Michael Quinn — or James Noonan, for that matter.”
I glanced at Matt.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“What happens now?” I asked Sully.
“My hands are tied. Mike’s case is with the Manhattan DA and the Department of Investigations, which means Franco and I still can’t go near it. We were hoping you had another theory.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m going to need a little time — ”
“That’s fine,” Sully said, “but listen... I’ve been put in temporary charge of the squad. We’re heading over to the construction site for another all-night tour. Franco’s still undercover. If you need anything, call
“Wait. One more thing... what’s next for Mike?”
“He’s downtown, Clare. They’re holding him in the Tombs. And unless something changes, he’s going to be arraigned in the morning. The charge is attempted murder.”
I think I said good-bye. When Matt called my name again, I was staring at the bedcovers, the phone still in my hand.
“Clare, are you okay? What did the guy say?”
I told him, feeling so numb I hardly even cried. My tear ducts finally went as dry as the Dead Sea.
“Come on,” he said. “Get up. You’ll want an espresso, right?”
“A double...”
An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and sitting at the Blend’s bar. In an atypical switch, Matt was behind the espresso machine, pulling shots for me and our last lingering customers.
As Esther ended her shift, she gave me an unexpected hug (“You looked like you needed it, boss.”) Then she told me about a roast list Tucker left on the basement work table, wrapped her mile-long black scarf around her neck, and headed into the night with her boyfriend Boris.
By now, Matt and I had gone over my theories twice, but I still couldn’t be sure who’d attacked Michael Quinn or why. I considered Oat Crowley again, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that House of Fen cranberry glove I found lying in the puddle.
Was it Josephine Fairfield who assaulted the captain? If she didn’t, did she see something? Hear something? Know something?
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll talk with Mrs. Fairfield,” I decided.
“What about that mysterious package,” Matt reminded me. “The one Captain Octopus claimed he had for you? Did it ever arrive?”
“No. I rifled the mail before I sacked out. Junk, bills, tax forms from the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund, and a few invoices addressed to you. Maybe it will come tomorrow.”
“Well, don’t count on it,” said Matt, sliding over another espresso. “Like I said, the whole thing was probably just another ploy to get you into bed — ”
“Stop! Please. Let’s not speak ill of the comatose, okay?”
I’d called Elmhurst earlier, but the word on Michael Quinn wasn’t good. Just like Enzo, he was in the ICU, his condition touch-and-go.
With a sigh I picked up Matt’s demitasse and sipped the burnished
“You mentioned invoices for me?” Matt said.
“They’re upstairs — check the desk in my office.”
“I’ll look them over after we close up.” He stared at me. “You should move around a little. It’ll help you think. Why don’t you bake something?”
“I’d rather roast something.”
“Okay,” Matt said, glancing up at the sound of the front door’s bell. A few final customers were just walking in. “I’m giving these orders wings. Then I’m closing up. You go on downstairs.”
Our back stairs were narrow but the basement was expansive — and the ambient smells incredible. Generations of coffee roasting permeated these stone walls and thick rafters, and under the overhead lights, my crimson cast-iron Probat gleamed shinier than a ladder truck.
I hit the starter button and turned up the gas, then watched the digital numbers on the infinite temperature control tick upward. A muted roar from the fans filled the enclosed space, and the chilly basement began to warm. Soon the drum would be hot enough to add the first batch of green beans.
Tucker had left me a list of the coffees we needed: our signature Espresso Blend, the smooth yet sparkling Tanzanian Peaberry, and the amazing Amaro Gayo from Ethiopia with those exotic berry overtones.
I looked over the line of drums, which held superb Arabicas from around the globe. The right kiss of heat would bring out the absolute best flavors in these green beans — and the wrong would destroy them forever.
Matt was right. The act of roasting (like cooking) held a singular magic for me. Simply warming up the roaster gave me a renewed sense of head-clearing comfort.
I was just reaching for my roasting diary when —
“Clare! Clare!” Matt’s voice was so loud I could actually hear him over the roasters’ lively hum. Turning, I saw him waving a sheaf of papers.
“What is that?”
“Captain Octopus wasn’t playing you! That package came!”
“When? Where?”
“It was upstairs with the mail. That Fallen Firefighters Fund envelope you mentioned? The man used it as a cover. When I looked inside, I didn’t find tax forms...”
Matt moved over to our wooden work table — the one Tucker and I used to sharpen burr grinder blades. He spread out the pages and we looked them over.
“They’re schematics for some kind of tool,” Matt said. “But I don’t get why the guy sent these to you? Do you even know what this is?”
“It’s a roof spike,” I said. “I saw one at the captain’s firehouse. And look what it says there: ‘Property of Fairfield Equipment, Inc.’”
“There’s a cover letter from someone named Kevin Quinn.”
“That’s Michael’s brother.”
Matt scanned the letter. “Kevin says he hacked into the computers of his old employer and got this evidence of product fraud.”
“Old employer? Michael never mentioned his brother worked at Fairfield!” But then I remembered. He didn’t — not anymore. Kevin lost his job in New York and was forced to relocate to Boston.
I read the rest of Kevin’s long letter side by side with Matt.
“Jesus,” Matt said. “Someone at that company replaced the central titanium core with metal that has all the durability of a cheap furniture rod.”
“It was done for profit.” I pointed to the end of the letter. “The move cut production costs in half but left the roof spike with a fatal flaw. It couldn’t stand up to the high levels of heat the original prototype had been tested under.”
“Why would the FDNY approve it?”
“They wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m sure all the testing and training was done on roof spikes that had been manufactured correctly... Oh, Matt, that’s what James meant when he said Bigsby Brewer was murdered. When Glenn Duffy and Jason Wren set that final coffeehouse fire, Bigsby was forced to use the roof spike to escape the flames. But the tool failed because someone at Fairfield changed the manufacturing specs.”
“Yeah, but who?” Matt asked.
We looked over the papers again. Kevin didn’t give any names.
I thought it over. “Do you remember when I found that House of Fen glove in the puddle outside of Captain
