“What makes you think he knows anything?”
“Back at the pub, when we were alone together, Michael confided that he put important evidence in a package for me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What?”
“A minute before the randy fire captain goes octopus on you, he whispers that he has a special package for you.”
“He didn’t mean it like that!”
“Clare, you’re so gullible. Some guys will spin anything to get you in their bed. I promise you, there’s no package.”
“And I promise you there is. He even confided he wanted me to show it to Mike — and I was glad to hear it. I thought it might be a way for those two to finally reconcile. I thought Mike would want that, too.”
“Who cares what the flatfoot wants?” Matt threw up his hands. “Why do you want to stick your neck out for Mike Quinn anyway?”
“Because I love him, that’s why!”
My voice sounded almost amplified in the confined space. I’d never said those words out loud before, not even to Mike, and after all I’d been through in my life, I knew Matt understood what it took for me to make that declaration. For a long moment, he fell silent.
“Okay, Clare...” he finally said. Lifting his arm, he used his coat sleeve to wipe away the smothering curtain. “Where does Captain O’Lunkhead live?”
“See that redbrick row house three doors down? Val told me he just moved here from Astoria about three weeks ago. He wanted to live closer to work.” I pointed farther down the rain-swept street. The captain’s fortresslike firehouse was just half a block away.
“And you’re sure he’s not on duty?” Matt asked.
“Not the way he was drinking.”
Matt popped the car door. “Let’s hope we can wake this guy up.”
“I’ll make the man some coffee,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
I climbed out from behind the wheel and fell into step behind my ex. As he moved to dodge a wide puddle, I caught a striking image in the blue-tinged pooclass="underline" a perfect reflection of the captain’s redbrick row house, only in reverse.
It was exactly how I’d paint the two cousins, I realized, as mirror images; back-to-back monochrome profiles, like Warhol’s prints, cool blue and raging red. I’d always seen those men as primary colors. I understood why now. Each was singular in his own characteristics; neither able to change the other... And when they mix, the shade is violence...
“Clare? Are you coming?”
“There’s something here...”
An object was floating in the puddle. A ball of cloth? I bent down. No, it was a glove. In the uncertain light, it looked black, but when I picked it up, I saw it was cranberry colored. A mirrored F pattern was embedded in it... Just like Mrs. Fairfield’s House of Fen scarf.
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“A woman’s glove.”
“And I care because... ?”
“Because” — I tilted my chin toward the second-floor windows — “it may mean we won’t find Michael alone in his bed.”
“Great,” Matt muttered. “Another reason for the guy to be just thrilled with out visit.”
I tucked the designer glove into the outer pocket of my handbag and followed Matt to the building’s front porch. Unlike Val’s row house, the three floors had been divided into three separate apartments. New tape over the bell confirmed that Michael Quinn lived on the second floor. Matt touched the button. Nothing. We waited and buzzed again.
“He’s passed out.” Matt glanced at his Breitling. “It’s almost three AM and he probably won’t wake up until noon.”
Matt was ready to leave when I noticed the interior door hadn’t closed properly. The last person to leave had left it ajar. I pushed through, entering a narrow hall. “Come on.” I hit the carpeted staircase. But when I got to the top, I stopped so abruptly that Matt’s nose jammed into the small of my back.
“Clare — ”
“The door’s open,” I whispered.
Matt gripped my arm, holding me back as he stepped around me. He crossed the narrow landing, used one foot to nudge open the door a little wider. I leaned around him, peered inside.
Captain Quinn was lying facedown on the bare hardwood floor. His arms were splayed wide, legs folded over one another. His face was unrecognizable under a scarlet mask of blood. Blood pooled on the floor, too.
“No!”
Matt tried to hold me back again; I broke away hard, rushed to the captain, dropped to my knees. I touched his bloody cheek. It was still warm — and he was breathing!
“He’s alive! Call for help!”
Matt pulled out his cell, dialed 911, gave the address. I yanked open Matt’s leather jacket, pulled out his stack of handkerchiefs, pressed them against the bleeding wound on Michael’s head.
“Your boyfriend’s lucky,” Matt said as he closed the phone.
“What? What did you say?” Blood was seeping through the thick wad of cloth, staining my fingertips like my oils used to.
“I said your boyfriend didn’t kill his cousin. So he’s lucky.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t think Mike had anything to do with this!”
Matt didn’t reply. He stepped away, found some clean towels, and returned to help me staunch the bleeding.
“Neanderthals...” he murmured.
Thirty-Four
A Detective Sergeant Hoyt caught Matt’s 911 call. He arrived with a younger, shorter detective named Ramirez and a slew of uniforms, just minutes after the paramedics. The moment the medical team carted the still-unresponsive Michael Quinn off to the ambulance, the two investigators sealed the apartment.
The detectives separated Matt and me for questioning. I remained with Detective Hoyt in the apartment while Ramirez escorted Matt downstairs.
Hoyt was a tall man, about my age with a ruddy complexion and a dramatically receding hairline that made him appear bald (from my angle below him, anyway). His ill-fitting suit was bread-crust brown, and the only design on his pineapple gold tie was a fresh coffee stain. He was thick through the middle yet his craggy face was lean. Given the hour, I half expected him to be as worn out as I was, but Hoyt was wide awake; his eyes giving off an aggressive vitality, like twin flames trapped inside a shrunken pumpkin.
His first question (beyond my name, address, and relationship to Matt) was my connection to Michael Quinn.
“He’s my boyfriend’s cousin,” I said. “We’re on friendly terms.”
“And why did you pay him a visit so late?”
“One of the men in the captain’s firehouse died a few hours ago, under mysterious circumstances. We came here to tell Michael about it.”
I told Hoyt everything that happened regarding James Noonan, along with my theory that James’s death and the captain’s assault were related.
“Come again, Ms. Cosi? The Noonan case sounds like a suicide.”
“I think Michael Quinn was attacked because of something he knew or something the attacker thought he might have. He spoke to me earlier this evening about a package — ”
“A package? Are you talking about drugs?”
“No, the captain said he had evidence in this package, information about the death of one of the men in his firehouse.” I explained about Bigsby Brewer’s death, about the Coffee Shop Arsonist. “I’m sure that’s why this place was ransacked.”
Hoyt glanced around, scratched the back of his head with a pen tip. “Not much to ransack, you have to admit...”
That was true. A single recliner, a standing lamp, and a barstool subbing for a table were the extent of Michael Quinn’s living room furniture. He’d set a small television on top of a stack of cardboard boxes, but the shattered unit had been knocked down and the contents of those boxes — mostly clothing — were scattered all over the parquet floor.
“Does anything appear missing?” I asked.
“We generally learn that kind of thing from the victim,” Hoyt replied in a tone that indicated I’d just asked the stupidest question in the world.