shady?” I pressed.

The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Mike glanced at me a moment then focused back on Mrs. Quadrelli. “And why do you think these men would want to burn down Enzo’s shop?”

“They wanted to buy his place,” she explained. “Maybe two months after they opened the club, they began making offers. They were very insistent, if you know what I mean — threatening, that’s what Enzo said. You can ask him; he’ll tell you. They kept it up, too, even after Enzo dug in his heels and told them absolutely not.”

Mike leaned in a bit. “Why did they want him out so badly?”

“So they could double the size of that nightclub of theirs. When Enzo wouldn’t give in, they expanded in the other direction, after Mr. Ganzano moved his real estate office to that new building on Broadway. I think they forced him out. Did you know he left his wife after thirty-one years of marriage? I hear he has a Dominican floozy stashed in an apartment near LaGuardia Airport — ”

“But they stopped bothering Enzo, right?” I said. “It sounds like these men got what they wanted. They were able to expand in the other direction?”

“Yes — and then the club doubled in size. Oh, the noise! My goodness the noise on that block was terrible! They kept the music blaring until three, sometimes four, in the morning. There were people crowding the sidewalk, fights every night! And the street was always jammed with cars!”

“Did Enzo complain?” I asked. “Get them into trouble?”

“Oh, no. After a time, there was no need to. All that noise and trouble went away.”

“Why is that?” Mike asked. “The club’s still there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the crowds aren’t. The place used to have lines around the block. But then the economy took a nosedive and a lot of the young people lost their jobs, thank goodness! Now very few of them have money for overpriced night-clubs, so it’s a quiet street again.”

A dying business, in other words. Mike raised an eyebrow at me. He was thinking the same thing. Here was the perfect motive for a torch job — and what better way to make yourself look innocent than to start the blaze in the business next door?

Mrs. Quadrelli kept talking, but nothing else seemed as promising a lead as these Red Mirage guys. As she chattered on, I continued forcing myself to drink the vending machine coffee.

About a hundred years ago cowboys used to heat ground coffee in a sock placed in a pot of simmering water. When their campfire coffee was ready, they’d pour it into a tin cup. I’d never tasted boiled cowboy sock coffee, but I was absolutely sure it tasted better than this.

“So I told him he should call our city councilmen and complain. Those children of hers make such a racket; they should be made to play someplace else, not to mention that barking dog. Don’t you agree it’s a public nuisance? And what do you think about the lack of response from 311? Isn’t that a disgrace, Detective?”

Mike’s cop-neutral expression remained as firmly fixed as ever, but I could tell — from the deepening grooves around his eyes and mouth — that even the most patient detective in the NYPD was becoming exasperated.

“I think I got what I need for now, Mrs. Quadrelli...” He glanced at me, a trace of pleading on the edge of it. Are we done now, Detective Cosi?

With a twinge of guilt, I said. “Just one more thing, Officer — ”

“Not officer!” Mrs. Q reminded me with a correcting tsktsk . “This man is a detective, remember?”

“Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Detective, weren’t you asking me earlier about Lucia? Maybe Mrs. Quadrelli here can help.” I turned to her. “How well do you know Enzo’s daughter?”

“Oh, very! She and I have so much in common. We just love to shop! She has such a good eye for shoes and jewelry, that one. We also have the same hairdresser — Gustave Flaubert — ”

“Flaubert?” I said. “The nineteenth-century novelist?”

“You know him?” She asked. “He works on Fifth at Jean Michel Dubonnet — ”

Mike caught my eye. Dubonnet on the rocks, he mouthed, and I nearly choked on the last dregs of my coffee (which would have been appropriate since I’d been gagging the stuff down for the past fifteen minutes).

“That’s where we met,” the woman continued. “It was Lucia who introduced me to her father, said it was time he started dating again — ”