Roast Mortem

fun, eh?”

He paused, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t offer one.

“Then consider the invitation open-ended. Some weekend when my cop cousin lets you down or ticks you off and you need a nice strong, sympathetic shoulder to lean on, ring me up. Mikey never has to know about it — ”

This is a waste of my time.

I wasn’t going to get anything more out of this guy. That was obvious. My decision was clear. I would give Rossi all eight names of the men who’d attended my espresso-making lessons this evening: Captain Michael Quinn, Lieutenant Oat Crowley, and firefighters Dino Elfante, Ronny Shaw, Ed Schott, and Alberto Ortiz. Bigsby Brewer and James Noonan would be on that list, too. I hated adding their names. To me, they were heroes who’d risked their safety to carry Madame and Enzo out of that collapsing caffè — but if there was a chance they were guilty, then I had to tell Rossi, let him investigate, decide for himself.

“Good night, Captain,” I said, cutting him off midpass.

“Wait.” Michael moved with me, blocking my way. “One more thing, Clare...”

“What?”

“I want you to know: Whatever Mikey told you about Kevin” — he lifted his chin toward the I-love-my-brother wall — “it’s his version of events. Remember that...”

Confused for a moment, I turned back to the Kevin Quinn shrine, looked over the photos again. “Your brother is the reason you and Mike have been feuding all these years — is that what you’re saying? Because that’s not what Mike told me...”

“What did he tell you?”

I conveyed the story about Mike’s old girlfriend Leta, about her dad being shot in cold blood during a bodega robbery, about his classmate Pete Hogarth’s father being the killer and Mike’s being labeled a narc at the academy because of Hogarth’s two relatives being in the same class. “Mike chose to be a cop instead of a firefighter,” I finished, “so you felt betrayed, like he let you down and you never got over it.”

“My cousin’s very good at twisting the truth.”

“So are you.”

“That’s not why we want to take each other’s heads off, Clare.”

“Okay then. What is it your brother did to Mike?”

“Other way ’round.”

I narrowed my eyes at that one. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Because you ought to hear this. And once you do, you’ll know why he never told you the truth about our feud...”

I exhaled. “Never told me what exactly?”

“My little brother, Kev, was all set to start at the fire academy. Some of his buddies took him out for a few rounds to help him celebrate. On his way back home, a couple of ex-jarheads in blue pull him over. You know why? Because his SUV had FDNY stickers plastered all over it.”

“Why should that matter?”

“The annual FDNY-NYPD football game had just gone down in favor of the fire boys. These cops lost a very juicy bet. So they took it out on Kev. He told them about Mike, said ‘Listen, I got a cousin who’s a detective, cut me a break.’ So they let Kevin call Mike on his cell, and you know what your asshole boyfriend told those cops?”

I stared.

“Mike told those mutts to arrest Kevin for DUI. The kid’s future was destroyed, Clare. The FDNY wouldn’t take him after that. He did jail time. Imagine if it were your little brother — or your child — for a few beers...”

The man’s eyes were flashing. He moved closer, invading my space. “Kevin and I were supposed to be FDNY brothers together. We had wanted that since we were kids, since our dad died. Now Kevin’s had to relocate for his civilian job — all the way up to Boston. I hardly see him anymore — my only brother, gone from my life because of my pigheaded cousin’s NYPD advancement dreams.”

“But... aren’t you blaming Mike for something that Kevin got himself into...”

“Aw, darlin’...” He shook his head, looking more heart-broken than angry. “Don’t you get it? Mike didn’t want to look bad. He didn’t want to risk someone finding out that he got the rules bent for a relative. Your precious boyfriend put his police career before helping his own flesh and blood.”

My mouth went dry. I wanted to chalk this up to the captain’s twisted version of events, but there was such sincerity in his tone, in his eyes... I couldn’t chalk this one up to baloney. Still, I had to tell him...

“That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

“You haven’t known him long enough, then.” His voice went low and soft, like he was doing me a serious favor, warning me of a coming earthquake. “I’m tellin’ you, Clare, you should move yourself good and clear of my cousin, for your own well-being...”

My reply came, but it was hardly audible. “I don’t agree.”

“You will, darlin’. Like I told you, my invitation is open-ended. One weekend when you see the jerkoff for what he is and you’re cryin’ you eyes out, you give me a call...”

A loud, throbbing electronic tone interrupted us. A second later, knuckles rapped on the door. The captain held my eyes a long moment then tore himself away, stepped into the hall.

“We got a hot one, Michael...”

It was Oat Crowley’s muffled voice. On the floor below there were shouts and pounding feet.

“One second, Oat...”

The captain ducked back into his office. “Stay here, Clare. I have more to tell you. Wait for me to come back.”

When he left again, I went to the doorway, watched his broad back moving quickly away.

“What’s the job?” the captain asked.

“Long Island City,” Oat replied, hurrying to catch up. “It’s a two-alarm, going to three...”

The heavy bang of the stairwell door cut off their voices. In less than a minute, I felt the massive trucks rumbling under my feet, heard the sirens screaming as the ladder and engine companies raced into the night. When the building was still and quiet again, I headed down to the kitchen to retrieve my backpack. I bundled up tightly — coat, scarf, hat, gloves.

A part of me was curious to hear what else the captain had to say, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever he wanted to tell me was going to come with those increasingly aggressive advances that had nothing to do with my “feminine charms” and everything to do with his vendetta against Mike.

The walk back to my car came with bitterly cold wind gusts. I had expected them, prepared for them, but I shivered just the same. This whole evening had ended badly, and I suddenly knew how those men felt at the end of my espresso lesson. Getting a few answers seldom settled anything, it only confirmed the need to ask more questions.

I didn’t want to admit it, but the captain’s story had shaken me. I’d always had so much faith in Mike Quinn. We’d been through so much together. But the same had been true with me and Matt — until I’d learned the truth of his behavior during our marriage...

When my cell phone vibrated in my front pocket, I was shivering so hard I almost didn’t feel it. I tugged off one glove, checked the screen. Who was calling from the Blend?

“It’s Tucker. Someone left a package for you.”

“What do you mean someone?”

“There’s no return address.”

“Well, didn’t you see who left it?”

“No, sweetie. Some NYU students noticed a backpack under an empty table. They looked inside and all they found was this brown paper package addressed to you so they brought it to the counter.”

It took me a second to add up two and two: abandoned package, nothing else in the backpack, addressed to me, left in our coffeehouse.

Oh my God. “Tucker, clear everyone out of the building! Call 911! Tell them to send the bomb squad! Now!”