Val, who preferred a darker brew, was now nursing a pint of Guinness, eyes riveted on the front door, while I finished up my cell phone conversation.
“Say that again? You’re going to be late because of... ?”
“A pizza delivery,” Mike replied. “We got a last-minute tip. A delivery is scheduled for tonight. The stuff’s coming in a pizza-delivery car, but it’s not pizza. You follow me, sweetheart?”
“I do.”
I was happy for Mike. I was. Sergeant Franco had ferreted out a solid lead in their current case. A pizza car was the method of delivering the buffet of club drugs to key players on the construction site — at least Mike thought so. His squad still had to prove it.
“I’m sorry, Clare. I wanted to be there with you tonight, but this is the break we’ve been waiting for...”
I heard the regret in Mike’s tone, followed by the barely suppressed excitement. I didn’t mind. I knew how he felt — and in more ways than one.
My confrontation with Lucia left me feeling like Don Quixote again, although I wasn’t kicking myself for charging a pair of stiletto heels instead of a fire-breathing beast because I’d seen Mike make the same kind of run. He and his squad would spend days, even weeks, racing after some lead only to find their well-meaning lances lodged in a windmill.
“So I won’t be seeing you at all tonight?” I said, banishing any timber of disappointment.
“If this turns out to be bogus, I’ll be there in an hour or two. But if we make an arrest — ”
“I won’t see you until morning, I know. Okay, well... good luck, Mike. I hope you nail them...” I cringed, remembering Lucia’s threat to use actual nails on me. Time for a new go-to catch phrase.
“I’ll miss you,” I added, “but I understand.”
“Thanks, Clare.” Mike paused. “You know how much I appreciate what you just said, right?”
“I know...”
The man’s ex-wife never would have been so understanding (that’s what he meant). Every time Mike had to cancel, delay, or let me down because of his job, I always heard the same tension in his voice, as if he were bracing for a Leila-like tongue lashing. But he never got one. Not from me. I wasn’t Leila.
“Be careful, okay?” I whispered.
“I always am.”
I sighed as I hung up, not because I was left dateless for this post-bake sale shindig. I’d hoped Mike’s skills would help me loosen up James Noonan, get him to explain what he’d meant earlier today when he’d declared Bigsby Brewer was murdered. Now it was up to me alone — if James ever showed.
I glanced around the pub. The place was jammed with firemen and their wives or significant others. I’d already said my hellos to everyone I knew. Many of the faces still packing the place included guys from Michael Quinn’s house: Manny Ortiz and the flirtatious Mr. Elfante. The veteran of the company, Ed Schott, was here, too... but no James, no Oat. Not even Captain Michael had shown — although for that I was profoundly relieved.
In the corner, an acoustic band played: singer, fiddle, frame drum, tin whistle. The scent of beer saturated the air, the cacophony of laughter and lyrics making it hard to concentrate, which was, of course, the point.
This isn’t the time for thinking, Clare. This is the time for drinking... (Matt’s words from years ago...)
We were young then, having a night out downtown, but I couldn’t relax. I was too worried about our daughter, our bills, our books, our marriage. Matt couldn’t stand that about me, and I’d spent half my life feeling bad about my nature, trying to pretend my mind wasn’t working. But that time was good and over: The beverage I pushed was sobering, and I preferred to think...
I still suspected Oat Crowley of something here. And the more I considered it, the more I decided I wasn’t totally off base with targeting Lucia as the center of the arson spree.
Oh, I believed her claim today — that she was innocent. What I didn’t believe was that Oat was a confirmed bachelor. I’d seen the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. And his intimate gift of lingerie looked more romantic than risqué: He’d chosen white, hadn’t he? Bridal white.
If Mike was sitting across from me instead of Val, he’d probably ask me for a theory on motive. Well...
What if Oat wants Lucia for his own, but the young car mechanic Glenn Duffy stands in the way?
Maybe Oat was trying to do Lucia a favor — without her knowledge. Fire was his business, wasn’t it? Burning down the caffè would force Lucia’s father to retire and return to Italy, leaving Lucia free. And wouldn’t a shocking event like a fire make Lucia see how much she needed a man in her life, a real man (as Enzo had referred to Oat) and not a boy like Glenn?
Getting Enzo out of the way — one way or another — already appeared to be working in Oat’s favor. Lucia was clearly distressed today, but she hadn’t sought out Glenn for comfort, she’d sought out Oat...
“What’s up?” Val asked when she saw me spacing out. “You okay?”
“Sorry, yeah... Looks like I’m on my own.”
“You and me both, sister.” Val tapped her watch. “James was supposed to be here an hour ago.” She pulled an even longer face and drank deeply. Then she put down her Guinness and clawed inside her bag for a pack of cigarettes.
“Are you going outside?” I asked. Given my position, I knew chapter and verse of the no-smoking codes of New York’s Health Department.
Val closed her eyes, shoved away the pack. “I forgot. I’ll go out back later...”
I nodded, sipped my Harp, and heard a sudden eruption of voices —
“Hey! There he is!”
“How ya, doin’, Cap?”
“Glad you came!”
“Let me buy you one...”
The commotion was behind me, near the front door. I turned in the booth but couldn’t see — too many giant male bodies.
“What’s going on?” I asked Val.
“Michael Quinn is here...”
Crap. “Where is he exactly? Can you see?”
She silently tilted her chin. The man was striding past our booth that moment, a crowd of men around him. I couldn’t see the guy, but I could almost feel his energy as he passed.
“I’m surprised he came...” Val said.
So was I. And I wasn’t happy about it. My gaze tracked the mob across the room to the far end of the long bar. A few guys made way so Michael could have a stool. The men shook his hand, pounded his back. The bartender began to pour.
He wore jeans and a knobby fisherman’s sweater, both black; mourning black, I realized. Behind his flame red handlebar, his complexion looked colorless. A charcoal grayness seemed to surround him now, like the creeping smoke that hissed off the caffè blaze as the engine company doused the life out of the roaring fire.
Michael abruptly glanced up from the bar. I didn’t expect it. His eyes locked onto mine. He was surprised to see me here, too. I broke the connection, focused back on Val.
“He looks worn down,” I said. “Worse than the last time I saw him.”
“When was that?” she asked.
“At Bigsby Brewer’s funeral. He’s taking Bigs’s death hard, isn’t he? As hard as James...”
Val took a long sip of her dark beer. As she set the glass back down, her hand appeared to be shaking. The Irish band finished its set, and the pub suddenly got quieter, loud voices falling to murmurs and laughter becoming muted. I leaned into the table to hear Valerie’s next words —
“Bigs is the first man the captain lost since 9/11. Did you know that?”
“No. I don’t know all that much about Michael Quinn.”
“He lost every member of his company when the first tower fell. Did you know that?”