Roast Mortem

caffè. Why would someone with an agenda target it?”

“Because the agenda’s crazy — and so is the someone. Maybe this mad bomber lives near Enzo’s caffè and found it a convenient target. Come on, Clare, you know very well the chain coffeehouse that burned last week has outspoken detractors all over the world. A few years ago, someone tried to bomb one in Manhattan, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. And I’m sure Oat Crowley did, too.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I think Oat set that third fire to take the heat off the investigation of the arson at Enzo’s place. I think he and Lucia sent that letter to the newspaper to mislead the authorities, too.”

“What about the other fire, the one in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn?” Matt challenged. “It was set the same night and practically the same time as the fire that almost killed my mother in Queens.”

“I don’t know about that fire. Oat may have set it as well.”

“Why? How could that fire help him?”

“I don’t know... unless they were planning this coffee shop arson thing from the start to throw off the fire marshals.”

“That’s a stretch.”

I thought it over, glanced out the side window. “It could have been a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Matt laughed, short and sharp. “Aren’t you always quoting your flatfoot back to me when I say that?”

I slumped backward, unable to argue, and reluctant to admit (out loud, anyway) that Matt was right. Mike Quinn would never accept such a lame explanation from a fellow investigating detective. He would probably move forward by reviewing the facts related to that fire, which I didn’t have. Still...

“I want to start with what’s in front of me, okay? Oat has been acting hostile ever since he overheard me vow to find the person who set the Caffè Lucia fire. He used a wooden match to light his cigar in the park, a match just like the one I received as a threat. I want to see for myself where exactly Lucia and Oat are going together, what they’re up to...”

Matt frowned, the quipless quiet an indication the man was at least considering that I might be right. “Maybe I should have brought a weapon.”

“I think you’ve had enough run-ins with the police in this town. And don’t get too close to them! They might see us.”

“They don’t know me, Clare, and I’m wearing shades. As usual, you’re the problem. Scrunch down a little and they won’t see you.”

“Fine. I just don’t want to miss anything.”

“There’s nothing to miss because these two are not lovers.”

“How do you know?”

“Watch them,” Matt said. “There’s no evidence of intimacy that I can see...”

“Suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” I sat up again and looked for myself. The van was high, the Corvette low, so I could easily peer through its rear window. I watched the pair as Matt eased us into the left lane at Fifty- seventh, then climbed the Queensboro bridge on ramp.

“She’s laughing,” I said. “She must be having fun with him — ”

“She’s being polite. See how stiff she is.”

“Look there! She’s reaching out her hand — ”

“To adjust the radio. We’re on the bridge now; some stations won’t come in.”

I folded my arms. “So why are they in a car together?”

“I didn’t say there was nothing going on between them. The guy’s clearly interested. Look at the way he’s talking to her, waving his arms. He’s fully engaged and really trying to connect. But she ain’t buying.”

“You’re misinterpreting. She’s stiff because driving in this city is stressful!”

Through yet another game of urban bumper cars, Matt managed to fend off vehicular interlopers and hang close to Lucia’s Corvette from the lower level of the bridge all the way to a tree-lined block in Astoria.

About halfway down the sleepy side street, Lucia swung into a driveway beside a modest, two-family home. Matt had been hanging back and now stopped the van half a block away. Together Lucia and Oat emerged from the golden coupe and climbed the porch steps. She unlocked the front door, and he followed her inside, still puffing his cigar.

“Look! Lucia let Oat smoke that cheap cigar in her Corvette, and now she’s letting him stink up her apartment, too! That’s proof she’s hooking up with him.”

“Or she’s being polite,” Matt said.

“Trust me. Lucia Testa is not polite.”

Matt bet the pair would be out in minutes. They were in that house for well over an hour. Finally they emerged, strolling casually back onto the porch.

While they were inside, Matt and I had spent the time making up several scenarios for what they might be doing. When Lucia paused to lock her front door, however, the answer was clearer than bottled spring water. Oat stepped close behind Lucia, snaked an arm around her waist, and kissed her neck.

“Matt, look!”

Lucia let the man fondle her for a few seconds then she turned to shake a naughty-boy finger at him. Oat laughed again and lit a new cigar. Then they descended the porch steps and climbed back into her Corvette.

“Where are they going now?” Matt griped as we turned off the side street and onto the main drag of Steinway.

“Admit it, Matt. You were wrong.”

He shot me a frown, admitted nothing.

A few minutes later, we were back on Northern Boulevard, then turning onto another shady block.

“I know this street,” I said. “They’re going to Michael Quinn’s firehouse.”

Lucia pulled up in front of the redbrick fortress, and Oat emerged from the car, still puffing up a noxious cloud. He walked through the open garage doors, between the two fire trucks, and vanished.

We sat, fifty feet away, waiting for Lucia to leave. But she remained sitting in her parked vehicle. A few minutes later, Oat appeared again, carrying a bright orange shopping bag.

I sat up straighter. “Matt! Do you see that bag?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same kind of bag that Sully and Franco brought for me and Mike the night of Caffè Lucia’s fire.”

“What’s in it?”

“Well, it’s supposed to hold UFC Korean fried chicken. But I doubt very much that bag has chicken in it.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What does it have inside, Clare?”

“Some kind of bomb-making material.”

“And you think that because... ?”

“Oat’s cigar,” I pointed. “It’s gone. I’m sure he was afraid to smoke while he was carrying combustible materials.”

Matt didn’t reply, but he didn’t argue, either. He started the van’s engine and rolled up behind Lucia as she left the curb.

“So where is she going now?” I said. “Where do you hide a bomb?”

“Drop down in your seat,” Matt snapped. “We’re right on top of her now.”

I scrunched down, staying just high enough to peek over the dashboard. We followed Lucia all the way back to her place again. But she didn’t park this time. As soon as we swung onto her quiet street, she suddenly braked her Corvette. We were still a half block away from her place and Matt slowed the van almost to a stop.

“What’s she doing?” I whispered.

Lucia’s rear lights went on, and her Corvette began backing up until it nearly struck the front of our van. The door opened and Lucia climbed out.

I sank down even farther. “What’s happening? I can’t see!”