Roast Mortem cm-9 Page 4

  “What’s happening?” I asked my fireman.

  “The nozzle team is using the water to cool the combustible gasses at ceiling level. They’re cutting a path through the fire to the basement door, then Dino Elfante and Ronny Shaw — that’s the man you saw pull the front door off its hinges — those two will get that basement door down and bring your friends out.”

  But a moment later, one of those firefighter’s emerged from the oily smoke with his arms wrapped around the other. Paramedics rushed to the pair.

  “Put him in a Stokes basket and strap him down tight! It might be snapneck,” Lieutenant Crowley barked to the EMT team. Then he signaled my fireman. “Ronny got clobbered by a chunk of ceiling. We need someone else to go in and make the grab.”

  “I’m on it,” my fireman said. Grinning as if he lived for this, he lowered his Plexiglas face shield.

  “Not alone, James — ” Crowley warned.

  James, I repeated to myself, finally knowing my guy’s name.

  “Remember: two in, two out,” Crowley added then spoke into his radio. “Bigsby, you reading me? You’re up.”

  James ran toward the burning building and another fireman, with Brewer stenciled across the back of his coat, paired up with him. Bigsby Brewer was a real colossus, more than a full head taller than my guy, who wasn’t exactly a midget. Side by side, the two vanished into the smoke.

  As I watched them go, I felt my fragile steadiness going with it. James, like every other firefighter here, seemed almost gleeful about risking his life. But after his kindness toward me I couldn’t help feeling I had a third friend in harm’s way.

  I kept my eyes focused on the building’s front door, waiting, hoping, praying that those men would emerge with Madame and Enzo safe, ready for more grappa, and fox-trotting.

  It was about then I sensed a large presence just behind me. In a deep, vaguely familiar voice, the hovering form spoke —

  “Let’s have an update, Lieutenant.”

  “Fire is contained to the single building,” Crowley replied. “The adjacent structure has been evacuated as a precaution, but there’s no sign of any spread. Right now, the nozzle team’s pushing back...”

  “Anyone hurt?” asked the male voice.

  “The lady here says two civilians are trapped in the basement. Ronny Shaw’s skull got harassed by a nasty chunk of ceiling and is on his way to the docs. Jim and Bigsie are doin’ the snatch and grab on the vics. They should be out any second now.”

  “It’s not like you to miss a rescue, Oat.”

  Oat Crowley shrugged. “I’m going to Lake George in June, Cap. No time to attend Medal Day.”

  The man behind me chuckled and I finally glanced over my shoulder. One look at his face confirmed what I’d suspected: the captain and I had met before. In the reflected shadows of the nighttime inferno, his fair complexion had an almost burnt orange cast. Legs braced, one balled hand propped on a hip, Michael Quinn stood like a municipal tower, a full head taller than his lieutenant and most of the men under his command. His substantial chin sported a prominent cleft, and above his upper lip he wore a trimmed handlebar right out of nineteenth-century New York (or a Lonesome Dove casting call).

  Needless to say, this man was not my Mike Quinn. This fire-haired giant was Captain Michael Joseph Quinn of the FDNY — Mike’s first cousin. Both were born in the same month and year, and both shared their paternal grandfather’s first name, but that’s where the solidarity ended.

  The captain caught my eye. “You went to an awful lot of trouble to get my attention again, Clare, darlin’. You could have just rung me up for a nice romantic dinner. No need for this elaborate production.”

  When I didn’t immediately reply to the man’s stunningly out-of-place innuendo, his hint of a smile blew up into a grin wide enough for his gold tooth to wink at me in the firelight.

  “So are you here all alone, then? Where’s my cousin Mikey? Spending too much time shaking down parking violators, is he?”

  I just kept staring. The last time I saw this character was aboard a fire-rescue boat that had pulled me out of New York Harbor. Even then, surrounded by the men of the marine squad, he was throwing thinly veiled insults at his cop cousin.

