Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

While the characters and events of this book are complete fiction, part of the plotline was initially inspired by a real incident. (More on this in the afterword.) For now, I would like to thank several members of the FDNY who answered my questions (off the record) for background. I would also like to thank author Tom Downey for his excellent insider’s look at the New York City Fire Department — The Last Men Out: Life on the Edge at Rescue 2 Firehouse, a work I highly recommend to anyone whose interest in New York’s Bravest is sparked by this tale. Please note, however, that because this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction, liberties are sometimes taken with procedure. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries the rules occasionally get bent.

Once again, I thank the excellent Joe the Art of Coffee of New York City ( www.JoetheArtofCoffee.com), including its co-owners, Jonathan Rubinstein and his sister Gabrielle Rubinstein. I also owe a big thank-you to their manager and coffee director Amanda Byron, who shared insights into the world behind her espresso machine, including her recommendation of a true barista bible, Espresso Coffee by David C. Schomer.

My second java shout-out goes to the amazing Gimme! Coffee ( www.GimmeCoffee.com) as well as its founder and CEO, Kenneth Cuddeback, for taking the time to speak with me about our favorite subject. I must also thank Gimme! for its inspiring handling of the Ethiopian Amaro Gayo, a unique and exotic coffee that also happens to be sold by Asnakech Thomas, the only female coffee miller and exporter in all of Ethiopia. Additional caffeinated hugs to Mary Tracy, a dedicated Coffeehouse Mystery reader, who recommended Gimme! to me.

With epic gratitude, I would like to recognize the intrepid posse of publishing professionals at Berkley Prime Crime who shepherded this book from manuscript to printed page. Enormous thanks especially to executive editor Wendy McCurdy for her great goodwill as well as her ingenuity and insight. Props and snaps must also be given to Katherine Pelz for her hard work and gusto.

As always, I thank my husband, Marc, who is my partner in writing not only this Coffeehouse Mystery series but also our Haunted Bookshop Mystery series. (A better partner a girl couldn’t ask for.)

Last but far from least, a heartfelt thank you to our friends and family for their support as well as to our literary agent John Talbot, a premium professional and a darn good joe.

Yours sincerely,

Cleo Coyle

www.CoffeehouseMystery.com

Where coffee and crime are always brewing.

Cold here in the alley, but things will get hotter soon...

The Arsonist moved deeper into the shadows, orange shopping bag in hand. Back on the busy Queens sidewalk, the day felt bright and balmy. Just a few steps away from humanity, all warmth fled and nearly all light.

Weak shafts of sun barely penetrated the crisscrossing maze of phone wires and fire escapes, coaxial cables and clothing lines. With certain strides, the Arsonist bypassed iron grates and grimy windows, broken crates and dented trash cans. Finally the destination — one particular back door.

Down went the glossy tangerine sack, squatting on the cold concrete. Cloying scents of soy and garlic still haunted its boxy interior, ghosts of last night’s Korean takeout. The reinforced bottom and laminated sides made it sturdy enough to carry the necessary items.

Feeling sweaty despite the chill, the Arsonist bent over the shopping bag, grasped two wires from the battery, and fixed them to circuits on the bleach bottle with no bleach inside.

Now it’s ready...

The Arsonist rose, lifting the bag’s handles of nylon rope.

Heavier now, or my imagination?

Nervous fingers tested the shiny brass knob. Unlocked, as promised, the back door swung open on a small utility room. A sink, shelves, supplies neatly stacked.

Male laughter seeped through the brocade curtain. The Arsonist crossed the tight space, teased apart the muffling fabric. An archway framed the caffè’s main room. Up front, the elderly owner gabbed with a customer about the rush hour pedestrian parade, mostly about the women.

Stepping back, the Arsonist quickly searched out a spot for the bag. Under the shelf, behind the cleaning products...

Perfect.

A stifled sneeze, a few more steps, and the Arsonist was back on the sidewalk. Warmth, pedestrians, unobstructed light. It felt as if nothing had happened — or more like something good had happened.

At 9:25 PM, the caffè would be closed, the old Italian off playing bocce in the park. No one would be in the building. No one would be hurt.

Unless something goes wrong...

That prick of a thought had vexed the Arsonist multiple times. This would be the last.

After all, thought the Arsonist, it’s out of my hands now. The schedule was set for me, and I held up my end. Tonight Caffè Lucia will burn. If people get in the way, it’s their own stupid fault.

“Boss, I hate to leave you like this, but I have got to go.”

“Go,” I told Esther. “We’ll be okay...”

At least I hoped we would. I was standing behind my espresso machine, facing a line out my door. The usual Village Blend regulars were here along with a swell of caffeine-deprived commuters grabbing a java hit before heading home. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, and in most respects the day felt like any other. Except it wasn’t. This was the day the fires began. When the smoke finally cleared, the fatalities would number two, and they would not be accidents. The deaths would turn out to be murders and I, Clare Cosi, would be the one to prove it.

At this particular moment, however, I wasn’t thinking about killers or arsonists, lovesick Italian women or blustery FDNY captains, and I certainly wasn’t thinking about a bomb. Mostly what I was thinking about was traffic.

Tucker Burton, my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager, had arrived on time for his shift and was just tying on his Village Blend apron. A part-time actor-playwright and occasional cabaret director, Tuck loved being a barista in the Italian tradition, which (like a good bartender) had as much to do with convivial customer interaction as it did with temperature and pressure.

“Excuse me, Clare,” he said, “but where is Gardner again?”

“Trapped in his car,” I replied, “on the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel.”

Tuck pointed to Esther. “And why can’t our resident slam poetess stay and work another hour until he shows? I’ll bet my Actors’ Equity card she’s been late to more than a few of her classes.”

Esther’s wine-dark fingertips went to her Botticelli waist. “Excuse me, Broadway Boy, but I am not simply taking this class. I am a TA and need to be there on time.”

“For what? Introduction to Baggy Pants and Bling 101?”

“Urban Rap’s Influence on Mainstream America!”

“Who’s the professor? Eminem?”

Esther smirked. “The man has a PhD from Brown in linguistics and is heading my program in the semiotics of urban expression.”

“Yeah? And I know what seat he holds: the Snoop Dog Chair.”

“Okay, you two, enough!” I turned to Tucker. “Let her off the hook.”

“But it’s not very fair to you, Clare. You’ve been here since eight AM.”