Roast Mortem

warred on his face, an epic struggle between concern and annoyance.

Without a word he unscrewed the thermos lid and poured. I grabbed the metal cup, bolted it, held it out for more, and gulped a second. Now I knew how Val felt, taking those first drags on the smokers’ patio.

“Okay, Clare,” Matt said, “I’m here. What the hell is going on? You were crying so hard I couldn’t understand half of what you were blubbering over the phone.”

I spilled the whole awful story: the drunken pass by Mike’s cousin, the unholy timing of Mike’s seeing it, the ugly bar fight, then my going home with Valerie and discovering her husband’s asphyxiated body in their small garage.

My hero firefighter was dead. As I described the baby pink color of James’s corpse, I broke down again. Matt handed me a handkerchief then put his arm around me. When I finished getting his leather jacket good and wet, I began telling him what happened after the police arrived.

“An army of them tramped all through the Noonans’ home,” I said. “Detectives interviewed Val and me in separate rooms, and I told them that I believed James was murdered.”

“Murdered? Why?”

“That’s what the detectives wanted to know.”

“And?”

“James was killed because of what he knew about Bigsby Brewer’s death. I’m sure of it.”

“What did he know?”

“James wouldn’t tell me. That’s why I went to see him. He was supposed to be at the pub, but he never showed. So I asked Val to help me try to coax the truth out of him... and I know there’s a truth. Michael Quinn even confirmed it.”

Matt looked about as convinced as those guys with the gold shields.

“I told the detectives to speak with the captain. They wrote his name down in their notebooks, assured me they’d follow up in the morning, but I don’t know...” I shook my head.

“What’s the matter, Clare? The cops will follow up.”

“It’s just that... despite my assuring them that James was murdered, they began looking hard for a suicide note, and unfortunately they found one — in Val’s e-mail box.”

“What did it say?”

“Five words. ‘I am so sorry. Good-bye.’ It was a text message sent from James’s phone earlier in the evening.”

“That’s it?”

“Anyone could have written it! Especially if James had texted Val in the past. The addresses would be right there, stored inside his phone!”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think they believed me. Val broke down at the sight of the message, sobbed openly about her husband’s depression; his erratic behavior and mood swings; how James was mourning the death of his best friend, Bigsby Brewer; how hard he’d taken the loss...”

I met Matt’s eyes. “Bigsby was a hero to me, too. He went with James into that collapsing caffè, helped save your mom and Enzo.”

I paused to gulp more coffee (and cry a little more).

“Here.” Matt pressed a second handkerchief into my hands (the first one he’d given me was already soaked).

With frustration I swiped at my uncontrollable waterfall. “Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. After your call, I laid in a supply.” He pulled open the right side of his jacket, the inside pocket was bulging with folded handkerchiefs.

I would have burst out laughing. But it struck me as touching and I started crying all over again.

“Oh, boy...” Matt held on to me.

“I don’t believe that lame text message,” I said against his jacket. “The killer sent it. I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know, Clare... How can you be?”

“The beer on the kitchen table.” I leaned back, finally dried my eyes. “James hated beer. If he wanted to get drunk one last time, he had a four-foot rack of good wine he could have guzzled instead.”

“People who decide to off themselves do irrational things.”

“Right. So if you were going to end it all, you would add arsenic to an espresso made from freshly roasted Yirgacheffe peaberries? Or a cup of green tea brewed from a grocery store box?”

Matt scratched the back of his head. “I see your point.”

“And... there’s something else... As I was sitting here, waiting for you, before I nodded off?”

“What?”

“I remembered: At the bake sale in Union Square Park, I met this club guy, Dean Tassos, a ‘friend’ of Val’s, only he was acting like more than a friend: fawning words, lingering touches, sweet looks — ”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Just listen: Dean called Val while she and I were at the pub. She didn’t want me to hear their conversation so she took the call in the ladies’ room.”

“And how do you know it was Tassos?” Matt asked.

“The ring tone — ‘You Spin Me Right Round’... Val had it set especially for him, and immediately after Dean calls her, she decides her husband isn’t going to show and asks me to give her a ride home.”

“So?”

“So what if Dean called Val to tell her the deed was done?”

“Come on, Clare. You’re starting to suspect conspiracies 24/7.”

“It makes perfect sense: Dean calls Val to tell her that James is dead. She now knows it’s safe to come home, and she brings a witness, me. One more thing: Dean is part owner of the Mirage clubs.” I dug into my bag for the business card the man gave me, handed it to Matt. “Look at the locations.”

“North Jersey, Brooklyn, and — ”

“Astoria! The Red Mirage club sits right next to Caffè Lucia, and their business has slowed. Before this whole thing started, I even had a run-in with one of Dean’s shady managers, an argument over a parking space in front of his club. Yet when this same club was threatened by the caffè fire, this jerk was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Why? Because he knew about — or was involved in — setting the fire and was afraid of being questioned at the scene!”

I took a breath. “I think Dean’s dirty. Given Val’s close friendship with him and her marriage to a firefighter, she may have been the one to give him the idea to torch the business next to his club so he wouldn’t be accused of arson. Then the marshals would pin it on Enzo, and Red Mirage clubs would walk away scot-free with a big fire-insurance paycheck.”

“Well, it didn’t work out that way,” Matt said.

“Yeah, because James’s fire company was too good. They stopped the blaze before it spread to the nightclub, and I turned out to be a fly in the ointment, too. I witnessed the start of that fire, gave Marshal Rossi reasons to look beyond Enzo for motive. That’s why they threatened me! To get me to butt out. That was the reason they set the second fire, too, the one that killed Bigsby, then sent a fake letter to the newspaper — they needed to throw off the scent.”

“So why kill James?”

“Maybe James figured it all out — maybe Val slipped and James overheard a phone call with Dean. Maybe James threatened to go to the authorities unless Dean turned himself in. He and Val could have plotted to kill him to keep him quiet.”

Matt rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The midnight rain had stopped by now, but the combination of chilly outside air and steamy coffee had fogged the wet car windows. The effect was far from intimate. It felt almost threatening, as if a gray curtain were closing around us.

“Okay, Clare. If you still feel that strongly in the morning, you can call the police, right? Give them your new theory? So, can we go now? I’m parked behind you. I’ll drive you back to the Blend, and we’ll come back here tomorrow to get your car.”

“I didn’t bring you here to be my chauffeur, Matt. I need you to watch my back.”