  The captain grinned wider at my silence, then used a thumb and forefinger to smooth his mustache, more vivid than his flame-colored roof. “Well, the Quinn family black sheep never did know how to treat a lady.”

  Before my fried brain could even begin to formulate a response to that charge, the radio clipped to the man’s coat came to life. As if in stereo, the transmission also echoed through Lieutenant Crowley’s receiver.

  “This is Brewer,” the voice said.

  “Go ahead, Bigs,” Crowley answered.

  “Ten forty-five. Repeat. Ten forty-five. Both victims — ”

  Victims? “What’s a ten forty-five?” I shouted. “What’s he saying?”

  “Take it easy, honey,” the captain replied, his monotone maddeningly casual. “They’re bringing your friends out right now. Alive and well.”

  Donning his white helmet, the captain pushed toward the smoldering building. A whoop went up from the firefighters around me as James emerged from the smoking caffè, cradling Madame.

  Pristine peach pantsuit blackened, silver hair a sooty tangle, cheeks and chin smudged with grime, my former mother-in-law looked like an elegant, antique doll that some careless child had badly mistreated. One thin arm held on to her rescuer’s strong neck, while the other hugged the old photo album from Enzo’s basement.

  The enormous firefighter named Bigsby appeared next, toting Enzo Testa. As he gently laid the elderly man out on a stretcher, I could see Enzo was in bad shape — conscious but gasping, a long string of dark phlegm under his nose.

  In no time, Madame was ringed by a concerned circle of bunker coats. I had to push through the wall of muscle just to get to her.

  “Clare!” Tears were in her eyes and mine, too. I moved to hug her, but a female paramedic jumped in first, trying to place an oxygen mask over her mouth. Madame pushed it away.

  “Are you insane?” I told her. With her cheeks flushed, I wasn’t sure what had affected her more — the ordeal of the fire or all the grappa she’d drunk. “You need oxygen after the smoke you’ve inhaled!”

  “Yes, but” — the octogenarian coughed once then gestured to the army of strapping young firemen surrounding her — “I’d really prefer mouth to mouth.”

  Four

  The puddle-strewn pavement gleamed like black onyx. The street was so drenched in places you’d think a cleansing storm had passed. But there was no rain-swept freshness in the evening’s air, just a miasma of smoke, creosote, and scorched wood.

  Next door, the Red Mirage was vacated and closed. But the continued glow of its neon sign, along with the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, made the scattered puddles flicker with an almost demonic hue.

  Around me, the men of Engine Company 335 were going through the painstaking process of draining and rewrapping the infinite hose. A rookie fireman swept glass off the sidewalk. Others tossed metal tools back into the truck. I’d watched them use those same tools to tear apart the caffè’s walls and ceiling.

  I would have gone with Madame to Elmhurst Hospital, but she asked me to remain behind and retrieve her handbag from the basement. Because the keys to my car, my apartment, and every single lock in the Village Blend were in my own bag (also in the basement) I decided she was right and I’d better stick around.

  Shivering in the cold March night, I peered once more into Enzo’s place. The flames were gone now, but his beautiful interior looked like a rest stop on the road to hell. Water had replaced the element of fire, and it was just as damaging.

  Though the hydrants were turned off, torrents of gray sludge still poured from the building’s upper levels, staining walls and soiling the colorfully tiled floor. The highly polished wooden tables looked like charred kindling. Broken lumber and bent panels of tin dangled from t
he ceiling like ragged fangs inside the mouth of a dead monster.

  Flashlight beams from the fire marshals played across the blackened walls and sodden plaster. Though the stainless steel espresso machine appeared intact behind the thick marble counter, Enzo’s breathtaking mural had been burned beyond recognition.

  A building could always be restored, new furniture purchased, but that astonishing fresco, completed over decades, could never be replaced. As I surveyed the devastation, tears filled my eyes for the man’s lost art.

  Something inside the shop crashed to the floor and I started. A moment later, I felt a large body step up behind me and place a blanket over my shoulders.

  “You’re shiverin’, dove.”

  Captain Michael Quinn turned me around to face him. Hot tears had slipped down my chilled cheeks. I swiped at them.

