“According to the story, there was a coffeehouse fire last night on Avenue O in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It started around the same time as your Astoria fire. Très coincidental if you ask me.”
I frowned, scanned the story. “This is odd.”
“Why?” Matt said. “Tucker is right. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
Was it? Another one of Mike Quinn’s pithy pieces of law enforcement philosophy suddenly came to mind: In a criminal investigation, there are no coincidences. I couldn’t help wondering what Mike’s cynical cousin would say to that.
Within an hour of my thought, the cell in my pocket vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen — a 718 area code, which meant a borough other than Manhattan — so I answered tentatively.
“Hello?”
“Clare Cosi. Guess who it is callin’ ya, darlin’?”
Although the man’s voice was keyed an octave lower than usual, I would have recognized Captain Michael’s roguish lilt even without the played up brogue.
“Don’t hang up on me now.”
“How did you get this number?”
He didn’t tell me. What he said was: “Now I’m sure my cousin told you to steer good and clear of me — ”
“As a matter of fact he did.”
“Well, I can’t blame him. But I’m not callin’ for my own account. I’m callin’ for my guys. They’re in trouble.”
I bet they are.
I assumed Rossi had started questioning his men, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“They need help, Clare,” the captain went on. “The kind only you can provide.”
“Me? Why would a crew of New York’s Bravest need my help?”
“Simple, dove...” I could almost see the man’s gold tooth flashing from across the East River. “You know how to make coffee.”
Eighteen
For twenty minutes the Arsonist observed the activity in the slick chain coffeehouse — the customer traffic, the counter service, the café tables — all while nursing the contents of an absurdly large cappuccino...
This whole thing should have been over by now. The old man’s place was supposed to be empty. It’s all because of that bitch things got so screwed up...
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Across the room, a Latina worker apologized for bumping a female customer and then resumed rolling a stainless steel cart filled with bottles, cleaners, rags, and sponges. She pushed it through the restroom door, and then hung a Closed for Cleaning sign on the knob.
There’s my ticket...
The Arsonist stayed focused on that closed door, listened to sounds of running water, continued taking hits off the twenty-ounce paper cup. But the dregs of steamed milk tasted cold, the last drops of espresso bitter.
If only I could set off the damn bomb right now...
All around the Arsonist, young urban professionals were complaining about stalled careers and condo costs, lost benefits and airline delays, needy kids and presumptuous parents — a petty list of privileged problems. A few more minutes of listening to whining in quad and the Arsonist wanted to nuke the place, not just torch it.
Impatient, the Arsonist bent over the orange shopping bag. A small alarm clock sat inside, along with a large battery, a giant jar of high-octane spiked petroleum jelly, and a bleach bottle with no bleach inside. The Clorox bottle had been refilled with a mix of gasoline, naphtha, and benzene — all of it rigged to that clock. When the alarm went off, a quiet spark would awaken the sleeping beast. Then the petroleum jelly would ignite and poof, instant napalm.
Highly destructive, hell to put out...
The Arsonist reached into the orange bag, attached two wires sprouting from the battery, fixed them to circuits on the converted bleach bottle.
All ready...
The young coffeehouse worker finished cleaning the unisex facility. After tucking her cleaning products back onto her stainless steel cart, she rolled it into a closet adjacent to the restroom.
Time now...
The Arsonist rose and walked — easily, casually — to that restroom. Pretending to choose the “wrong” door, the Arsonist opened the closet, quickly slipped the bag onto the bottom shelf of the cart, between two giant bottles of cleaning fluids. The closet door was closed and the restroom door opened.
No one took notice of the Arsonist’s “mistake” — not one customer or employee.
After leaving the Long Island City shop, the Arsonist turned for one last look at the posted hours of operation. The timer on the bomb was set for 10 PM, well past the seven o’clock closing. Outside, the day was still pleasant, but the chill was coming.
Another package still had to be delivered — to the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. This one would be for that troublemaking bitch who’d tipped off the fire marshals to look beyond Testa for their torcher...
Two firebombs started us down this road. Two more will end it. And if that Cosi bitch doesn’t get the message after tonight, we’ll just have to end her.
Nineteen
Locating the captain’s firehouse wasn’t a problem. Amid a sea of tiny clapboard row houses, Michael Quinn’s sovereign domain towered over the landscape like a redbrick citadel.
I parked my near-vintage Honda on the quiet street just off Northern Boulevard. Despite the temperate twilight air, I slipped on my coat and gloves. March was a tricky time in New York. Days might feel bright and balmy, but nightfall could bring the kind of cruel winds that would kill every plant foolish enough to put out its vulnerable buds.
On the face of it, I’d come back to Queens for one reason: Lucia Testa had donated the still-functioning espresso machine from her father’s caffè to this firehouse, and the men needed some lessons in how to use it. With Enzo’s comatose condition, Lucia was too busy to teach them, so I agreed.
Of course, this was the least I could do to pay these guys back for their rescuing of Madame. But the truth was my little visit this evening would give me the chance to question these guys, find out who among their ranks might be seeing Lucia.
Along the curb I noticed a line of parked cars. Every one displayed FDNY-related placards or window clings. One of the SUVs had a bumper sticker that caught my eye: Honk If You’re Buffing.
“Buffing?”
I wondered if it had something to do with weight lifting, that is, becoming buff? Maybe it was something one did in the buff? Did that make it a sexual reference? I craned my neck at the towering red challenge in front of me.
The FDNY certainly counted women among its ranks. They drove ambulances and fought fires right alongside the men, but this engine and ladder company didn’t have a female among them.
This isn’t just a firehouse. It’s a Temple of Testosterone.
A granite cornerstone announced the original use for the building as a station for the Queens Company Rail Yard. But the structure’s odd Gothic flourishes — including carved stone moldings over the doors and a corner turret with a crenellated roof — gave the impression of a medieval strong-hold, complete with castle battlements.
A sudden freezing gust tore at my ponytail. I ignored it, moving with determination into the glowing, cavernous interior of the firehouse garage, the clanking barista supplies in my backpack making me feel like Cervantes’s crazy knight again, embarking on a quest in rusty armor.