Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Shut your mouth — ”

“That’s enough,” Hoyt said. He turned back to me. “Ms. Cosi, can you account for Detective Quinn’s whereabouts after the incident at the pub?”

“Not exactly... I mean, Mike left and then...” I swallowed. “I called him several times. He hasn’t returned my calls yet, but — ”

“Then you can’t vouch for his whereabouts?”

“No, but I’m sure — ”

“Thank you, Ms. Cosi.” Hoyt turned to his partner. “Get Detective Quinn’s shield number from One Police Plaza and bring him in.”

“Wait!” I cried.

“He had motive and opportunity, Ms. Cosi. Unless he can come up with a credible alibi for the last couple of hours, he’s going to be a person of interest in this case — ”

“What about him!” I pointed at Oat. “He may have had a motive to do this. Let me tell you why — ”

“I was on duty at the firehouse all night ,” Oat replied levelly. “We had three runs, and every man I worked with is a witness. Go ahead, check me out. Have fun wasting your time.”

Oh God. I turned back to Hoyt. “You have to listen to me. Mike didn’t do this. The captain had evidence in this apartment — ”

“Yes, I already have your statement about that. We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your help,” Hoyt said, waving over a uniformed officer. “You and your business associate are free to go now — ”

“But — ”

“Now.”

The uniform stepped up, hand on the butt of his night stick.

“Come on, Clare,” Matt said, tugging my arm. He deliberately moved his body between me and the smirking Oat Crowley. Good thing, too. I was close to ripping the lieutenant’s face off.

Outside, several police cars surrounded the apartment building. It was 4 AM, still pitch-dark, but the spectacle had drawn a cluster of gossiping neighbors, coats thrown over robes and pajamas. We stepped clear of it all and headed back to the Honda.

“Now I know why...” I said, voice hoarse.

“Why what?”

“I was angry with Mike for reacting so violently behind the pub, but I didn’t know about Leila... I didn’t know what his wife did to him behind his back.”

I stopped walking, faced Matt. “I can understand why the captain didn’t tell me. He wanted to play me. But why didn’t Mike tell me the truth?”

“I’ll tell you why. He was ashamed.”

“Of what?”

Matt tilted his head back, as if he were going to read me the answer in the stars. “You women talk endlessly about your problems. With your girlfriends, your sisters, your mothers. Talk, talk, talk. But men aren’t like that. Mike didn’t tell you about his wife going to bed with his cousin because he was ashamed and embarrassed.”

“If he had told me, I would have understood.”

“Clare...” Now Matt was rubbing his neck, as if he were struggling to translate Portuguese into Mandarin. “If I know Dudley Do-Right — and I think I do — whatever he kept from you... he did it because he wanted your love, not your pity.”

I nodded then whispered, “So now what do I do?”

“Well, Clare, if I know you — and I think I do — you don’t give up.”

Then my ex-husband, business partner, and oldest friend put his hand against my back and pressed me into forward motion again.

An hour later, dawn broke — although it was hard to tell. Beyond the French doors of my Village Blend, gray buildings met gray clouds in an unending urban haze. Even the sun was too weary to shine.

“How bad is it?” I asked the men sitting across from me. I wasn’t due to open for another hour, but I already had two customers: Detective Finbar “Sully” Sullivan, Mike’s righthand man on his OD Squad; and Emmanuel Franco, his younger, street-wise protégé.

“How bad is it?” Franco echoed. “On a scale of one to ten: I’d say a ten.”

“The man’s not dead,” Sully countered. “He’s just in custody.”

Franco shook his shaved head. “He’s charged, which means he’s dead to the department, and for a guy like Mike Quinn, when they take away your shield, they might as well put you in the ground.”

I closed my eyes, from anguish as much as exhaustion. Matteo was sacked out upstairs. But I couldn’t rest, not with Mike in hell. What awful thoughts must be going through his mind and heart? Is he cursing me now? Sorry he ever met me, ever walked into my coffeehouse?

“Guys...” I said, unable to stop a few tears from spilling out, “isn’t there any way for me to see Mike? Talk to him?”

Sully reached across the café table, squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, Clare. We can’t even talk to him.”

“Or work his case,” Franco noted.

“But you can,” Sully said.

“His case?” I opened my eyes, wiped my wet cheeks.

Beyond the Blend’s windows, a ray of gold had broken through the morning fog, giving Sully’s carrot-colored cop hair an almost rousing vibrancy. The man’s shared glance with Franco, however, remained darkly pensive.

“You’re a civilian,” Sully reminded me. “IAB and the Department of Investigations can’t sack you for turning up some leads to exonerate him.”

“But I already have,” I said. “That’s why I called you two.”

The detectives exchanged glances again, but their expressions were no longer pensive. Now they looked hopeful.

“What have you got?” Sully asked, leaning forward.

“I have three theories,” I said.

“Good, let’s hear them.”

“Okay, but first... I need some coffee.” I rose from the table. “You guys want some?”

“Are you kidding?” said Franco.

“Please,” said Sully.

“A bite to eat would be nice, too,” added Franco.

Sully whacked the back of his billiard-ball head. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault the Coffee Lady makes excellent baked goods! I can see where her daughter gets her, uh” — he waggled his eyebrows — “talent.”

I stared at the man. “Detective, you are talking about my daughter’s cooking right?”

“Of course,” Franco said, although the wink he threw to Sully gave me pause.

“Well, you’re in luck,” I called, moving behind the counter. “The pastry delivery just came, and I have some warm pistachio muffins back here. I gave the recipe to my baker for St. Patrick’s Day, but the customers liked them so much they asked me to keep them on the menu.”

“I’ll have three!” Franco said.

“I actually wouldn’t mind a couple,” Sully added.

Franco snorted. “And I get a head whack? For what?”

“Just for being you.”

Ten minutes later, we were sipping hot mugs of my freshly roasted Breakfast Blend, devouring a half-dozen of my warm, green pistachio muffins, and going over my theories on Mike’s case.

“Theory number one,” I began. “The Crazy Girlfriend. Josephine Fairfield’s glove outside the captain’s house truly gives me the creeps. The woman already admitted to being an arsonist — in a bar full of firefighters, no less. And she was acting lovesick at the pub. I could easily see her waiting for Michael Quinn at his apartment. Maybe he was harsher with her in his own place, maybe he even slapped her or pushed her, and she retaliated by grabbing an object and braining him with it before running off. What do you think?”

“I think it doesn’t answer why the captain’s apartment was ransacked,” said Sully.

“Yeah,” said Franco. “Whoever put down Captain Quinn did it with a cool head.”

“And a ruthless one,” Sully noted.

Franco agreed. “While the man’s lying there, presumably bleeding to death, this scumbag preps the scene to look like a break-in robbery.”