  “I heard you made a save tonight,” he said. “The men told me you pulled out a kid twice your size.”

  “Dante is one of my baristas. I wasn’t about to let him burn alive.”

  “But you could have burned alive tryin’ to save him.”

  “Anyone would have done what I did.”

  “Oh, sure, any firefighter with a cast-iron pair.” He gave me a little smile.

  For the first time, I noticed an old burn scar, just under the man’s left ear, a patch of flesh blanched pinkish white. His bulky white helmet was tucked under one arm, baring his sweat-slickened hair. The change in light had altered the shade, I realized. At the height of the blaze, it looked fiery orange. Now it seemed more subdued, a deep, muted burgundy, like brandy-soaked cherries.

  The man’s bunker coat was open and flapped a bit in a sudden March gust. Ignoring his own fluttering clothing, he tucked the blanket more tightly around me.

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” he said. “Unless you lingered for a reason? To catch a ride home with me, maybe?”

  Is he kidding? Laugh lines creased the edges of his smoke-gray eyes, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

  “I can’t go anywhere, not at the moment. My car keys are in my handbag in the basement, so I’m waiting on a couple of your guys. They volunteered to search for it...”

  “Then take a load off while you’re waiting. After what you went through, you shouldn’t be on your feet.”

  My mouth was dry, my skin was clammy, and my legs were beginning to feel like underchilled aspic. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine? Right. Sure you are.” The captain shook his head. “Come on...”

  His big hand went to my lower back. Too weak to fight the current, I flowed along, letting him propel me toward the back of one of the fire trucks.

  He plunked down his helmet on the truck’s wide running board, unwrapped another blanket, and placed it on the cold metal. With two heavy hands, he pressed my shoulders until I was sitting on it. Then he grabbed a paper cup and decanted something from a canary yellow barrel strapped to the vehicle’s side.

  “Drink.”

  I took the cup, sniffed. It smelled citrusy. Gatorade, I realized, and took a sip, followed by a big swallow.

  Oh my God...

  I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty, but now my body seemed to be absorbing the liquid’s electrolytes before they even hit my stomach. As I drained the first cup, I realized the captain was already offering me a second. I drained that, too.

  “Good girl.”

  I threw him a look.

  “What?”

  “I’m not a girl.”

  “What should I be sayin’, then? Good boy?” He folded his arms. “Too late, darlin’. I’ve already glimpsed what’s under that blanket and unless I need eye surgery” — he winked — “it’s all female.”

  I exhaled. Dealing with this guy was going to be a challenge, but I shouldn’t have been surprised, given our previous meeting...

  Last December, a not-so-nice person helped me off the Staten Island Ferry (in the middle of New York Bay). Amid my shivering rants to the FDNY marine squad who rescued me was a request that someone contact Mike Quinn. How could I know there was more than one?

  The men called the Quinn they knew, this larger-than-life creature of the FDNY. From his blustery entrance on that rescue boat and the flirtation that followed, I got the impression that battling blazes was only one of the captain’s burning interests. As usual, the man’s suggestive stare was making me feel less than fully dressed (even with this first-responder blanket swathed around me like I’d just taken a seat at his personal powwow).

  “Listen, Chief, considering your men just saved my friends’ lives, I’m going to cut you some slack — ”

  “Well, isn’t that big of you.”

  “But I’m not in the mood for games. So would you please drop the retro macho condescension and just call me Clare?”

  “Whatever you say... darlin’.”

  I exhaled. “At least you’re true to form.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your attitude comes from the same era as you preferred style of facial hair.”

  The captain proudly smoothed his trimmed handlebar. “Can’t resist the old soot filter, can you?”

  “Actually, I can. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind another one of these.” I held out my empty cup.

  “Women,” he grunted, shaking his head. But he refilled it. Then he grabbed a plastic water bottle, chugged half the contents, and gazed at the fire-ravaged coffee shop.

  “Hell of a blaze,” he said. “Wonder what set it off?”

