Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Okay then. You won’t care if I express myself.” Dante reached into his backpack’s pocket, pulled out a digital camera, and snapped her photo. “That’s going on my Facebook page. Amy Winehouse hair and all.”

“Good. Link to my page while you’re at it. I’m about to post a new poem about a coworker with brain damage.”

Dante took another photo. “For Twitter.”

That did it. Esther turned on her heel and marched away.

“Well, my friend,” Tucker said, gesturing to his swathed head, “my only advice to you is: Do not grow a goatee. Homeland Security might mistake you for Osama bin Laden.”

“Oh, yeah? As-Salamu Alaykum to you, too, my brother.”

“Hey, you said that pretty well.” Tuck tapped his chin. “Maybe you should grow a goatee. Fox is filming another one of those thriller franchise movies in New York this summer. I think my agent could get you hired as an extra.”

“Stop teasing Dante,” I shook my finger. “He’s lucky to be alive. So is Madame — ”

The camera flash went off. I blinked.

“Good one,” Dante said, lowering the camera.

“You did not just take my picture!” My scolding finger was still hovering in the air. I instantly dropped it.

Matt laughed. “Hey, Dante, do me a favor. E-mail a copy of that one to Joy. If it doesn’t keep our daughter in line, I don’t know what will.”

“Not funny.” I folded my arms. “And that blaze last night was no joke, either. But I’m going to nail whoever set it.”

Matt cursed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Don’t start, Clare.”

“Don’t start what?”

“I know that look. You’re getting all sleuth-y on me.”

“I am not getting sleuth-y,” I lied.

Madame tilted her head and smiled. “It’s like you’re both still married, he knows you so well.” Then she glanced at the picture in her hand and sighed. “I would so love another grandchild. A little boy this time.” She pinned her son with a formidable look. “Perhaps you and Breanne could work on that. She’s not menopausal yet, is she?”

Matt paled.

The man was not having a good morning.

Lunch rush came and went. Madame departed for a date with Otto, and as the pace of the café wound down again, Matt pulled up a stool at my espresso bar.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What’s going on with this arson thing you mentioned?”

“I’m determined, Matt, enraged and determined. That’s what’s going on.”

“If you care so much about who started the fire at Enzo’s place, why didn’t you share your theories with the fire marshal?”

“I did. I called the man this morning.”

“And?”

“And Marshal Rossi strongly implied that he wouldn’t mind my help as an informant — ”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Are you telling me that snooping around for the NYPD isn’t providing enough of the thrills you missed as a stay-at-home mom? Now you want to play with the FDNY?”

“I am not playing. Rossi is going to find the forensic evidence to prove arson, and I don’t want him going after Enzo. I’m certain, down to my bones, that others were responsible. You’d feel the same way if you’d been there. Your own mother was almost burned alive.”

“Burned alive!” Matt’s olive-skinned face went paler than the cream in my espresso con panna. “I thought you said she was never in any real danger!”

Woops. “Okay, maybe I, uh, downplayed things a little, but you were in a state — ”

“And I’m getting there again! Did the marshal at least say it was arson?”

“I told you, they won’t discuss the case with me — ”

“Then drop it, Clare. Let the pros handle it.”

“Excuse me,” Dante said, interrupting us. “But the pros didn’t pull me out of the fire last night. It was Clare who saved my life.”

Tucker tapped my shoulder. “Now that you bring it up, sweetie, I think you may be onto something with this arson thing.” He slapped Matt’s New York Post back on the bar top and paged quickly through it. “Look at this.” Tuck’s finger touched a small square of newsprint deep inside the paper: Blaze Burns Bensonhurst Beanery .

“According to the story, there was a coffeehouse fire last night on Avenue O in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It started around the same time as your Astoria fire. Très coincidental if you ask me.”

I frowned, scanned the story. “This is odd.”

“Why?” Matt said. “Tucker is right. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”

Was it? Another one of Mike Quinn’s pithy pieces of law enforcement philosophy suddenly came to mind: In a criminal investigation, there are no coincidences. I couldn’t help wondering what Mike’s cynical cousin would say to that.

Within an hour of my thought, the cell in my pocket vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen — a 718 area code, which meant a borough other than Manhattan — so I answered tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Clare Cosi. Guess who it is callin’ ya, darlin’?”

Although the man’s voice was keyed an octave lower than usual, I would have recognized Captain Michael’s roguish lilt even without the played up brogue.

“Don’t hang up on me now.”

“How did you get this number?”

He didn’t tell me. What he said was: “Now I’m sure my cousin told you to steer good and clear of me — ”

“As a matter of fact he did.”

“Well, I can’t blame him. But I’m not callin’ for my own account. I’m callin’ for my guys. They’re in trouble.”

I bet they are.

I assumed Rossi had started questioning his men, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“They need help, Clare,” the captain went on. “The kind only you can provide.”

“Me? Why would a crew of New York’s Bravest need my help?”

“Simple, dove...” I could almost see the man’s gold tooth flashing from across the East River. “You know how to make coffee.”

For twenty minutes the Arsonist observed the activity in the slick chain coffeehouse — the customer traffic, the counter service, the café tables — all while nursing the contents of an absurdly large cappuccino...

This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man’s place was supposed to be empty. It’s all because of that bitch things got so screwed up...

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Across the room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the knob.

There’s my ticket...

The Arsonist stayed focused on that closed door, listened to sounds of running water, continued taking hits off the twenty-ounce paper cup. But the dregs of steamed milk tasted cold, the last drops of espresso bitter.

If only I could set off the damn bomb right now...

All around the Arsonist, young urban professionals were complaining about stalled careers and condo costs, lost benefits and airline delays, needy kids and presumptuous parents — a petty list of privileged problems. A few more minutes of listening to whining in quad and the Arsonist wanted to nuke the place, not just torch it.

Impatient, the Arsonist bent over the orange shopping bag. A small alarm clock sat inside, along with a large battery, a giant jar of high-octane spiked petroleum jelly, and a bleach bottle with no bleach inside. The Clorox bottle had been refilled with a mix of gasoline, naphtha, and benzene — all of it rigged to that clock. When the alarm went off, a quiet spark would awaken the sleeping beast. Then the petroleum jelly would ignite and poof, instant napalm.