Roast Mortem

“I knew he’d already done time for mail fraud. My classmate — Pete Hogarth was his name — he’d been complaining that his old man couldn’t get any work, also hinted that he had a worsening cocaine habit. So I took matters into my own hands.”

“What did you do?”

“I buddied up to Pete, went back to his apartment to hang out. The place was small, no privacy, but when I heard his dad kept pigeons on the roof, I knew that’s where I’d find evidence — and I did. The gun and the cash were buried in one of the coops. I called the detectives assigned to the case. They arrested Pete’s father. The ballistics matched up. He was the shooter.”

“Leta must have been grateful.”

“Honestly, she was too numb to fully understand what I did. Less than a month later, her family was back living in the Dominican Republic.”

“So much for young love.”

“Don’t sweat it, Cosi. My heart survived.”

“Those detectives handling the case must have been impressed.”

“They were. They checked in on me after that, encouraged me to go to the police academy.”

“But your father wanted you to join the FDNY?”

“I was the oldest. Like I said, I respected my dad, wanted to make him proud. But...”

“But... ?”

Mike turned on the sofa to fully face me. “As it came down, two of the guys in my class at the fire academy — they were relatives of Pete Hogarth’s. These guys didn’t care that Pete’s father was a scumbag killer. They just figured me for a narc, a rat, a guy you could never trust, and they made it a point of spreading the story of what I’d done.”

“Is that how your cousin felt about you?”

“No. Michael defended me. But it wasn’t enough, and after a few weeks, my reality check kicked in. I knew what I wanted to be doing for the next four decades of my life, and it wasn’t fighting fires. I wanted to be hunting down predators, Clare, getting them the hell off the street. Hogarth shot Leta’s father in cold blood, and I made sure he couldn’t kill again. I liked how it felt when I took him down.”

My mind flashed on Enzo, pale as a cadaver in the ICU; Madame weak and teary on that stretcher; Dante unconscious on the glass-strewn concrete...

I closed my eyes. “Does it always feel good to take them down?”

“For me it does. But you don’t always get them, Clare.”

I realized something then, something Mike had known all along...

“That’s why you’ve never discouraged me, isn’t it?” I met his gaze. “You solved your first homicide as a kid, without a badge or a gun. You know what someone like me can do.”

“Information and evidence, sweetheart. That’s what clears cases. I can flash my shield all day long, but without information and evidence, I can’t do my job. That’s why we work to develop informants on the street, interview witnesses, run background checks. If you can get those things for an investigator, then you can help him — or her.”

I exhaled. Given the fire marshal’s brush off earlier in the evening, not to mention Captain Michael’s oh-so- subtle warning not to get involved, I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear some encouraging words. Well, I was happy to return the favor.

“I can see why you don’t like retelling that story. But it’s really something what you did. It took guts...”

“Thanks.” Mike smiled, but only a little, as if he were flattered by my words but embarrassed, too. Pointing to the take-out bag, he changed the subject. “You want more?”

“Not of that.”

“Something else, then?”

I nodded. The flames in the fireplace were at their peak. I could feel their heat against my skin, hear their teasing pops and sparks. Leaning over, I pulled Mike’s mouth back onto mine.

He was pleased I’d started the kiss. I could feel it in his tightening arms, his widening smile against my mouth. He tugged me closer, used his tongue to part my lips, deepen our connection. Then his hands slipped under my oversized tee, and his slightly calloused fingers generated something with a whole lot more intensity than what he’d started in my living room hearth.

“C’mon,” he whispered, finally breaking away. “Let’s go upstairs...”

I wasn’t about to argue.

Thirteen

I woke the next morning to a pair of cat paws kneading my shoulder. I instinctively reached out for Mike. With a stab of disappointment, I realized the pillow next to mine was empty. That’s when I remembered dozing off in his arms. He’d kissed my forehead and whispered something about an early meeting with prosecutors ahead of a grand jury appearance.

Suddenly I felt another kind of stab, a prickly one to my right foot. Java and Frothy were circling me like a pair of miniature Jurassic Park raptors.

“Okay, I’m up!”

I threw off the covers. “Happy now?”

Tails raised in feline triumph, the girls bounded off the bed and waited for me at the door. With another yawn, I tied on a robe, thrust my feet into slippers, and followed their proud little forms — one coffee-bean brown, the other latte-foam white — to the kitchen.

Despite that long, steamy shower the night before, I still had a thickness in my throat, a funky odor in my sinuses, and notwithstanding the many splendored moments of Mike’s lovemaking, my subsequent dreams had been filled with images of billowing black smoke, flashing red lights, and glinting razors of splintered glass.

Tucker, my assistant manager, was scheduled to open today, which meant I still had a little time to pull myself together. Thankfully, I felt more human after I fed my tiny, furry raptors a can of furry raptor food and mainlined a Moka-brewed doppio espresso.

Next I phoned Dante at Elmhurst Hospital. He was in good spirits this AM, announcing he was “ready to roll!” His release paperwork was already being prepared, and two friends were waiting in his room to take him home — Kiki and Bahni, the two young women who also shared his apartment.

One for each of his tattooed arms, I thought, relieved to hear some good news.

Next I called Madame, surprised to find her already dressed and on her way out the door. A driver was waiting downstairs, she explained, ready to return her to Queens and the bedside of her old friend.

“You’ll need to say you’re a family member if you want to see him,” I warned.

“Yes, dear, I’ve already thought of that.”

“Well, don’t say you’re his sister, okay? He may think you’re Rita Quadrelli!”

“I plan to inform the nurses that I am his sister-in-law. I will be sure to give my name so Enzo knows my true identity.”

“Great. Please let me know how he’s doing, okay?”

“Of course.”

“And there’s one more thing... Last night, while I was questioning Enzo, he mentioned to me that Lucia was still seeing a fireman.”

“Old flame?”

“Very funny.”

“Yes, dear, well, it would have to be an old flame, wouldn’t it? She described herself as engaged to that other boy, Glenn, didn’t she?”

“See if you can get Enzo to tell you who this fireman is. Get a name.”

After a pause, Madame said, “Did this fireman have something to do with setting the firebomb, dear?”

“You’ve certainly had your coffee this morning.”