Roast Mortem

“Were you being thorough when you killed James Noonan?” I spat.

“I thought so.”

“What about the captain?”

Lane sighed. “He was my biggest problem. When James told me the captain obtained evidence of my little switch on the production line, I knew I had to pay the man a visit.”

“So you broke into his apartment and ambushed Michael with his own Halligan tool.”

“The captain didn’t have all the documents in his apartment, but — lucky for me — I found a copy of his brother’s cover letter stapled to this — ”

Ryan leaned over me, displayed a United States Post Office tracking slip.

“I knew the captain sent the package to this address, but I had to wait for it to arrive.” He stood up straight again. “You know, a lot of people give the post office a hard time, but their tracking system is really very efficient. I knew it was delivered today, so I stopped in to retrieve it.”

Ryan gathered up the letter and schematics, and stuffed them into a backpack. Then he pulled out a strange device. A large battery was connected to an alarm clock and a pair of plastic bottles filled with clear liquid. The whole thing sat on a piece of plywood the size of a small serving tray. He placed the device on the table and set the alarm clock.

“All done,” Ryan said, slipping the bag over his shoulders. “In a few minutes the Coffee Shop Arsonist will strike again.”

Ryan doesn’t know that crime is solved. It hasn’t made the news yet! “You won’t get away with this! The arsonists have already been caught.”

“So?” Ryan smirked. “The police will conclude this is a copycat. Bye, bye, Ms. Cosi.”

With the roar of the roaster hammering my ears, I couldn’t even hear the jerk’s feet on the stairs — but with that bomb ticking away, I didn’t bother waiting to make sure he was gone before I began to yell.

“MATT! MATT!” I nudged him with my bound up feet. “WAKE UP!”

Not even a groan. Now I was starting to sweat, from fear as much as the heat radiating from the thrumming Probat. I looked around, searching for something to cut the ropes. A rough edge, a knife, or —

A coffee grinder blade!

Tucker had been giving Esther lessons on how to use a metal file to sharpen our burr grinder blades. One of those blades was sticking out of a vice on the edge of the wooden work table. Was the thing sharp enough to cut through the rope around my arms? Could I even get to it?

One way to find out...

I rolled my body across the basement floor. When I felt my torso bump the table, I folded and turned, pressing my back against the leg. When I got my feet under me, I slid up the table leg and moved toward the vice. Balancing on my bound-together feet, I pressed the ropes against the sharp edge of the blade and started rubbing.

It took a few minutes — and lots of abrasions to my hands and wrists — but I felt the hemp snap! When it did, I tumbled, falling across Matt’s body. He moaned as I worked on my ankles. By the time I got the ropes off my ex, he was awake.

“What hit me?”

“A Halligan tool.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. There’s a bomb down here and it’s about to go off.”

Matt was on his feet like a shot. He stared at the device. “I don’t know what to do to stop it.”

“You don’t have to! The city’s bomb squad is right up the street!” I dug for my cell phone as I ran for the stairs. “Matt, come on!”

“Unlock the front door!” Matt cried.

“What are you going to — ”

“Just do it!”

I raced up the steps and across the Blend’s main floor. Ryan had left the door unlocked when he fled, and I yanked it open. Matt emerged from the stairway a second later, the bomb cradled in both hands like a harmless tray of cookies.

“Matt, you’re crazy!”

“I’m not letting the Blend burn.”

He bolted across the street, where a clothing store had gone bankrupt two months before. The space was being gutted and an enormous construction container sat in front of the building. That’s where Matt tossed the bomb. Then he turned and ran.

The device exploded, sending an orange and red fireball into the sky, but the core of the blaze (thank goodness) was contained inside the metal box.

In the firebomb’s glare, I spotted a black BMW parked down the block. Ryan Lane stood beside it. He’d been waiting to make sure his device went off! Now he was jumping into his car.

“Matt, look!” I pointed. “That guy’s the bomber.”

My Honda was parked in front of the Blend. I unlocked the door, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine. Matt got in beside me.

“I’m driving,” he said.

“No time to switch!” I replied, hitting the gas hard.

“Fine. I’ll call the cops.” But patting his pockets, Matt realized he’d left his cell in my Blend office.

“Reach into my pocket and take mine,” I said.

Ryan was speeding north on Hudson. He hooked a right on Clarkson Street just as the light turned red. I ignored the signal and followed, horns blaring behind me. He made another sharp right, but Matt managed to grab my cell despite the turns.

“Press six three times,” I told him.

“Not 911?”

“It’s my speed-dial code for Sergeant Franco.”

“That jackass!”

“Tell him you’re Joy’s father.”

“Joy? What does our daughter have to do with — ”

“Remember last year’s Christmas party? Remember when you told Joy to stay away from Franco? Bad idea!”

“Franco?” Matt said over the phone. “I’m Joy’s father — ”

“Tell him we’re chasing the guy who assaulted Captain Quinn and murdered James Noonan! Tell him the scumbag tried to kill us and now he’s fleeing the country!”

“He heard you,” Matt said, and held the phone to my ear.

“He’s on Delancey Street and coming your way!” I yelled. “He’s heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. Watch for a black BMW!”

“This is Manhattan, Clare,” Franco replied. “All the BMWs are black.”

“He has a big white NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund sticker on his bumper, and I’ll be right behind him in my red clunker. Where are you?”

“I just hijacked a pickup from the construction site. If your perp makes the bridge, we could lose him.”

“You have to stop him, Franco! Any way you can!”

I saw the bridge lights ahead. I was closing in on Ryan’s BMW, too, until a little green pizza delivery car cut in front of me. I braked to avoid a collision, and Ryan raced toward the ramp.

The delivery car sped up, too. It was hard to see Lane’s BMW past the big Jackrabbit Pizza sign on top of the little green car, and I looked for a way around him. That’s when Franco’s dirty yellow pickup shot out from between two other vehicles and T-boned Ryan’s BMW!

The delivery car was so close it slammed into the BMW, too. And I ran into both of them. Time crawled as I watched my hood flip open and the safety glass shatter. The shoulder strap bit into my chest, my nose flirted with the steering wheel, and my cell phone flew out of Matt’s hand and right through the windshield.

Then everything got very quiet. Matt and I exchanged stunned glances. Finally, we popped our doors.

Franco, in construction clothes, stood next to the BMW, a handgun aimed at a moaning Ryan Lane.