Roast Mortem

Mike shut the door and we sat down at a metal table with four equally uncomfortable metal chairs. The interview room’s walls were concrete block and the only window had one-way glass.

The space had all the warmth of a closet at the city morgue. But the stifling feeling was exactly the point. Detectives didn’t bring suspects in here for tea parties. They brought them here to extract confessions, and the only differences I could see between this airless space and the dimly lit confessional where I’d recited my girlish sins was the kneeler — and the lighting. In Father Pentanni’s box, I could hardly see a thing. Here in Quinn’s confessional the glare was even harsher than in the squad room.

After we sat, I began to explain the situation.

“Just show him,” Matt said, cutting me off.

I chafed at my ex’s tone, but I didn’t say a word. Matt distrusted cops (and all authority figures) — partly because of his run-ins with the NYPD and partly because of his bad experiences with corrupt officials in banana republics. I knew how difficult it was for my ex-husband to come here with me. The last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument.

I set the backpack on the table, pulled out the package.

Quinn almost never showed emotion on the job. But as he studied the box of matches, the single charred stick, and the arsonist’s note to me, his features twisted openly with fury, worry, and frustration. When he finally spoke, it was a single, quiet curse.

“That son of a bitch...”

Matt folded his arms. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“No... I’m going to get this to our people in the Crime Scene Unit, but...” Quinn exhaled.

“I know,” I said, reading him. “It’s been handled to death.”

“Who opened it?” Quinn asked.

I turned to Matt. “You explain...”

“One of our customers, Barry, first noticed the backpack — ”

“Barry?” I interrupted. “Tucker said it was a group of NYU students.”

Matt shrugged. “Barry found it first. He went to the students next, asked if it was one of theirs. They all passed it around.”

I still didn’t like the sound of that. “What was Barry doing in the Blend so late?” For months now, the man had been coming in mornings or early afternoons, never in the evenings.

“Tucker said something about his having a fight with this new boyfriend. The guy’s on some anticaffeine or anticoffee kick. I don’t know. One of those political food movements. He wanted Barry to give up coffee. Barry said no. They had a fight, and Barry came to the Blend to spite him...”

“Excuse me,” Quinn said. “But how many people handled this thing? An estimate?”

“Ten, maybe twelve,” Matt said.

Quinn went silent. The cop curtain finally came down on his emotional show.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I know that makes it impossible for your people to find forensic evidence.”

“Not impossible. Just harder... We’ll have detectives from this precinct assigned to your case. After we’re done in here, you tell them everything, okay? They can work with the fire marshals investigating the Caffè Lucia fire. You’ll also have to get me the names and addresses of everyone who touched this thing. Any fibers, fingerprints, or other DNA evidence we find, we’ll have to match against your customers and baristas, and eliminate them one by one.”

Matt folded his arms. “How long with that take?”

“A while. It’s not attached to a homicide — ”

“Not yet,” I said. “But Enzo is in a coma. He’s not expected to live. And if he doesn’t, the person or persons who set that fire are going to be — ”

“Murderers.” Quinn said. “I know.”

“What happens in the meantime?” Matt snapped. “While we’re waiting for some technician to lift a fiber from the asshole who threatened Clare. We go up in flames?”

Quinn focused on me. “When we’re through here, I’ll speak to my captain. We’ll get you protection.”

“It’s not me who needs it,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I have you, don’t I?”

Quinn gave me the sweetest look. I returned it.

“Excuse me!” Matt cried. “What about the Blend?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Quinn said, still holding my gaze.

“Good,” Matt grunted.

Quinn reached out then, opening his hand as he moved it across the table. He waited, keeping it there until I put mine in his. Then he gently but firmly closed his fingers.

Matt blew out air. “Are we done now?”

“I need to talk to Mike about something else,” I said softly. “Privately, if you don’t mine.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Matt rose, left the room, and shut the door — more of a slam really.

“You okay?” Quinn asked.

I nodded, swallowed the sand in my throat. I wanted to tell him everything then, what I’d learned at the firehouse and not just about possible suspects in the Caffè Lucia fire. I wanted to speak to him about the disturbing story that Captain Michael had told me. But this arid, airless room was so awful — and it was Quinn’s turf. If I were going to question the man about his past again, I wanted it to be on mine.

“I need to see you tonight, Mike. My place, okay?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You want me to wake you up at four in the morning?”

“Yes.”

The corners of his lips lifted. “Okay then. I will.”

I rose. “I’m sorry it isn’t easier.”

He stood, too, picking up the contaminated evidence. “I’ll take this to my captain, explain what you’ve been up to. We’ll get sector cars doing routine checks of the Blend all night, and when you open tomorrow, you’ll have at least one plainclothes officer undercover inside throughout the day.”

“Thank you, Mike.” It was far from the first time I’d said it, but I meant it as much as ever.

“One more thing, Clare.”

“Yes?”

“Would you please send Allegro back in here? I’d like a private word with him.”

Twenty-Three

“Don’t move...”

The male voice at my ear was no more than a whisper. I’d been sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, so soundly, so sweetly under a heap of bedcovers. Then came the voice, dragging me back to the land of the conscious, the anxious, the miserably alert.

“Mike?”

“You heard me. Don’t move...”

I was lying on my side, still groggy and disoriented, when I felt the mattress sinking behind me. Under the blankets, large hands caressed my curves.

“What time is it?”

“All the clocks have stopped, sweetheart. There is no time. Right now there’s nothing but you and me...”

Soft tugs coaxed off my nightshirt. The touch of slightly calloused fingers were cool at first, but quickly warmed on my naked skin. Tender kisses came next, to the back of my shoulder, along my neck, around my jawline...

I smiled in the dark.

A few minutes later, Quinn’s long, heavy body was covering mine, and I found my way back to sweet oblivion.