Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

I smiled, nodded, then quickly broke away and approached Captain Michael.

“Nice job handling the men,” he said softly.

I could tell he meant it. His expression was more relaxed now. Whatever I’d done tonight, it had impressed (or amused) him. His earlier anger at finding me snooping around his firehouse was obviously gone.

“Can we talk now?” I whispered. “Privately.”

“Can’t wait to get me alone, eh, darlin’?”

“Cut the crap, will you?”

“What crap?”

“You know what.”

“Ah, well, maybe I do...” His voice went lower and now his gaze was moving over me. “It’s just that when I see a lady such as yourself with so many feminine charms ...” He flashed a grin, his gold tooth winking. “I can’t help myself.”

“Baloney, Captain, and let me tell you something. I don’t like baloney. It’s cheap and indigestible.”

“You’re reading me all wrong, dove. My nature compels me to reveal the truth of my heart. It’s just the way the Lord made me.”

“The Lord made trees. I sincerely doubt divine inspiration had anything to do with your cheesy pickup lines.”

Beneath the crimson trim of his Victorian mustache, the man’s patronizing smirk finally vanished. He chucked his thumb toward the heavens. “Upstairs.”

Struggling to keep up with the man’s long strides, I followed Captain Michael across the kitchen, down a hallway, and into a narrow stairwell. We traveled north a level then moved along another industrial green hallway, passing an office door with a plastic plaque that read Lieutenant Crowley . The door was ajar and I heard papers rattling, but I couldn’t see the occupant.

The captain’s office was no fancier than mine although it was a great deal larger. A battered wooden desk dominated the room. There were two chairs, banks of metal filing cabinets, and an old leather couch. The dark, heavy office felt warm to me. I attributed this not to my hormones (or the captain’s, for that matter) but to the clanking, hissing radiator in the corner.

Michael felt the heat, too. He opened the room’s only window and gestured to his office door. “Close it if you want privacy.”

I did. Then I settled onto a chair opposite his desk. He leaned back on his creaky office throne and cradled his fingers.

“So, I’m guessing you want to know what the fire marshals are sayin’, right?”

“That’s an ongoing investigation,” I said with a straight face. “I’m a civilian, remember? It’s none of my business until it’s a part of the public record.”

Captain Michael blinked, obviously surprised by my answer.

“I have another matter on my mind.”

He smirked. “My love life?”

“No. The other fire. The one that happened on the very same night as the fire at Caffè Lucia.”

His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware there was a second fire.”

You’re lying again. “It made the papers. A privately owned coffee shop in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious? Two coffeehouse fires the same night, at almost the exact same time?”

Captain Michael opened the top button of his pristine white uniform shirt, and then, almost impatiently, he waved the question aside. “This firehouse caught two bakery delivery van fires this morning. Does that strike you as suspicious?”

“No, but — ”

“There are just about as many coffee shops in this town as bakery delivery vans. Two vans, two coffee joints. I’d call it a coincidence either way.”

“What if both fires turn out to be arson?” I asked. “What then?”

“Then the crimes will be investigated and it’s not your business, right? Isn’t that what you just said?”

I folded my arms. “Yes. I’m a civilian. But I have a coffeehouse, too. I want to know what you think is causing these fires if it’s not arson? I mean, considering the two fires, I’d like your opinion on fire prevention. As a civilian, I think that’s a fair question.”

We stared at one another for a few silent seconds. He was obviously considering how to handle me.

Your move, chum.

He finally made one — a dodge. “You may be a civilian, Clare, but I’ll give you this, you’re a big-hearted one. Coming out here tonight after a long day of work, helping out my guys. It was very kind of you.”

“I was glad to help.” I was, too. Even if I hadn’t come to gather information for Fire Marshal Rossi, I would have come to help these men.

A phone trilled just then. It wasn’t the land line on the captain’s desk. It was a cell phone.

“Excuse me.” Michael didn’t bother checking the caller ID. He answered quickly, and when the other party spoke, his expression chilled, his lively eyes went dead. With an abrupt lurch, he swung the chair around until all I could see was the starched cotton shirt stretched across his hunching shoulders.

“What do you want?” he said.

He listened for another few seconds, then replied, “No, Josie, and this is the third time you’ve asked. Three strikes you’re out.”

Josie? I tucked that name away. I couldn’t glean much more from the conversation — just grunts and one word replies. It was also obvious Josie was a woman.

With the captain’s back to me, I decided to take advantage of the moment. Rising, I glanced around, looking for any sign the man might be seeing Lucia — a photo of her maybe? Whoever Josie was, she was clearly on the outs, and I found myself curious about the raven-haired woman who’d made the captain so happy in those photos from years ago.

One of the office walls was peppered with framed diplomas, citations, and awards. An “I love me” wall was what they called it in the military because every officer above a lieutenant has one at home or in the office (according to a former U.S. Navy SEAL I’d crossed paths with one summer). But in Captain Michael’s case, it was an “I love my little brother” wall. As I moved closer, I realized every single item posted had something to do with Kevin Quinn: from a faded high school newspaper picture in his varsity football uniform to more recent images of Michael bowling with Kevin at Sunnyside Lanes, shooting hoops on a Queens outdoor court, and fishing on the rocky banks of the East River. It was the kind of devotion and pride one usually reserved for a child, not a brother.

I’d heard someone mention Kevin at the Quinn St. Patrick’s Day bash. He’d just relocated to Boston this past fall. The most recent photos attested to this, showing Kevin with his family on Boston Commons, at a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway Park, hanging out near Plymouth Rock.

The final picture showed Captain Michael standing between Kevin and the man’s wife, two smiling preteen daughters on either side. All were bundled in sweaters and coats, and snow dusted the suburban lawn behind them. The handwritten inscription read: “Hey, bro... Your visit made our first Thanksgiving in Boston feel like home. Love, Kev, Melody, Melinda, and Megan.”

“Look, Josie, I’m on duty. I’m hanging up now.”

Michael ended the call. He swung around, noticed me by the Kevin wall and immediately strode across the room.

“Where were we, Clare?”

“I’m a civilian.”

“With a big heart, that’s right...” He relaxed himself, shedding the uneasy business of that call with the ease of a practiced chef crumbling old skin from an onion. “I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done. I mean it. Personally thank you.” He smiled down at me, it actually appeared genuine.

“No thanks necessary.”

“No baloney now, Clare. It’s not every day I meet someone like you. You’re something special. All those guts and brains inside that alluring little package — ”