Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

With one sharp, hard thrust, James shot his elbow into his partner’s gut. It was a real blow, and Bigs doubled over, gasping and cussing.

“So, you know Val?” James said, ignoring Bigsby’s groans while calmly extending his hand. “I’m her husband. Very nice to meet you — ”

I stared in horror for a second until Bigs came up again, red-faced but laughing. Apparently, this was business as usual between the two men because James’s affecting smile never wavered — as if he hadn’t just sucker punched his best buddy right in front of me.

“I, uh... I’m Clare Cosi, manager of the Village Blend, and I love Val. I mean, I just met her last night, at the Quinn’s St. Patrick’s Day party — ”

I paused to glance at the captain, wondering why he hadn’t shown at the biggest family gathering of the year. He looked away.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Val and I are both in the same general trade, so we shared a nice conversation. My boyfriend’s mother asked me to help with the Five-Borough Bake Sale, so we had even more to talk over. I understand Val’s on the coordinating committee?”

At the mention of the bake sale, the corners of James’s mouth turned down. “If you ask me, she is the coordinating committee. Or at least it seems that way from all the hours she’s been working on it.”

Woops. Obviously a touchy subject. “Well, the sale is for a good cause, right? Scholarships for children of fallen firefighters — and it will all be over in a week or so.”

“Just take my wife in stride,” James said. “She can turn into a little dictator when it comes to organizing public events.”

Bigsby, still nursing his bruised torso, risked a snicker. “Not just public events, brother. From what I’ve seen, Val is no slouch at ordering you around, either.”

Still sitting next to me, the captain finally made a comment: “Women.”

It was the second time tonight he’d grunted the single word. I turned on the man. “What is that supposed to mean exactly?”

“You don’t know?” he said.

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

The captain glanced at Bigsby. “You want to tell her?”

“Hell no!”

James winked at me. “Don’t let them jerk your chain, Ms. Cosi. Two confirmed bachelors — what do they know about women, anyway?”

Bigsby snorted. “We know enough not to hitch our horse to one post, right, Captain?”

“Listen, bro,” James replied, “I saw your last one-night stand. She was about as dumb as a post.”

“And that would be a problem because... ?”

“You guys are terrible,” I said.

“They are, aren’t they?” James gave an exaggerated nod. “They’re really a sad pair. They wish they had a beautiful woman in their lives, telling them what she wants.”

“On the contrary,” the captain replied. “Beautiful women tell me what they want all the time.” He threw a suggestive gaze my way. “Even if it’s not in so many words...”

“Ho!” Bigs nudged James. “Looks like the cap’n’s workin’ here.”

James’s brow furrowed. “Working on what?”

“You’ve been married too long, brother. Four’s a crowd.” Pulling on James’s collar, Bigs headed back to the sidewalk.

“See you at the bake sale, Ms. Cosi,” James called as Bigsby dragged him away.

I cleared my throat. Bigsby’s joking implication might not have bothered me if the captain’s proximity hadn’t changed. He was still sitting next to me on the running board, but he’d gradually eased his body closer to mine, so close I could feel the heat from his thigh against my leg.

“You know, darlin’, my tour’s nearly over.” His voice had gone sweeter than maple tree sap. “How ’bout I take you home, make sure you get there safe...”

And there’s the pitch. “Thanks, Captain, but you know very well I have someone to do that for me. Someone I care for very much.”

The captain’s little smile twisted into a smirk. “So it’s official, then? You’re still wasting your time with Mikey — ”

“ Mike is a good guy.”

Captain Quinn looked at me as if I’d just declared Adolf Hitler a great humanitarian.

“What’s the beef between you two, anyway?”

He folded his arms. “Better you find out from my cousin.”

“I asked Mike twice. Both times his answers were so vague I didn’t bother asking a third.”

“Then do yourself a favor and take the hint.”

Touchy, touchy. I studied the man, wondering if I could needle it out of him. “You know what?... I’m betting the reason neither of you will answer that question is because neither of you can even remember how the whole thing started. No doubt it was some childish, testosterone-fueled competition back on your parochial school playground.”

The captain glared.

“Why two supposedly intelligent men can’t work out their differences is beyond me.”

“Yeah, honey, it is beyond you. So take my advice and keep it that way.”

“Men,” I muttered, getting a clue what the captain’s single-word epithet was all about. “Well, Michael, it’s been a barrel of fun, but now that I have our fire-roasted handbags back, I better get going.”

I began to rise, but the captain took hold of my upper arm, pulled me back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I told you already, I’m not interested — ”

“You’re not going anywhere until you give your statement .”

“My statement?”

“Wait here,” the captain said. “I’ll be back with one of the marshals.”

True to his word, the captain returned with one of the FDNY’s fire marshals, clipboard in hand. By the newcomer’s size, I judged him to be a former firefighter, but there was evidence of more than that here. His nose was mashed a bit, his ears crooked. One was larger than the other, the lobe puffy and swollen into a permanent cauliflower — clearly he’d done some serious boxing. His mind didn’t appear to be addled from it, however, because there was astuteness in his gaze; and in the few seconds before he spoke, I could see he was looking me over with a practiced eye, absorbing, evaluating, just like my Mike. Before he even asked a question, this FDNY detective was beginning his interview.

“Are you Miss Cody?”

“ Cosi ,” I corrected. “ Ms . Clare Cosi.”

“Spell it for me, please.”

I did. Then I smiled and offered him my hand. He shook it but didn’t smile back. With every movement his nylon jacket swished, and the array of tech devices on his belt clanked. He flashed the badge clipped onto his jacket.

“I’m a fire marshal, Ms. Cosi; my name is Stuart Rossi. Captain Quinn here tells me you were on premises when the event began?”

“That’s right.” I felt Captain Michael’s intense gaze on us as the marshal asked me a series of standard questions. How did I know they were standard? Because the man made continuous checkmarks on a standardized form.

About five minutes into the interview, Crowley appeared. He signaled the captain, who took a few steps away to speak with his lieutenant. With the man’s attention diverted, I lowered my voice to tell Marshal Rossi what I felt in my gut was true.

“I also want to add that I believe this was arson.”

“Excuse me?”

I explained how I saw and heard the fire start — with an explosion that I’d witnessed and that felt extremely suspicious. I led the man to the remains of Caffè Lucia. Rossi wouldn’t allow me to cross the threshold, so I pointed out the area near the curtain and basement door, where I thought the blaze might have begun. Then I directed his attention to the intact espresso bar and the machines behind it.