“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Testa told me that a fireman’s been sniffing around after Lucia. It sounds like a sexual relationship. I would have tried questioning Lucia herself, but she’s not in town right now. She went away for the weekend, just a few hours before the bomb went off, which is highly suspicious timing, don’t you think? I mean, getting out of town certainly helps her look completely detached from what happened...”
Rossi said nothing.
“Anyway,” I added. “I think she may have used this fireman and his knowledge to help set off a firebomb and burn down the caffè.”
“And you don’t have any other information on this man’s identity?”
“The only thing I can tell you concerns the firefighters who responded — ”
“You’re talking about Ladder 189 and Engine 335?”
“If that’s who responded.”
“It is.”
“Well, Enzo confessed to me that his daughter liked to play with men. And the captain of the firehouse that responded told me that a lot of his guys liked to frequent Enzo’s caffè, so...”
“So you think a member of the FDNY from Ladder 189 or Engine 335 helped Lucia Testa set the fire?”
“It’s one theory, but yes, I do...”
After another moment of silence, Rossi asked, “Are you sure you can’t get me a name, Ms. Cosi?”
The question confused me. It took me a moment to process it. “Marshal Rossi, are you saying that you’d like me to investigate further?”
“No comment.”
I took a breath. “You can’t officially ask me to investigate, can you?”
Rossi didn’t answer directly. What he said was: “Like I told you before, Ms. Cosi, if you have any new information for me, just give me a call.” He lowered his voice. “Call me anytime, okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do...”
I hung up and stood staring for a moment.
Given Mike’s talk with me last night, I shouldn’t have been so astonished by Rossi’s reaction. The man was a detective, after all, and I was an informant bringing him leads. It was no different from a street cop using snitches. Sure Rossi might have gotten the same leads once he started questioning Enzo, but I’d given him a head start and he knew it.
Obviously, the fire company was another matter. Those guys were tighter than family. James Noonan and Bigsby Brewer even referred to each other as brothers. The second an investigator like Rossi started asking questions, they’d stonewall him, especially if it meant protecting a man in their own firehouse.
And if Lucia has a history of sleeping with more than one of those men, that was just another reason for the entire company to make like irritated oysters and clam up...
I dug into the pocket of my robe for an elastic band, scraped my sleep-mussed hair into a taut, work-ready ponytail, and considered my options.
Enzo had been reluctant to give me the name of Lucia’s secret fireman lover. Would he give it to Madame? I wasn’t so sure.
The strongest connection I had to Ladder 189 and Engine 335 was Captain Michael Quinn. I could talk to him. But Mike specifically asked me to stay away from his cousin.
Just wait, Clare. Calm down and wait...
Madame would get a name. That was the easiest solution. And if that failed, there was always next week’s Five-Borough Bake Sale to benefit the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund. I’d have a chance to question some of the guys there, though I had to admit the idea of pressing those men to betray one of their own made me a little queasy.
Now I know how Mike must have felt turning in his classmate’s father...
Feeling the acute need for some reassuring warmth, I went to the stove, poured filtered water into the lower half of my three-cup Moka Express. I ground the beans fine, piled them into the little filter basket, screwed the two pieces together, and placed them over medium heat.
The shimmering blue flame of the gas burner reminded me of Mike’s eyes in the firelight. I chewed my lower lip, still a little swollen from his kisses, and in the quiet of the kitchen, I felt the faintest echoes of his lovemaking still singing through my body — so sweet and slow at first then breathtaking in its intensity. I ached for him now, sorry he’d had to leave so early.
As the express water came to a boil, however, my thoughts began to turn...
“Captain Michael,” I whispered to the empty air. He truly was my best bet for a source inside that firehouse, which made me reconsider Mike’s request to stay away from the man.
Given Mike’s fire-academy story, I didn’t doubt that things had gone down badly between the two cousins. But didn’t all of that stuff happen more than twenty years ago?
Last night’s Quinn vs. Quinn standoff came to mind — Captain Michael smirking at his cousin in the hospital drive; Mike doing a reach around for his handcuffs.
There must be more to the story. I moved to sit down at the kitchen table and that’s when I realized...
There is.
A powerful, roasted scent suddenly suffused the air. My espresso was done. I moved to the stove, sloshed the steaming liquor into a demitasse, and sipped it so quickly it burned my tongue. I didn’t care.
Quinn was one of the best interrogator’s in the NYPD. He could effortlessly manipulate any information exchange. I thought I was hot stuff, getting him to spill, but the reverse was true: Mike Quinn had manipulated me.
My fist hit the kitchen table so hard it sent the cats scurrying into the next room.
When I’d asked Mike what had started the beef between him and his cousin, he’d treated the phrasing literally: “What started it,” he’d said, emphasizing the started. “I guess you could say it started a long time ago...”
Then why is it still going on? That’s what I should have asked the man!
After downing the hot coffee, I banged open my cupboards and made a hasty breakfast — a giant popover pancake (aka Dutch Baby, Bismarck, poor girl’s soufflé): flour, eggs, milk, salt, all whisked up with more fury than Dorothy’s tornado.
I poured the batter into a preheated pan and flung it into a blistering oven where it quickly inflated like the puffy exterior of a Navajo bread; but instead of honey, I finished the whole thing in the bracing-sweet style of an espresso Romano, with a quick, tart squeeze from a lemon wedge and a generous dusting of powdered sugar.
My breakfast eaten, I went back to my cupboards and pulled out more ingredients: flour, baking soda, salt... I began throwing things together: brown sugar, cocoa powder, leftover espresso...
A few minutes later I had a batter for my Magnificent Melt-in-Your-Mouth Mocha Brownies. The manic activity made me feel less like an ineffectual sap, but only a little, so I poured the dark elixir into a square pan, set it aside, and went to the fridge once more...
Milk, eggs, butter, and a treasure from the spice rack. Nutmeg? Piquant yet soothing; exotic yet wistfully familiar. The Elizabethans believed it could ward off the plague; Charlie Parker and Malcolm X used it to get high... Good enough for me!
I took out my electric hand mixer and assaulted the butter and sugar with glee.
Sell me half a story? Sure! I’ll buy it!
I added the eggs, one at a time, ferociously beating between each addition.
Yeah, you’re one crack interrogator, Cosi. Homeland Security should put you on speed dial!
Stress always did this to me. I had to bake. At times, nostalgia was the reason. Baking brought me back to those early hours with Nonna in her grocery store’s kitchen: hot ovens warming the chilly air; sticky white dough coming together beneath flour-dusted hands; battered sheet pans emerging from their transmuting fire baths heavy with the gold of fresh Italian loaves and crunchy, sweet biscotti.