“What do you want?” he said.
He listened for another few seconds, then replied, “No, Josie, and this is the third time you’ve asked. Three strikes you’re out.”
Josie? I tucked that name away. I couldn’t glean much more from the conversation — just grunts and one word replies. It was also obvious Josie was a woman.
With the captain’s back to me, I decided to take advantage of the moment. Rising, I glanced around, looking for any sign the man might be seeing Lucia — a photo of her maybe? Whoever Josie was, she was clearly on the outs, and I found myself curious about the raven-haired woman who’d made the captain so happy in those photos from years ago.
One of the office walls was peppered with framed diplomas, citations, and awards. An “I love me” wall was what they called it in the military because every officer above a lieutenant has one at home or in the office (according to a former U.S. Navy SEAL I’d crossed paths with one summer). But in Captain Michael’s case, it was an “I love my little brother” wall. As I moved closer, I realized every single item posted had something to do with Kevin Quinn: from a faded high school newspaper picture in his varsity football uniform to more recent images of Michael bowling with Kevin at Sunnyside Lanes, shooting hoops on a Queens outdoor court, and fishing on the rocky banks of the East River. It was the kind of devotion and pride one usually reserved for a child, not a brother.
I’d heard someone mention Kevin at the Quinn St. Patrick’s Day bash. He’d just relocated to Boston this past fall. The most recent photos attested to this, showing Kevin with his family on Boston Commons, at a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway Park, hanging out near Plymouth Rock.
The final picture showed Captain Michael standing between Kevin and the man’s wife, two smiling preteen daughters on either side. All were bundled in sweaters and coats, and snow dusted the suburban lawn behind them. The handwritten inscription read: “Hey, bro... Your visit made our first Thanksgiving in Boston feel like home. Love, Kev, Melody, Melinda, and Megan.”
“Look, Josie, I’m on duty. I’m hanging up now.”
Michael ended the call. He swung around, noticed me by the Kevin wall and immediately strode across the room.
“Where were we, Clare?”
“I’m a civilian.”
“With a big heart, that’s right...” He relaxed himself, shedding the uneasy business of that call with the ease of a practiced chef crumbling old skin from an onion. “I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done. I mean it. Personally thank you.” He smiled down at me, it actually appeared genuine.
“No thanks necessary.”
“No baloney now, Clare. It’s not every day I meet someone like you. You’re something special. All those guts and brains inside that alluring little package — ”
“I have some serious questions for you.”
“Okay, all right.” He showed me his palms. “If that’s what it takes. You can go ahead and question my past. I’ve had my share of women, it’s true. At my age, what do you expect? I wasn’t exactly a monsignor in my youth.”
“Were you ever in a relationship with Lucia Testa?”
The captain’s eyebrow arched again. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Were you?”
He took a breath, exhaled it. “No.”
I didn’t believe him. “Then why is she in a photo on the wall downstairs? Was she seeing one of your men at any time? Maybe a few over a period of years?”
“There are no Firehouse Annies here, and I won’t be spreading any gossip. But weren’t we talking about you and me, Clare — ”
“You’re delusional. There is no ‘you and me.’”
“But I’d like there to be. You’re different. I can see that... special.”
“I’m involved with your cousin. Is that what you mean?”
“Just give me a chance.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a weekend getaway? Maybe Cape May, the Jersey Shore. How about Atlantic City? Dinner. A show. A little Texas Hold ’Em — ” His gold tooth flashed.
“Don’t hold your breath — ”
“I know my cousin, Clare. The guy lives for his job. When was the last time you two went out and had some fun, eh?”
He paused, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t offer one.
“Then consider the invitation open-ended. Some weekend when my cop cousin lets you down or ticks you off and you need a nice strong, sympathetic shoulder to lean on, ring me up. Mikey never has to know about it — ”
This is a waste of my time.
I wasn’t going to get anything more out of this guy. That was obvious. My decision was clear. I would give Rossi all eight names of the men who’d attended my espresso-making lessons this evening: Captain Michael Quinn, Lieutenant Oat Crowley, and firefighters Dino Elfante, Ronny Shaw, Ed Schott, and Alberto Ortiz. Bigsby Brewer and James Noonan would be on that list, too. I hated adding their names. To me, they were heroes who’d risked their safety to carry Madame and Enzo out of that collapsing caffè — but if there was a chance they were guilty, then I had to tell Rossi, let him investigate, decide for himself.
“Good night, Captain,” I said, cutting him off midpass.
“Wait.” Michael moved with me, blocking my way. “One more thing, Clare...”
“What?”
“I want you to know: Whatever Mikey told you about Kevin” — he lifted his chin toward the I-love-my-brother wall — “it’s his version of events. Remember that...”
Confused for a moment, I turned back to the Kevin Quinn shrine, looked over the photos again. “Your brother is the reason you and Mike have been feuding all these years — is that what you’re saying? Because that’s not what Mike told me...”
“What did he tell you?”
I conveyed the story about Mike’s old girlfriend Leta, about her dad being shot in cold blood during a bodega robbery, about his classmate Pete Hogarth’s father being the killer and Mike’s being labeled a narc at the academy because of Hogarth’s two relatives being in the same class. “Mike chose to be a cop instead of a firefighter,” I finished, “so you felt betrayed, like he let you down and you never got over it.”
“My cousin’s very good at twisting the truth.”
“So are you.”
“That’s not why we want to take each other’s heads off, Clare.”
“Okay then. What is it your brother did to Mike?”
“Other way ’round.”
I narrowed my eyes at that one. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Because you ought to hear this. And once you do, you’ll know why he never told you the truth about our feud...”
I exhaled. “Never told me what exactly?”
“My little brother, Kev, was all set to start at the fire academy. Some of his buddies took him out for a few rounds to help him celebrate. On his way back home, a couple of ex-jarheads in blue pull him over. You know why? Because his SUV had FDNY stickers plastered all over it.”
“Why should that matter?”
“The annual FDNY-NYPD football game had just gone down in favor of the fire boys. These cops lost a very juicy bet. So they took it out on Kev. He told them about Mike, said ‘Listen, I got a cousin who’s a detective, cut me a break.’ So they let Kevin call Mike on his cell, and you know what your asshole boyfriend told those cops?”
I stared.
“Mike told those mutts to arrest Kevin for DUI. The kid’s future was destroyed, Clare. The FDNY wouldn’t take him after that. He did jail time. Imagine if it were your little brother — or your child — for a few beers...”
The man’s eyes were flashing. He moved closer, invading my space. “Kevin and I were supposed to be FDNY brothers together. We had wanted that since we were kids, since our dad died. Now Kevin’s had to relocate for his civilian job — all the way up to Boston. I hardly see him anymore — my only brother, gone from my life because of my pigheaded cousin’s NYPD advancement dreams.”