“Keep your voice down.”
“Are you telling me that snooping around for the NYPD isn’t providing enough of the thrills you missed as a stay-at-home mom? Now you want to play with the FDNY?”
“I am not playing. Rossi is going to find the forensic evidence to prove arson, and I don’t want him going after Enzo. I’m certain, down to my bones, that others were responsible. You’d feel the same way if you’d been there. Your own mother was almost burned alive.”
“Burned alive!” Matt’s olive-skinned face went paler than the cream in my espresso con panna. “I thought you said she was never in any real danger!”
Woops. “Okay, maybe I, uh, downplayed things a little, but you were in a state — ”
“And I’m getting there again! Did the marshal at least say it was arson?”
“I told you, they won’t discuss the case with me — ”
“Then drop it, Clare. Let the pros handle it.”
“Excuse me,” Dante said, interrupting us. “But the pros didn’t pull me out of the fire last night. It was Clare who saved my life.”
Tucker tapped my shoulder. “Now that you bring it up, sweetie, I think you may be onto something with this arson thing.” He slapped Matt’s New York Post back on the bar top and paged quickly through it. “Look at this.” Tuck’s finger touched a small square of newsprint deep inside the paper: Blaze Burns Bensonhurst Beanery.
“According to the story, there was a coffeehouse fire last night on Avenue O in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It started around the same time as your Astoria fire. Très coincidental if you ask me.”
I frowned, scanned the story. “This is odd.”
“Why?” Matt said. “Tucker is right. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
Was it? Another one of Mike Quinn’s pithy pieces of law enforcement philosophy suddenly came to mind: In a criminal investigation, there are no coincidences. I couldn’t help wondering what Mike’s cynical cousin would say to that.
Within an hour of my thought, the cell in my pocket vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen — a 718 area code, which meant a borough other than Manhattan — so I answered tentatively.
“Hello?”
“Clare Cosi. Guess who it is callin’ ya, darlin’?”
Although the man’s voice was keyed an octave lower than usual, I would have recognized Captain Michael’s roguish lilt even without the played up brogue.
“Don’t hang up on me now.”
“How did you get this number?”
He didn’t tell me. What he said was: “Now I’m sure my cousin told you to steer good and clear of me — ”
“As a matter of fact he did.”
“Well, I can’t blame him. But I’m not callin’ for my own account. I’m callin’ for my guys. They’re in trouble.”
I bet they are.
I assumed Rossi had started questioning his men, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“They need help, Clare,” the captain went on. “The kind only you can provide.”
“Me? Why would a crew of New York’s Bravest need my help?”
“Simple, dove...” I could almost see the man’s gold tooth flashing from across the East River. “You know how to make coffee.”
For twenty minutes the Arsonist observed the activity in the slick chain coffeehouse — the customer traffic, the counter service, the café tables — all while nursing the contents of an absurdly large cappuccino...
This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man’s place was supposed to be empty. It’s all because of that bitch things got so screwed up...
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Across the room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the knob.
There’s my ticket...
The Arsonist stayed focused on that closed door, listened to sounds of running water, continued taking hits off the twenty-ounce paper cup. But the dregs of steamed milk tasted cold, the last drops of espresso bitter.
If only I could set off the damn bomb right now...
All around the Arsonist, young urban professionals were complaining about stalled careers and condo costs, lost benefits and airline delays, needy kids and presumptuous parents — a petty list of privileged problems. A few more minutes of listening to whining in quad and the Arsonist wanted to nuke the place, not just torch it.
Impatient, the Arsonist bent over the orange shopping bag. A small alarm clock sat inside, along with a large battery, a giant jar of high-octane spiked petroleum jelly, and a bleach bottle with no bleach inside. The Clorox bottle had been refilled with a mix of gasoline, naphtha, and benzene — all of it rigged to that clock. When the alarm went off, a quiet spark would awaken the sleeping beast. Then the petroleum jelly would ignite and poof, instant napalm.
Highly destructive, hell to put out...
The Arsonist reached into the orange bag, attached two wires sprouting from the battery, fixed them to circuits on the converted bleach bottle.
All ready...
The young coffeehouse worker finished cleaning the unisex facility. After tucking her cleaning products back onto her stainless steel cart, she rolled it into a closet adjacent to the restroom.
Time now...
The Arsonist rose and walked — easily, casually — to that restroom. Pretending to choose the “wrong” door, the Arsonist opened the closet, quickly slipped the bag onto the bottom shelf of the cart, between two giant bottles of cleaning fluids. The closet door was closed and the restroom door opened.
No one took notice of the Arsonist’s “mistake” — not one customer or employee.
After leaving the Long Island City shop, the Arsonist turned for one last look at the posted hours of operation. The timer on the bomb was set for 10 PM, well past the seven o’clock closing. Outside, the day was still pleasant, but the chill was coming.
Another package still had to be delivered — to the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. This one would be for that troublemaking bitch who’d tipped off the fire marshals to look beyond Testa for their torcher...
Two firebombs started us down this road. Two more will end it. And if that Cosi bitch doesn’t get the message after tonight, we’ll just have to end her.
