Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

What was that? A Quinn family trait? “Okay, maybe I’ll ask some questions about your love life, but it’s not why you think I’m asking — ”

“You’re a terrible liar, darlin’.”

“Me! You’re the one who said you wouldn’t be here!”

The captain smirked. “Now why would I have said a thing like that? This is my firehouse, isn’t it?”

I was about to reply (with a string of less-than-ladylike verbiage) when the blare of a truck horn made me jump. A second later I heard rumbling engines, so powerful they reverberated the floor along with the hanging pots and pans.

Captain Michael looked down at me. “Looks like your burnin’ questions will have to wait.” He unfolded his thickly muscled arms. “My boys are back and you’ve got some teachin’ to do.”

Afew minutes later, a masculine monsoon swept into the kitchen. For an unnerving second I feared I’d have to teach almost twenty outsized men the art of espresso making — an undertaking I feared would take all night. But after wolfing down plates of James’s dinner, the horde vanished into a nearby community room. The entire evening meal took seventeen minutes flat.

Only eight firemen remained in the kitchen, counting James Noonan and his friend Bigsby Brewer (and not counting the unnamed probie who was put to work cleaning the dishes and pans).

While Captain Michael continued his silent watching from the sidelines, the eight arranged folding chairs in a semicircle around the espresso machine.

“So this is everyone?” I asked James.

He nodded. “Yeah, from every shift, too. Some of the guys came in just to learn how to use the Gaggia.”

“Great,” I said. And I meant it. If these were the core espresso drinkers of this firehouse, they were the most likely to have frequented Caffè Lucia and had continual contact with Enzo’s daughter. Scanning the faces, I recognized Oat Crowley and Ronny Shaw. The final three I’d never met. Well, now was the time...

“My name is Clare Cosi and — ”

A hand shot up. I recognized the lined face under the gray flattop as one of the men in the photos with Lucia.

“No offense, Miss, but I don’t know why I’m here. I can’t stand coffee. It smells real nice, but most of the time it tastes like brown water.”

The speaker leaned back and folded his arms. The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the metal folding chair creak under his weight. Suddenly the group laughed, and I realized I’d missed out on a private joke.

“Dino’s just yanking your chain, Ms. Cosi,” James informed me from the front row. “Elfante lives on coffee. Like ten or twelve cups a shift.”

“Yeah,” said Bigs. “We make him kick in extra for beans, the weasel drinks so much — ”

“ And it tastes like brown water. Around here, anyways,” Dino insisted, and then he continued to rant about their typical firehouse brew until Ronny Shaw beaned him with a balled-up paper napkin.

“Let the lady talk!”

The last time I saw Shaw, he was lying on a stretcher in the ER, Oat Crowley hovering near. Both had eavesdropped on my conversation with Madame, and I still wondered why they seemed so interested. When he raised his left hand to throw the paper ball, I noticed it lacked a wedding band. Then it occurred to me that getting injured in a fire you started yourself is a good way to deflect attention away from your guilt.

“Thank you,” I told Ronny. “But Mr. Elfante actually makes a good point — ”

“Call me Dino, honey...”

“The delicate flavor oils in the bean are volatile,” I said, ignoring Dino’s wink. “The reason is because if they’re released too soon during the brewing process, they go up in steam and you experience them through your nose instead of your palate.”

“Told ya,” Dino cracked smugly — and got beaned again.

“The purpose of an espresso is to extract the essence of those oils in such a way that the flavor goes into the cup. A perfectly pulled espresso should taste as good as great coffee smells.”

As I walked the men through the anatomy of the Gaggia machine, the heads, the control functions, the proper readings for the temperature and pressure, I got to know them a little better.

“Pressure and heat. Like brewing illegal hooch, eh, ma’am?”

This was Ed Schott, the senior member of our class. A pink-skinned man with a bald pate, pug nose, jutting chin, and perpetually clenched fists, he spoke in short, staccato bursts, like a military drill instructor (which he may very well have been, given the Marine Corps’ eagle and fouled anchor was tattooed on his meaty forearm).

“Let’s move on to the coffee itself. A good espresso starts with a good bean, so — ”

“You mean espresso bean, right, ma’am?” said Ronny Shaw. “I’ve seen them in the grocery store. Is that what we should use?”

“There’s no such thing as an espresso bean ,” I explained. “What you saw was an espresso roast . Any type of good Arabica bean that’s roasted dark can be called an espresso roast.”

“What about caffeine, Ms. Cosi?” Bigs said. I noticed he got up to stand beside his chair like a kid in Catholic school called on by his teacher. “Will I get a bigger jolt from espresso than, say, a regular cup of joe?”

“What’s the matter, Brewer? Worried you won’t be up for that hot date after your mutual?” Dino Elfante asked.

Bigsie’s smile was lopsided. “It’s just that I need a lot of energy. Pep, you know. My lady friends expect it. I got a reputation to uphold.”

Bigsby Brewer seemed so guileless it was difficult to see him as a cold-blooded fire bomber. But I had to consider that one of his many “lady friends” could be Lucia Testa. Sweet as he was, Bigs would be an easy mark to manipulate, especially if someone convinced him the fire would end up helping Enzo instead of hurting him.

Alberto Ortiz spoke up just then — I recognized him as Mr. “Puerto Rican Pride” in the Lucia photo.

“If you need pep, Big Boy, try a Red Bull. Or maybe that little blue pill if the situation is code red. But, dude, if you’re having real trouble with one of those Manhattan fillies, just send her over to me — ”

A silver cross hung from Ortiz’s neck, and a thin gold band circled his ring finger, but outward symbols aside, Ortiz seemed as randy as the rest of this pack.

“Mr. Ortiz is right,” I cut in. “About gulping espressos, I mean. It’s not a very efficient way to perk up.”

Bigs frowned. “But I thought espressos had caffeine.”

“Of course there’s caffeine in an espresso. But espresso’s high-pressure, high-heat extraction process removes more caffeine than regular drip brewing.”

“In other words,” James said, “if you want a jolt, stick to drip, drip .”

Bigs poked his friends so hard James tumbled from his folding chair. “Ahhhh!”

“Snots don’t know how to behave,” muttered Ed Schott.

When things settled down again, I demonstrated the best way to grind the beans for espresso. “If you grind too finely, friction and oxidation from the grinder will ruin your dream of a perfect cup. Grind too coarsely and some of the flavor stays in the portafilter.”

I ground enough beans for a few shots and dosed a single into the basket. Then I showed them how to even out the grinds before tamping.

“Grip the portafilter handle with one hand. Using the other, gently sweep the excess grinds away with the edge of your finger. By moving forward, then back, you’re evenly distributing the grinds in the basket while you level them. Now it’s time to pack.”

I rummaged through my bag and produced the brand-new scale from my duplex closet. (Unfortunately, it was pastel blue with pink sea horses — Joy had picked it out a few years ago, and I’d never taken it out of its plastic until now.)