Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Games?”

“You like to play detective. A bad habit you no doubt picked up from my black sheep cousin. But listen to me now: You’re not a fire marshal, and you’re not trained to recognize the cause of a fire — ”

“But — ”

“The real marshals are inside that building.” He extended his long arm for a sustained point. “They’re taking pictures, evaluating burn patterns, looking for traces of chemical accelerants or electrical damage. They’re going to determine how and where the blaze started, and document how my smoke-eaters knocked the monster down, too. They don’t need help from an amateur .”

I met the man’s stare. “I may be an amateur, but I’m also an eyewitness .”

The captain straightened up, moved his hands to his hips. “Now why would you want to worry that lovely head of yours about this, anyway? The marshals will make the final determination on what caused the fire, and they’ll do it based on proven investigative techniques, not some womanly hunch.”

“I never said anything about a hunch, womanly or otherwise. And this head was there, in that café, when the fire started, remember? I only told you what I saw and what I heard.”

“What you saw and heard is all you should be telling anyone — without speculation.”

“Why?”

“Why...” The captain rubbed his eyes, loudly exhaled. Finally, he sat down beside me. When he spoke again, his tone was no longer combative. “Do you know what a fire triangle is, Clare?”

“No.”

“Fire is a chemical reaction that occurs when three elements are present: oxygen for the fire to breathe, fuel for it to consume, and heat to ignite the other two in a chain reaction.” He ticked off the three points on his fingers. “You followin’ me?”

“Three elements. Combustibility.”

“Any time these elements are combined, the fire can occur — whether intentionally or accidentally.”

“But I witnessed more than the fire itself. I heard a whoosh, saw the initial blast. It must have been arson.”

“You’re so sure, eh? Well, factor this in, darlin’. Of the hundreds of fires I put out last year, there were two that were practically identical. Both started in the kitchen trash can of a row house on a quiet street. In the first fire, a woman lit the end of a cigarette and intentionally tossed it into the can. She was broke, couldn’t make the mortgage payment, and needed an insurance pay out to stay afloat.”

He paused, met my eyes. “That’s arson.”

“Yes, obviously.”

“In the second fire a man emptied a cigarette ashtray into a closed metal can, not realizing there were still burning ashes. The ashes ignited tissues stuffed into the can. The fire smoldered, contained and unnoticed, until it reached critical mass and burst out of the metal can, immediately setting the walls and ceiling ablaze. And because an un-challenged fire doubles in size every thirty seconds, the fire spread throughout the house in minutes, destroying everything. You see?”

“No. I’m sorry but you lost me. What’s your point?”

“The first fire was arson — obviously, as you say, once the facts were discovered. The second was accidental, but not so obvious. If a witness had been present to hear and see that second fire break loose, he might have sworn that exploding trash can was a bomb, too.”

I thought about that. “Okay. I understand. I do. And nothing against your fire triangle, but have you ever heard of the blink theory of trusting your first impressions? As a detective, Mike believes — ”

“Mike?”

“Yes,” I said. “Mike. Your cousin. He believes — ”

“To hell with what my cousin believes! He’s not a fire investigator and neither are you. Stick to the facts, Clare, not what anyone believes .”

I sat very still for a moment, letting the man’s anger dissipate like those black balloons of smoke released by the burning caffè. Then calmly and quietly I asked —

“Why do you care what I think, anyway?”

“Because Enzo’s a good man, and I won’t have him accused of arson. He’s the last person who’d put his own life at risk, or anyone else’s, for some lousy insurance money.”

“I’m sure Enzo is a good man. My friend Madame has known him for years, decades — ”

“But if you start shouting bomb , the press may get wind of it, and the marshals will be forced to start treating Enzo as a suspect before they even finish with the forensics.”

“Wait a second! I was with Enzo in that basement minutes before the fire started. He could have found an excuse to get out, but he didn’t. He was trapped down there, in harm’s way. Surely that exonerates him.”

“It does not. He may have played a part in the event to throw off suspicion.”

“So now you’re saying Enzo could be guilty?”

“No! I am not saying that. Listen, Clare, you and I know Enzo’s a stand-up guy. To these marshals, Mr. Testa is just another victim, but if this fire is found suspicious and he’s the beneficiary of an insurance payout, he’ll be their number one suspect. Then they’ll tear his life apart looking for evidence of guilt.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “But what if someone else had a motive to burn Enzo’s shop?”

The captain studied me again. He bent his head closer. “Like who? And why?”

Before I could reply, a voice called out: “Ma’am? Are you still here? Ma’am?”

It was my fireman, the one who’d been so kind to me earlier, the one who’d risked his life to rescue Madame and Enzo. He was wandering along the sidewalk, searching for me.

“I’m here, James!” I called. “In back of the fire truck!”

With perceptible reluctance, the captain put distance between his head and mine. A moment later, my young hero firefighter appeared wearing a grin and two handbags.

“Yo, ma’am, check it out!” James made a show of pointing to the women’s purses dangling off his broad shoulder. “Can you ID these so I can turn them over to you?”

“Of course. That one’s mine and the other is my employers. They’re the bags I asked you to look for.”

Bigsby Brewer strolled up behind James. His shoulders were so wide, I couldn’t imagine the guy going through an average doorway without tilting to one side. Massive muscles notwithstanding, Bigsby was far from intimidating. His manner was so happy-go-lucky, his spirit so energetic, he came off about as threatening as an excited puppy.

“So, how do I look, Bigs?” James said, showing off the women’s handbags to his friend. “Too last season?”

Shaking his head, Bigsby tugged the bags off James’s arm and thrust them into my hands. They reeked of smoke.

“You better take these back, ma’am.” Bigs jerked his thumb in James’s direction. “Noonan is too dumb to see they clash with his bunker gear!”

The two men laughed.

“Sorry it took so long,” James said. “The fire marshals had to inspect them before we could take them out. They wanted to make sure we weren’t removing evidence.”

“It’s okay. I’m just grateful you located them.” I regarded James again. “Did I hear your friend right? Is your last name Noonan?”

James nodded.

“You aren’t by any chance related to Valerie Noonan, the banquet manager at Union Square West Hotel?”

James opened his mouth to answer but Bigsby interrupted: “Oh, no, ma’am, you’ve got that wrong.”

“I do?”

“James isn’t related to Val. It’s much worse than that — ” As if someone had died, Bigsby took off his helmet and placed it over his heart. “He’s married to her.”