very wet, but I had to get a closer look.
Thunder rumbled a warning. I stepped up to the Mustang anyway, peered into the side window, hoping to spy some identifying item, solve my problems faster. That’s when I felt it, hard and cold, pressing into my back.
“It’s a nine-millimeter, Ms. Cosi,” the man’s voice informed me. “That’s a gun, in case you didn’t know.”
“What do you want?”
Glenn Duffy reached around fast, opened the car door. “Get in. Move.” I could see the gun in his hand now. He held it low, aimed at my belly. “I said
I moved.
“Crawl across. Get behind the wheel.”
“Buckle up,” Glenn insisted, ignoring his own belt.
Everything felt hyper-real. I could smell the dampness of the raindrops, the sharp peppermint scent of the gum Glenn must have discarded before he ambushed me. I forced myself to stop staring at his weapon, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. The boyish, blond Elvis was gone; the younger man’s bland, amiable expression was replaced with a mask of frustrated rage.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Jason called me. When I saw you staring at my ride across the street, I knew I was made... Christ, Jason thinks he’s the brains, but he was duped by a reporter act and a bad wig. What a publicity hog.”
“Don’t do this. You’re just making things worse for yourself. Why don’t you — ”
“Why don’t you
I pulled away from the curb, frantically glancing in the rear view mirror, praying I’d see Dante. But there was no sign of him. Was Jason Wren going to take care of my barista while Glenn kidnapped me?
I swallowed hard. “Where to?”
“Stay on Bay Parkway.”
I tried again to engage him: “So whose idea was it to copy
Glenn snorted. “That boring movie? That was Jason’s idea.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You said
“Shut up and drive!”
I counted to three. “It’s obvious you burned Jason’s business, and he burned Enzo’s place. Wren gets to start a cone pizza franchise with his insurance money. What do you get out of it?”
“I get Lucia and her insurance money.”
“Lucia Testa? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s Oat Crowley’s sex toy. Do you know Crowley? He’s a fireman.”
Glenn’s face flushed. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I smelled that cheap cigar smoke in Lucy’s ’Vette. But that’ll change once I get her over to Jersey, away from her sneering old man, away from this city and that fat fireman!”
The low rise buildings were gone now. We were driving through a lonely stretch of two-lane road bordered on either side by rusty chain-link fencing.
The flat, featureless acreage of Washington Cemetery was so isolated it seemed almost rural. The only indication we were driving through one of the world’s most populated cities was the elevated subway ahead of us and the Art Deco towers of the Veranzano Narrows looming like pale head-stones on the hazy horizon. A lone vehicle rolled maybe five hundred feet in front of us — a city garbage truck.
“Make the next left,” Glenn said. “It’ll take you right through the cemetery gate. Nice private place for us to have our little talk.”
We weren’t going to talk and I knew it. Once I pulled into that graveyard, I was never coming out — a sacrifice to the fast-food franchise dreams of Jason Wren and the twisted love of Glenn Duffy.
Ahead, the huge garbage truck pulled over to the side of the road. Two men jumped out and flanked a large metal Dumpster. The driver stayed in the cab, began lowering the lift.
“Pass them nice and slow,” Glenn warned.
“Slow, okay...” At the edge of my vision, I saw Glenn shifting. He was moving the gun from one hand to the other!
I slammed my foot so hard on the gas pedal I broke my stacked heel. The Mustang shot forward, tires spinning on the wet pavement. We fishtailed into the other lane, then back again.
Duffy shouted obscenities but he didn’t shoot (or couldn’t). Instead, he threw himself at me, tried to punch the brake. I impaled his foot with my other heel while I pressed the horn and held it.
The impact came in seconds, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. Glenn wasn’t so lucky. Like fragile candy the Mustang’s front end crumpled against the mammoth truck. The windshield shattered as a large object flew through space — Glenn Duffy’s body.
God knows where the gun landed.
The sanitation crew was shouting at me or each other; I couldn’t tell. They were speaking English, but nothing registered, just my own hard breathing, the hiss of the shattered radiator, and the occasional moan from Duffy.
I unbuckled my seat belt, stumbled out, and pointed at the groaning hood hanging off the ruined hood.
“Lady, are you okay?” one of the men asked.
“Call the police,” I said. “That man is a killer.”
Thirty-Seven
“Clare...”
My eyes were happily closed, my body stretched out beneath the warm, soft bedcovers. A man’s voice was calling my name. I felt his strong hand on my shoulder. I smiled, waiting to feel more.
“Mmmm... Mike?”
“Clare! Wake up!”
I opened my eyes. My ex-husband was shaking my shoulder. He stood beside the bed, holding out my cell. “It’s that detective, the one you mentioned before you hit the sack. Sullivan something...”
“Sully!” I sat up, grabbed the phone. “What’s going on? Is Mike free? Tell me this is over.”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Good news. Please. I could use some.”
“You bagged your firebugs, Clare. Much to the dismay of a few smug suits and a whole team of Feds, the case of the Coffee Shop Arsonist is now closed.”
“Duffy and Wren confessed?”
“Yeah, those two geniuses broke when the boys in Brooklyn played one against the other. The shields told Jason Wren that Glenn Duffy confessed on his ‘deathbed’ — that’s what they called it, even though the little punk is going to be just fine. Then they turned around and told Duffy that Wren blamed everything on him. Both went for plea deals and signed confessions...”
When Sully’s positive patter stopped, so did my breathing. “A
“I’m sorry, Clare. What you accomplished doesn’t clear Mike. Neither Wren nor Duffy had anything to do with that midnight assault on Mike’s cousin. They both had solid alibis and claimed they had never heard of Captain
