Roast Mortem

Thirty-Four

A Detective Sergeant Hoyt caught Matt’s 911 call. He arrived with a younger, shorter detective named Ramirez and a slew of uniforms, just minutes after the paramedics. The moment the medical team carted the still- unresponsive Michael Quinn off to the ambulance, the two investigators sealed the apartment.

The detectives separated Matt and me for questioning. I remained with Detective Hoyt in the apartment while Ramirez escorted Matt downstairs.

Hoyt was a tall man, about my age with a ruddy complexion and a dramatically receding hairline that made him appear bald (from my angle below him, anyway). His ill-fitting suit was bread-crust brown, and the only design on his pineapple gold tie was a fresh coffee stain. He was thick through the middle yet his craggy face was lean. Given the hour, I half expected him to be as worn out as I was, but Hoyt was wide awake; his eyes giving off an aggressive vitality, like twin flames trapped inside a shrunken pumpkin.

His first question (beyond my name, address, and relationship to Matt) was my connection to Michael Quinn.

“He’s my boyfriend’s cousin,” I said. “We’re on friendly terms.”

“And why did you pay him a visit so late?”

“One of the men in the captain’s firehouse died a few hours ago, under mysterious circumstances. We came here to tell Michael about it.”

I told Hoyt everything that happened regarding James Noonan, along with my theory that James’s death and the captain’s assault were related.

“Come again, Ms. Cosi? The Noonan case sounds like a suicide.”

“I think Michael Quinn was attacked because of something he knew or something the attacker thought he might have. He spoke to me earlier this evening about a package — ”

“A package? Are you talking about drugs?”

“No, the captain said he had evidence in this package, information about the death of one of the men in his firehouse.” I explained about Bigsby Brewer’s death, about the Coffee Shop Arsonist. “I’m sure that’s why this place was ransacked.”

Hoyt glanced around, scratched the back of his head with a pen tip. “Not much to ransack, you have to admit...”

That was true. A single recliner, a standing lamp, and a barstool subbing for a table were the extent of Michael Quinn’s living room furniture. He’d set a small television on top of a stack of cardboard boxes, but the shattered unit had been knocked down and the contents of those boxes — mostly clothing — were scattered all over the parquet floor.

“Does anything appear missing?” I asked.

“We generally learn that kind of thing from the victim,” Hoyt replied in a tone that indicated I’d just asked the stupidest question in the world.

“Okay, well... here. You better take this...” I dug into my handbag pocket, held out the damp glove.

“And what’s this, Ms. Cosi?”

“I found it in the puddle in front of this building. I’m betting it belongs to Mrs. Josephine Fairfield. She and the captain used to be engaged. There was a scene at the pub. He rejected her pass. I think you should question her.”

The detective waved over a uniform officer who bagged the glove for the detective. “Okay, Ms. Cosi, spell that name for me. Fairfield, you said?”

“I said: Get the hell out of my way! I want to see my captain!”

The roaring male voice echoed up the staircase, an audio assault on my tired brain. The Bad Lieutenant was here — Oat Crowley. He’d either heard the 911 call while buffing, seen the emergency vehicles down the street, or both.

A few seconds later, Detective Ramirez appeared. He stood on the landing, just beyond the open front door. Oat Crowley loomed behind him — at more than a head taller than the detective, Crowley could easily see into the apartment.

“What the hell is she doing here?!” the lieutenant bellowed.

Ramirez jerked a thumb in Oat’s direction, announced his name. “This guy claims to know the victim.”

“Victim?” Oat said, now looking alarmed. “Where the hell is Michael Quinn?”

Hoyt narrowed his eyes on the blustering firefighter. “By now I’d say he was in the intensive care unit at Elmhurst. Unless he graduated to the morgue.”

“It’s her fault!” Oat rushed toward me. Hoyt blocked him, the cop in uniform stepped up to help. “I don’t know what story she’s telling you, but she started this thing, and her cop boyfriend obviously tried to end it — ”

“You’re crazy!” I shouted.

“Ask her!” he shouted right back, stabbing the air with his finger. “Ask her how she played two men against each other: my captain and Mike Quinn.”

“I didn’t play anybody!”

Hoyt exchanged a glance with his partner.

“You want them separated, Sarge?” Detective Ramirez asked.

“Not yet. Let’s see where this goes...” Hoyt turned to Oat. “You clear this up, okay? Mike Quinn is the name of the victim.”

“It’s a family name,” Oat said. “Michael Quinn is my captain, Mike Quinn is an NYPD detective with some hotshot squad in Manhattan. The two are first cousins — and she’s the reason it came down to fists earlier this evening.”

“How do you know about that?” I challenged. “You weren’t even there.”

“Half the firehouse was there, lady! It’s all the shift’s talking about tonight!”

“Then you haven’t heard yet?” I said, hardly able to believe it. “None of you have heard about James?”

“James?” Oat said. “What about James?”

“Quiet! Both of you!” Hoyt said. Now he turned to me. “What was this fistfight about earlier in the evening, Ms. Cosi? You didn’t mention it to me.”

“It was nothing,” I said. “A misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“That’s what you call it?” Oat barked a laugh. “Listen to me, Sarge, earlier this evening, in front of a dozen witnesses, her boyfriend — Detective Mike Quinn of the NYPD — worked over his cousin at Saints and Sinners pub in Woodside after he caught her making out with him — ”

“I was doing no such thing!”

“Call it what you want, honey, your lousy cop boyfriend obviously came here to finish the job he started on his cousin.”

“Well, it didn’t go down like a fistfight here,” Hoyt said. “It appeared the victim was struck from behind with a blunt instrument. The attacker shook down the premises, stole the victim’s watch, wallet, rifled his pockets, and then fled with the weapon.”

“To make it look like a robbery,” Oat said. “Quinn’s been on the job all his life! He knows how to cover up his own crime!”

“You’re wrong!” I said. “Mike might have thrown a punch in a bar, but he would never ambush a man with a club, beat him into a coma.”

“Calm down, Ms. Cosi,” Hoyt said. “I’m just looking at all the angles, and it sounds like this fight was a heat of the moment thing, except that you never mentioned it, which makes it clear to me that you’re far from an objective party.”

“But that fight has nothing to do with what happened here,” I said.

“Bull!” Oat bellowed. “There’s been bad blood between the pair of them for years. A real history. Listen to me, Hoyt, you better not try to protect Detective Quinn just because he’s another cop, or I’ll — ”

“You don’t want to threaten me,” Hoyt said, his own threat clear under the tight reply. “Just tell me about the history.”

I expected Oat to spill that old Kevin Quinn story or tell Hoyt how betrayed Michael felt about his cousin