“When will you know?”
“Here’s my card. If you think of any other information that you believe is pertinent, give me a call. If I’m not at my desk, leave a message.”
The fire marshal gave a polite but final little nod; then, with the swish of his dark blue nylon jacket and the clanking of his gear, he reentered the ruined caffè.
And I thought cops in this town were closemouthed. Compared to New York’s Bravest, New York’s Finest are downright chatty.
I let the card dangle between my fingertips for a moment and realized my hand was now shaking. My heart was racing, too, and breathing was no picnic. I didn’t know if this was some sort of posttraumatic aftershock, exhaustion, hunger, or all three. Maybe it was just plain old ordinary frustration with the bureaucratic wall of silence.
I stuffed the card into my jeans pocket then dug into my bag for my car keys.
“Going somewhere?”
The captain’s voice startled me. “Yes. I’m headed for Elmhurst’s ER. Now that I have my keys back, I can drive myself. Mike should be at the hospital by now and I’ve got to meet him — ”
“My cousin’s meeting you, is he?”
“Yes” — Didn’t I just say that? — “I called him right after they took my friends to the hospital.”
“Good, because a hospital is where you should be going, too, and not under your own power.”
“I’m fine — ”
“Your hands are trembling and you’re whiter than a jug of Clorox. Have you eaten anything lately?”
“Uh...” Enzo had shared some biscotti and pizzelles with us, but other than the Gatorade, that was it for nutrition. I hadn’t had a proper meal since brunch nearly twelve hours earlier.
“Okay,” I confessed, “I’m a little shaky and I could use a bite to eat. But I’m certainly capable of driving myself a few miles.”
Unfortunately, stating something firmly doesn’t make it so. When I took a few steps, my knees refused to go with me.
“Easy, darlin’,” the captain said, taking my arm. “An adrenaline crash is catching up to you and your blood sugar’s bottoming out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You should not be driving, and I won’t let you.” Slipping the keys from my fingers, the captain bellowed to Lieutenant Crowley.
“Oat! Drive Ms. Cosi’s car to Elmhurst’s ER and park it!”
Crowley frowned. “And how is she getting there?”
“In the captain’s car. She’s too queasy to drive herself.”
“Okay. I’ll get Sergeant Ennis — ”
“No, Oat, I won’t be needin’ my driver. I’ll be takin’ her myself. Sergeant Ennis can hitch a ride home on the engine.”
I tensed, not relishing the idea of getting into a car alone with Michael Quinn. Still, he wasn’t wrong to take my keys. I was depleted, my brain fuzzy. Driving a car in New York City was no mean feat; doing it at night, in my current condition, approached genuine stupidity.
For some reason Crowley didn’t agree. First his gaze pingponged back and forth between me and his superior. Then he came right out and said, “Uh, Cap. Not a good idea.”
“Why?” the captain replied. “Someone’s got to drop by the ER, look in on Ronny Shaw. The poor man may have snapneck.”
“Sure,” said Crowley, “and that’s where I was headed after we pack up here. Tell you what? Why don’t I save you the trouble and drive Ms. Cosi to Elmhurst myself?”
“And why don’t you follow orders?”
Silence ensued for a good five seconds. Crowley’s cheeks turned the color of pink peppercorns. Then he spoke through a pair of calcified jaws.
“Yes, sir. Meet you at the hospital.”
Six
After pointing out my car to the lieutenant, Michael Quinn led me to his official vehicle and helped me into the passenger seat. The Chevy Suburban might have been roomy if all kinds of extra gear hadn’t been jammed into the compartment — a computer and GPS unit, a radio that constantly crackled with chatter from all over the borough, and a rack between the passenger and driver to hold a shorter version of the claw-topped shaft every fireman seemed to carry.
“It’s called a Halligan tool,” the captain replied when I asked.
“I see. Why were the firemen tearing out the café walls with it, after the flames were out?”
“You mean after the flames appeared to be out.” The captain tossed his helmet into the backseat. “Fire’s a canny beast. She can hide in the walls, the ceilings, the floorboards.”
She, I noted. He thinks of the fire-beast as a she. There must be a story behind that...
The captain leaned over, opened the glove compartment. “Here,” he said, handing me a plastic packet of some kind of snack food. “Eat.”
I didn’t argue — or care, frankly, what the heck it was. There were carbs here and I was light-headed. I ripped it open.
“So what else is the Halligan tool used for? I mean, besides breaking things?” (I said this around a less-than-ladylike mouthful of what tasted like cheddar cheese filled pretzel bites. If it had been royal beluga on a half baguette, I couldn’t have shoveled it in any faster.)
“Let me put it to you this way,” the captain said, swinging the Suburban around to get clear of the trucks. “King Arthur civilized the British Isles with Excaliber. Babe Ruth broke every record with his Louisville Slugger. And every man jack of us in the FDNY tames the beast with his Halligan tool.”
The she-beast? Hmm... “I think I’m getting it,” I said. And, brother, does it sound Freudian.
The captain peered through the windshield. “Now where the hell is Oat and that car of yours?”
My mouth full again, I pointed then swallowed. “Up the block. He’s driving the red Honda.”
“If that’s your clunker, then you really shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now — or ever.”
“You’re the second man to insult my car tonight. Not everyone can afford the latest model, you know? It might not look like much, but my Honda’s got pep. And it still gets good gas mileage.”
“So does a horse. Really, honey. I’m worried about Oat’s safety. Running into a fire is one thing, driving that death-trap is another.”
“Why do you call Lieutenant Crowley ‘Oat’?”
“You haven’t seen him without his bottle top — ”
“His what?
“His soup bucket, his umbrella.”
“English?”
“His fire helmet. You haven’t seen him without his head gear.”
“Oh.”
“He’s prematurely gray,” the captain explained. “When Crowley was still a probie, someone at breakfast noticed his hair was the same color as the milky oatmeal being served and the name stuck.”
“He’s named after oatmeal? I’m sure he hates that moniker.”
“Trust me, it could have been worse.”
As we came to a red light, the Number 7 train rumbled loudly along the elevated train tracks over our heads. When it finally passed, the captain turned toward me.
“Clare...” His tone was different, no longer playful. “Earlier you said someone else might have a motive to torch old man Enzo’s shop.”
“Yes.”
“Who exactly were you thinking of accusing?”
I may have been tired and feeling a little weak, but a part of me came alert with that question. Maybe it was the way the man asked — as if he were afraid of knowing the person. Maybe it was something else. But I went with my gut and held my tongue.
“You were right, Michael,” I replied carefully. “It’s not my line of work. Forget I said anything.”
Elmhurst Hospital was an incongruous sight: a shiny, ultramodern facility planted in the middle of a hardscrabble neighborhood of worn-out storefronts and rundown row houses, most of them packed with recent immigrants from Ecuador, India, Colombia, and Pakistan. By the time we turned onto the hospital’s drive, I’d decided that I would put some questions to Enzo Testa. I didn’t believe the old coffeehouse owner was responsible for torching his own business. But I was far from convinced that the fire was accidental.