Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

Lucia shouted, waved her hands. “What are you doing?”

“Proving that you were getting rid of evidence!”

“Evidence of what?”

“Of a firebomb!”

“How?”

“With this!” I opened the bag, looked inside.

Matt caught up to me, peered in, too. “Oh, brother.”

“I promise you, Ms. Cosi, no one is making a firebomb out of that !”

Inside the bag was a smaller bag: silver with pink stripes, the name of an upscale lingerie store splashed across in script. Oat had just given Lucia a white silk-and-lace teddy, white stockings, and two garter belts — clearly a gift that would keep on giving, especially for his next booty call. The fast-food bag had been some kind of foil, probably a way to hide the gift from the guys at the firehouse.

Lucia glared down at me. “What makes you think I’d want to set fire to my father’s caffè?”

“Your own father told me that you want nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry my father was hurt in that fire — truly sorry. But I don’t care a fig about the caffè going up.”

“How can you say that! Your father worked his entire lifetime in that caffè. And his wall mural was astonishing!”

“Shows what you know. It was worthless.”

“Worthless!”

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I launched myself at the woman, ready to shake some sense into her, but a pair of strong arms hooked my waist and yanked me backward.

“Let me go, Matt!”

“Calm down! Both of you!”

Lucia pointed. “Tell her to calm down!”

“How can you say that your father’s art was worthless?”

“It’s not me who said it! I called up an art critic, had the guy come down and check it out. He said it was executed well enough, but he didn’t see anything unique about it.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know! Five, six years.”

“Your father has worked on it since then, Lucia. The new sections were groundbreaking! Don’t you have any sense of aesthetics, any appreciation for his use of line, of color!”

“No!”

“No?”

“No!” Lucia shouted. “I’m color-blind!”

I stopped struggling. “What?”

Matt released me. He looked surprised, too. In the awkward silence that followed, Lucia expelled a long, weary breath. All of her fight appeared to go with it.

“My father wanted me to be a painter, Ms. Cosi, an artist like he was.” She closed her eyes. “I tried. I did . I took the damn classes for him: beginning painting, still life, figure drawing, anatomy — I sucked at it all!”

She threw up her hands. “After that, nothing could make me care about swirls on a wall. Nothing . Finally, my father accepted that I wasn’t going to be the next Mary Cassatt, but then he started pushing me to try all these other things: dancing, singing, acting. I had no talent for any of it. I just didn’t care about that crap! I still don’t!”

I exchanged a glance with Matt. This interview wasn’t going at all the way I’d imagined. On the other hand, the woman’s answers weren’t exactly exculpatory.

“Lucia, what you’ve just said makes you look even more guilty. Like you had a grudge against your father and the caffè...”

“You still don’t understand! I’m glad the caffè went up in flames because my father hasn’t been happy there — not for years, not since my mother died. If it weren’t for his obsessive work on that stupid mural, he would have retired, gone back to Italy to be with his sisters. He could have found some peace instead of lying in that hospital bed. God knows if he’ll ever wake up again.”

The woman’s eyes were glistening now, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her charcoal liner began to run. I glanced at Matt again. He stepped up to offer her a handkerchief.

“Thanks.”

Lucia sniffled. As she wiped her eyes, her makeup smudged. She looked like a sad raccoon, and I felt like a heel. Still, I had to ask...

“How am I supposed to believe anything you say? You lied about Glenn, didn’t you? You claimed you were engaged to him.”

“Glenn and I are engaged.”

“Then why are you sleeping with Oat?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Glenn hasn’t given me a ring yet. He keeps saying he wants to find the right one, but I think he’s stalling... not so sure about me yet.”

Lucia shook her head, glanced in the direction of the firehouse. “Oat and I were hot and heavy once. When he started hanging around Dad’s caffè again, I decided to have a little fun with him, a last little fling. I needed a break from the hospital today, and Oat’s the kind of guy who can make a girl forget her troubles...”

“So you have no interest in Oat? You’re just leading him on?”

“Oat doesn’t want to get married.” She waved her French tips. “He’s a confirmed bachelor, just like his captain. He knows I’m just playing around, waiting for my stupid boyfriend to get off his ass and marry me. I’m actually hoping Glenn will get wind of what’s going on. Nothing like a little jealousy to get a man off his behind and make him commit.”

A match made in heaven. “Here.” I handed the bag back to her. “If you didn’t set the fire, then who do you think did?”

“Some nut obviously. Haven’t you read the papers?”

Matt tugged my arm. “Let’s go, Clare.”

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing, Lucia.”

“What?”

“The arsonist threatened to burn down my coffeehouse. An unmarked package was left for me with a box of wooden matches inside.”

I closely watched Lucia’s reaction. Her raccoon eyes widened; her glossed lips parted. She looked genuinely surprised.

“I don’t know whether you’re telling me the truth or not,” I said. “But I want you to know: I’m going to get this arsonist. I’m going to nail him — or her — right to the wall.”

“I hope you do, Ms. Cosi,” she said. “As long as you leave me alone and stay out of my business. Or I’ll nail you to the wall with real nails.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

Matt tugged my arm again, harder this time. “Let’s go , Clare.”

As he pulled me away, Lucia returned to her Corvette and slammed the door. I watched her drive away, then I faced my ex.

“I’m not giving up.”

I half expected a lecture or at the very least a smirk. Instead, Matt put his hands on my shoulders and said —

“I know you won’t.”

The guy always did come through when I least expected it.

Hours later, the bake sale over, the Village Blend kiosk packed up and put away, I found myself back in Queens, sitting across from Val Noonan in the shamrock green booth of Saints and Sinners.

The Irish pub had all the traditional trappings: darkly paneled walls, a long bar, authentic Gallic hops on tap, and shiny brass fittings everywhere you looked. (I would have given half my New York lottery winnings for a doppio espresso — if I had lottery winnings — but the only coffee this pub served was Irish, so I’d ordered up a Harp.)

Val, who preferred a darker brew, was now nursing a pint of Guinness, eyes riveted on the front door, while I finished up my cell phone conversation.

“Say that again? You’re going to be late because of... ?”

“A pizza delivery,” Mike replied. “We got a last-minute tip. A delivery is scheduled for tonight. The stuff’s coming in a pizza-delivery car, but it’s not pizza. You follow me, sweetheart?”

“I do.”

I was happy for Mike. I was. Sergeant Franco had ferreted out a solid lead in their current case. A pizza car was the method of delivering the buffet of club drugs to key players on the construction site — at least Mike thought so. His squad still had to prove it.