“Are you okay, boss?” Dante asked. “You look a little pale, or maybe it’s the makeup. I’m not used to you wearing any.”
“That car,” I whispered. “I’ve seen it before...”
“Really?”
“That’s Glenn Duffy’s car. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s an odd coincidence — ”
“It’s not a coincidence.” I faced Dante. “I had the right triangle all along — but the wrong guy!”
“What?”
“Listen,” I said, excited now. “Wren was using matches to light his torch; Glenn Duffy’s car is parked across the street; and that old Hitchcock film that I saw inside? It was completely out of place with those car racing movies.”
Dante stared down at me. “Okay. I think you officially lost it.”
“No, I found it. I found our arsonists.” A chilly drop of rain splashed on the end of my nose. I ignored it. “Have you ever seen Strangers on a Train?”
“I’m into David Lynch.”
“It’s the story of two men who meet during a rail trip. One wants to marry his lover, but he can’t get a divorce. The other wants somebody dead so he can inherit a fortune. One suggests they swap murders.”
“Boss, maybe I’m slow, but — ”
“Jason Wren is friends with Glenn Duffy. Glenn is the man who stepped out for lunch! Don’t you see? The two swapped arson jobs. Jason burned Caffè Lucia. Glenn burned Wren’s business.”
“How does swapping jobs help them?”
“Alibis, Dante. The day the firebomb was set in Queens, Glenn could have set up an all-day alibi in Brooklyn. Then he picks up Lucia in plain sight at the Queens caffè and is off to Jersey. If there’s no sign of the guy anywhere near Caffè Lucia that day — even that week — how could he have set the firebomb?”
“And Jason Wren?”
“Same thing, only he sets up an alibi in Queens. Makes it impossible for a Brooklyn fire marshal to pin the firebomb on him.”
“What about the threat for you?”
“One of these guys must have set me up with that package the same night the other one set the bomb in the chain coffeehouse. Then they sent a fake letter to the papers to make it all look like some crazed fanatic...”
The wind was blowing harder now, the big drops falling faster.
“Okay, boss, you convinced me. So can we go back to the car now?” Dante eyed the violet sky. A white-hot slash seared the dark canvas. “I can’t let this camera get drenched. I borrowed it from a friend — ”
“Here, take my keys,” I said. “Put the camera in the trunk and come right back. I have to see Glenn Duffy for myself. Once I confirm his association with Wren, I can go to Fire Marshal Rossi with it.”
Dante took off at a run, shielding the camera with his coat. Unfortunately, we’d parked over three blocks away — so Wren wouldn’t see that we’d arrived in my clunker instead of a news van.
I went back to the corner and crossed the street. The water was really coming down now, and I was getting very wet, but I had to get a closer look.
Thunder rumbled a warning. I stepped up to the Mustang anyway, peered into the side window, hoping to spy some identifying item, solve my problems faster. That’s when I felt it, hard and cold, pressing into my back.
“It’s a nine-millimeter, Ms. Cosi,” the man’s voice informed me. “That’s a gun, in case you didn’t know.”
“What do you want?”
Glenn Duffy reached around fast, opened the car door. “Get in. Move.” I could see the gun in his hand now. He held it low, aimed at my belly. “I said move!”
I moved.
“Crawl across. Get behind the wheel.”
Oh God. Isn’t anyone seeing what’s happening to me? I looked up and down the street, but the storm had cleared the sidewalks.
“Buckle up,” Glenn insisted, ignoring his own belt.
Everything felt hyper-real. I could smell the dampness of the raindrops, the sharp peppermint scent of the gum Glenn must have discarded before he ambushed me. I forced myself to stop staring at his weapon, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes. The boyish, blond Elvis was gone; the younger man’s bland, amiable expression was replaced with a mask of frustrated rage.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Jason called me. When I saw you staring at my ride across the street, I knew I was made... Christ, Jason thinks he’s the brains, but he was duped by a reporter act and a bad wig. What a publicity hog.”
“Don’t do this. You’re just making things worse for yourself. Why don’t you — ”
“Why don’t you shut up?” He reached over, shoved a key into the ignition and turned it. “Drive. We’re going somewhere to talk things over. Maybe we can reach an understanding.”
I pulled away from the curb, frantically glancing in the rear view mirror, praying I’d see Dante. But there was no sign of him. Was Jason Wren going to take care of my barista while Glenn kidnapped me? Oh God...
I swallowed hard. “Where to?”
“Stay on Bay Parkway.”
I tried again to engage him: “So whose idea was it to copy Strangers on a Train?”
Glenn snorted. “That boring movie? That was Jason’s idea.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You said he was the brains.”
“Shut up and drive!”
I counted to three. “It’s obvious you burned Jason’s business, and he burned Enzo’s place. Wren gets to start a cone pizza franchise with his insurance money. What do you get out of it?”
“I get Lucia and her insurance money.”
“Lucia Testa? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s Oat Crowley’s sex toy. Do you know Crowley? He’s a fireman.”
Glenn’s face flushed. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I smelled that cheap cigar smoke in Lucy’s ’Vette. But that’ll change once I get her over to Jersey, away from her sneering old man, away from this city and that fat fireman!”
The low rise buildings were gone now. We were driving through a lonely stretch of two-lane road bordered on either side by rusty chain-link fencing.
Oh God, I know where’s he’s taking me...
The flat, featureless acreage of Washington Cemetery was so isolated it seemed almost rural. The only indication we were driving through one of the world’s most populated cities was the elevated subway ahead of us and the Art Deco towers of the Veranzano Narrows looming like pale head-stones on the hazy horizon. A lone vehicle rolled maybe five hundred feet in front of us — a city garbage truck.
“Make the next left,” Glenn said. “It’ll take you right through the cemetery gate. Nice private place for us to have our little talk.”
We weren’t going to talk and I knew it. Once I pulled into that graveyard, I was never coming out — a sacrifice to the fast-food franchise dreams of Jason Wren and the twisted love of Glenn Duffy.
Do something, Clare...
Ahead, the huge garbage truck pulled over to the side of the road. Two men jumped out and flanked a large metal Dumpster. The driver stayed in the cab, began lowering the lift.
“Pass them nice and slow,” Glenn warned.
“Slow, okay...” At the edge of my vision, I saw Glenn shifting. He was moving the gun from one hand to the other!
NOW, Clare! Do it NOW!
I slammed my foot so hard on the gas pedal I broke my stacked heel. The Mustang shot forward, tires spinning on the wet pavement. We fishtailed into the other lane, then back again.
Duffy shouted obscenities but he didn’t shoot (or couldn’t). Instead, he threw himself at me, tried to punch the brake. I impaled his foot with my other heel while I pressed the horn and held it.
The impact came in seconds, but at least I was wearing my seat belt. Glenn wasn’t so lucky. Like fragile candy the Mustang’s front end crumpled against the mammoth truck. The windshield shattered as a large object flew through space — Glenn Duffy’s body.