Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

Oat wasn’t standing alone. Another man was conversing with him — and doing most of the talking. With Oat’s gaze still on James and me, he slipped the box of matches back into his hip pocket.

My mind was racing now, but I refocused on James and something significant he’d said: “What did you mean when you said Bigs was murdered? If not by the arsonist, then by whom?”

James had been staring at his lieutenant. With my question, he lowered his eyes. “Forget it, Ms. Cosi. I didn’t say a thing, all right?”

“I can’t forget it, James. You helped me once, now I want to — ”

“Forget it,” he repeated.

Oat and the other man were now approaching us. The stranger had a friendly, lopsided smile under shaggy, wheat-colored hair. A crooked line of freckles sprinkled his pug nose and his ears seemed comically large for his head. The awkward boyishness was not without charm, however, and the addition of small round glasses and laugh lines had him coming off more as an absentminded professor than a stand-in for Alfred E. Newman.

Cigar clenched between his teeth, Lieutenant Crowley wore his usual scowl. Blue smoke floated almost satanically around his head. The aroma washed over us. Not the crisp, woody scent of fine tobacco, but the sharp, rank stench of cheap stogies like the ones my bookie father used to hand out to winners, along with their pay out.

I stifled a cough as I rose to greet them.

“What are you two gossiping about?” Oat said around his cigar. The hostility radiating from the lieutenant was nothing new, but there was also suspicion .

The boyish bespectacled stranger picked up on the tension and stepped in fast to pump James’s hand. “You’re Noonan, right? We’ve met, haven’t we? I’m Ryan Lane,” he said, flashing a warm smile.

“Hello.”

“Oat told me about your loss. I’m really sorry. Brewer was a real hero.”

James nodded. “Thanks for that.”

“No thanks necessary,” Lane replied. “The sacrifice of men like Brewer is what the Fallen Firefighters Fund is all about.”

Lane’s practiced pitch came as no surprise. I’d noticed the name tag on his camel hair sport coat identifying him as a board member of the firefighters’ charity.

“You’re the woman responsible for this superb coffee, right?” Lane asked, looking at me now.

“I’m Clare Cosi. Thank you for the compliment.”

“The Village Blend is a landmark. I’ve been there several times,” he said.

I forced a smile, trying harder to remember if I’d ever waited on him.

“Excellent coffees, and a nice variety, too. Your espressos are as good as anything I’ve tasted in Italy. I do a cycling tour every five years.” He grinned, adjusted his glasses. “Unfortunately I live and work in North Jersey right now, too far away to be a regular customer. But I buy your whole-bean coffee whenever I’m in town.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“Well, I just love coffee, Ms. Cosi! I’d love to tell you about the time I visited a coffee farm — ”

This Lane guy was a real talker, but I tuned out on his story the second I noticed Oat speaking to James: “So, kid, you got a shift coming up, right? You heading out soon?”

“Not yet,” James replied. “Got stuff to do first.”

Oat stared at James for a moment, and then his gaze shifted to me. He took the cigar out of his mouth and flicked the ashes off.

“Like what?” Oat said with a sneer, loudly enough to make Ryan Lane pause and listen, too. “Like hitting on divorced broads ten years your senior?”

I can’t believe he just said that. “Excuse me, Lieutenant?” I said. “But just what are you implying?”

Oat opened his mouth to respond when Mr. Lane (who appeared equally horrified by the man’s insult) interceded. “Hey, come on, we should go,” he said, touching Oat’s arm. “I’ve got to meet and greet the organizers, you know? And the mayor’s entourage is due any second.”

“Right,” Oat said, still openly glaring at me. Finally he stuck the cigar back in his mouth and walked off, puffing up a cloud like a two-legged dragon.

Ryan hurried to catch up, calling over his shoulder: “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cosi.”

I waited until James and I were alone before I spoke. “How does that nice guy know Oat?”

“Ryan Lane? He works for Fairfield Equipment.”

“What does Fairfield Equipment do?”

“They make rescue gear for firefighters.”

“And where does Oat fit into that?”

“Well, as I understand it, Oat’s father was a rookie firefighter with Ernest Fairfield back in the 1970s. Fairfield had a nose for business, and Oat’s old man was a do-it-yourself type. Together they made a bundle.”

“A bundle? How? Gambling?” (Given my father’s bookie business, I rarely saw any other way for a working-class man to make real money.)

“Not gambling, Ms. Cosi. Patents.”

“Patents?”

“A lot of the old-timers would make their own tools on the job — anything they could think of to make their lives easier. Kind of what I did with our house’s kitchen, cobbled together a bunch of appliances.”

“Oh, I see...”

“So Crowley Senior invented a lot of useful stuff, and Ernest Fairfield quit the department and started a company to manufacture it.”

“And Ryan Lane works for Fairfield.”

“Yeah. He showed up at our seminar a few months ago when we started training with the roof spikes.”

James was shifting impatiently now. It was obvious he didn’t like my new line of questioning.

“James, I’m sorry to bring this up again, but when you were talking about your friend’s death earlier, you used the word murdered — ”

“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi. I see my wife heading our way.”

A moment later, I heard the fast-clicking heels of Valerie Noonan.

“James, I’ve been looking for you all over!” Val cried, close to breathless. “ Where did you park our car? I went to the vendors parking area on Sixteenth and — ”

“Couldn’t find a spot on Sixteenth,” James said tightly. “The designated parking area was full.”

“Oh, damn.” Valerie’s shoulders sunk. Her auburn French twist looked a little ragged from the March wind gusts. Her cucumber green linen suit was still crisp, but the name tag on its lapel sat askew.

“So where’s the car?” she asked.

“I parked it at the St. James garage on — ”

“You paid for parking?” One arm rose and fell, taking her thick clipboard with it. “That’s like fifty bucks or more! You know my job situation, James. You know how tight things are going to get for us soon — ”

“The fund has an expense account, doesn’t it? Take the money from there. You worked hard enough for it. Why do you need the car, anyway?”

“I don’t need the car. I left something in the trunk.”

James exhaled hard. He took her arm. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Oh, forget it now,” Val said, pulling away. “I’ve got a crisis with the sound system on my hands. I’ve just got to hope that — ”

“Sorry,” James said, glancing at his watch. “But I ought to get back to the house.”

“Oh? Okay. Well, since you’re taking the car, could you stop at the store first?” Val said. “I wanted a bowl of cereal this morning and we’re out of milk. Paper towels, too, and pick up — ”

“I meant the firehouse ,” James said.

Val’s mouth closed. Then she reached into her pocket. “You’re coming to the party tonight, aren’t you?” she asked, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

Val was referring to the post-bake sale party. Every borough was having its own for the volunteers, and I’d been invited to the one being held at a Queens pub. Mike was supposed to meet me around eight.