“But... aren’t you blaming Mike for something that Kevin got himself into...”
“Aw, darlin’...” He shook his head, looking more heart-broken than angry. “Don’t you get it? Mike didn’t want to look bad. He didn’t want to risk someone finding out that he got the rules bent for a relative. Your precious boyfriend put his police career before helping his own flesh and blood.”
My mouth went dry. I wanted to chalk this up to the captain’s twisted version of events, but there was such sincerity in his tone, in his eyes... I couldn’t chalk this one up to baloney. Still, I had to tell him...
“That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”
“You haven’t known him long enough, then.” His voice went low and soft, like he was doing me a serious favor, warning me of a coming earthquake. “I’m tellin’ you, Clare, you should move yourself good and clear of my cousin, for your own well-being...”
My reply came, but it was hardly audible. “I don’t agree.”
“You will, darlin’. Like I told you, my invitation is open-ended. One weekend when you see the jerkoff for what he is and you’re cryin’ you eyes out, you give me a call...”
A loud, throbbing electronic tone interrupted us. A second later, knuckles rapped on the door. The captain held my eyes a long moment then tore himself away, stepped into the hall.
“We got a hot one, Michael...”
It was Oat Crowley’s muffled voice. On the floor below there were shouts and pounding feet.
“One second, Oat...”
The captain ducked back into his office. “Stay here, Clare. I have more to tell you. Wait for me to come back.”
When he left again, I went to the doorway, watched his broad back moving quickly away.
“What’s the job?” the captain asked.
“Long Island City,” Oat replied, hurrying to catch up. “It’s a two-alarm, going to three...”
The heavy bang of the stairwell door cut off their voices. In less than a minute, I felt the massive trucks rumbling under my feet, heard the sirens screaming as the ladder and engine companies raced into the night. When the building was still and quiet again, I headed down to the kitchen to retrieve my backpack. I bundled up tightly — coat, scarf, hat, gloves.
A part of me was curious to hear what else the captain had to say, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever he wanted to tell me was going to come with those increasingly aggressive advances that had nothing to do with my “feminine charms” and everything to do with his vendetta against Mike.
The walk back to my car came with bitterly cold wind gusts. I had expected them, prepared for them, but I shivered just the same. This whole evening had ended badly, and I suddenly knew how those men felt at the end of my espresso lesson. Getting a few answers seldom settled anything, it only confirmed the need to ask more questions.
I didn’t want to admit it, but the captain’s story had shaken me. I’d always had so much faith in Mike Quinn. We’d been through so much together. But the same had been true with me and Matt — until I’d learned the truth of his behavior during our marriage...
When my cell phone vibrated in my front pocket, I was shivering so hard I almost didn’t feel it. I tugged off one glove, checked the screen. Who was calling from the Blend?
“It’s Tucker. Someone left a package for you.”
“What do you mean someone?”
“There’s no return address.”
“Well, didn’t you see who left it?”
“No, sweetie. Some NYU students noticed a backpack under an empty table. They looked inside and all they found was this brown paper package addressed to you so they brought it to the counter.”
It took me a second to add up two and two: abandoned package, nothing else in the backpack, addressed to me, left in our coffeehouse.
Oh my God. “Tucker, clear everyone out of the building! Call 911! Tell them to send the bomb squad! Now!”
Twenty-Two
It was the longest drive of my life — with the possible exception of that predawn cab ride to the ICU all those years ago, when my young, stupid husband had nearly killed himself partying too hard.
Northern Boulevard led straight to the Queensboro, and I ascended the bridge ramp in record time. Just one day ago, shades of magic hour light had gilded this span. Tonight’s lonely crossing felt blacker than outer space.
Twice I smacked the button on my car’s heater, but the unit was hardly working. It failed to lessen my bone-cold chill, and the dark void between bridge and river only made me shiver harder.
As I hurled my old car toward Manhattan’s wall of flickering windows, a distant memory flashed through my mind — the image of a luna moth, throwing herself against the glass of our porch lantern.
“Why is she doing that, Daddy!”
“Just her nature, honey. It’s how God made her...”
“But she’ll burn up!”
“She’s not worrying about that part, muffin. She’s just trying to get to the light...”
Now I knew how that little moth felt. A part of me wanted to soar away, fly off somewhere to get some peace, think everything through. But that’s not how I was made. As long as I cared, there was no flying away.
Traffic thickened at the bridge’s end and my impatience rose. Spotting an opening, I sped up. Angry horns bleated as I cut off slow-moving bumpers, swung in a careening arc onto the wide, multilaned spectacle of Second Avenue.
Now I was racing south from Fifty-ninth, a straight shot downtown. Green lights tasted sweet, like seedless grapes; red lights were bitter. Yellow felt longer than midsummer days, my excuse to squash down the pedal.
At Fourteenth I turned west, zoomed across the island to Manhattan’s West Side, traveled south again and looped around to Hudson. I parked in front of the Blend, cut the engine. The shop’s front door was locked but the lights were on. Tucker, Dante, and Matt were standing inside. I rapped on the glass.
“Where is it!” I cried when Tucker threw the bolt.
“Calm down, sweetie.” He held up his palms. “Like I told you before you hung up on me, there’s no bomb in the package.”
“Where!”
“Take it easy, Clare...” Matt’s face was in front of me now, gaze steady. “I looked the whole package over myself. It’s like Tucker told you. There was no need to call the bomb squad. There’s no firebomb...”
My ex-husband’s hands felt firm on my shoulders, but worry lines were creasing his forehead.
“Show me,” I said.
Matt led me to the marble counter. Dante stood silently behind it, head still bandaged under his fedora, ropey arms folded. I met his eyes.
“That arsonist’s ass is mine,” he said quietly.
I’d never heard this tone from Dante before. I mean, sure, he was serious about his painting, but as a barista at the Blend, he was always a carefree dude, as mellow as his ambient playlists.
Not at the moment. The burning demons in Dante’s retinas now rivaled Captain Michael’s.
“Whenever you nail this asshole, you give him to me.”
“She’s not nailing anyone,” Matt snapped. “Whatever lunatic quest she’s been on stops tonight.”
I still didn’t understand what they were talking about — until I moved closer to the counter. A charcoal gray backpack was sitting there with every pocket unzipped and turned out. A small, brown box sat beside it, already opened. Inside was a plain piece of paper displaying three typewritten words.
FOR CLARE COSI
“What’s for me?” I whispered.
“A warning,” Matt said. He reached in, lifted up the paper.
Beneath it was a box of wooden matches. A single match had been taken out of its box. The slender charred stick had been struck, then blown out, half burned.