  “What did the fire marshals say?”

  “Nothing. They keep their theories to themselves, those boys.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “When I first rolled up to the scene, I assumed Enzo’s espresso machine was the cause — ”

  “You know Lorenzo Testa?”

  “I know every shop owner in this neighborhood. Old Enzo’s got the best coffee around. A lot of my men come here for it and his pastries, too.”

  “What made you think the espresso machine was the cause?”

  “The steam pressure, the gas lines, any number of things could go wrong with a mechanism like that. It seemed the most likely culprit for the intensity of the blaze — ”

  “But that’s not what happened. The start of the fire was farther back in the store, near the utility room — ”

  “That’s right, honey. You didn’t let me finish. When I saw the actual burn pattern, it was clear the espresso machine wasn’t the cause. The mechanism was intact. And the gas line didn’t break, even after the fire started — ”

  “That’s because the bomb went off in the back of the store — ”

  “Whoa there.” The captain raised a calloused hand. “Don’t be usin’ a word like bomb so freely.”

  “I was an eyewitness. I know what I saw.”

  “And what did you hear then? A loud explosion?”

  “No...” That made me pause. “There wasn’t a loud noise. No boom; it was more like the sound I hear when the pilot light on my stove is out and I relight it after running the gas.”

  “So you think the cause was a gas leak?”

  “I think it was arson, some kind of device rigged to go off at a certain time — ”

  “Stop. You’re back to describing a bomb.”

  I crossed my arms and met his eyes. “It was a bomb. The only questions those fire marshals should be asking now is who set it off and why.”

  The captain held my eyes a long moment but this time it wasn’t a leer. The man was staring into me like a mentalist studying an audience volunteer.

  “Oh, no,” he finally said, as if he’d just rifled every thought in my brain pan. “No, no, no you don’t.”

  “No I don’t what?”

  The captain bent down, moved his face two inches from mine. “I heard about your games, dove — ”

  “Games?”

  “You like to play detective. A bad habit you no doubt picked up from my black sheep cousin. But listen to me now: You’re not a fi
re marshal, and you’re not trained to recognize the cause of a fire — ”

  “But — ”

  “The real marshals are inside that building.” He extended his long arm for a sustained point. “They’re taking pictures, evaluating burn patterns, looking for traces of chemical accelerants or electrical damage. They’re going to determine how and where the blaze started, and document how my smoke-eaters knocked the monster down, too. They don’t need help from an amateur.”

  I met the man’s stare. “I may be an amateur, but I’m also an eyewitness.”

  The captain straightened up, moved his hands to his hips. “Now why would you want to worry that lovely head of yours about this, anyway? The marshals will make the final determination on what caused the fire, and they’ll do it based on proven investigative techniques, not some womanly hunch.”

  “I never said anything about a hunch, womanly or otherwise. And this head was there, in that café, when the fire started, remember? I only told you what I saw and what I heard.”

  “What you saw and heard is all you should be telling anyone — without speculation.”

  “Why?”

  “Why...” The captain rubbed his eyes, loudly exhaled. Finally, he sat down beside me. When he spoke again, his tone was no longer combative. “Do you know what a fire triangle is, Clare?”

  “No.”

  “Fire is a chemical reaction that occurs when three elements are present: oxygen for the fire to breathe, fuel for it to consume, and heat to ignite the other two in a chain reaction.” He ticked off the three points on his fingers. “You followin’ me?”

  “Three elements. Combustibility.”

  “Any time these elements are combined, the fire can occur — whether intentionally or accidentally.”

  “But I witnessed more than the fire itself. I heard a whoosh, saw the initial blast. It must have been arson.”

  “You’re so sure, eh? Well, factor this in, darlin’. Of the hundreds of fires I put out last year, there were two that were practically identical. Both started in the kitchen trash can of a row house on a quiet street. In the first fire, a woman lit the end of a cigarette and intentionally tossed it into the can. She was broke, couldn’t make the mortgage payment, and needed an insurance pay out to stay afloat.”