Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online Page B

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).
    â€œListen, Chief, considering your men just saved my friends’ lives, I’m going to cut you some slack—”
    â€œWell, isn’t that big of you.”
    â€œBut I’m not in the mood for games. So would you please drop the retro macho condescension and just call me Clare ?”
    â€œWhatever you say . . . darlin’ .”
    I exhaled. “At least you’re true to form.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œYour 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?”
    â€œActually, I can. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind another one of these.” I held out my empty cup.
    â€œWomen,” 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.
    â€œHell of a blaze,” he said. “Wonder what set it off?”
    â€œWhat did the fire marshals say?”
    â€œNothing. They keep their theories to themselves, those boys.”
    â€œWhat do you think happened?”
    â€œWhen I first rolled up to the scene, I assumed Enzo’s espresso machine was the cause—”
    â€œYou know Lorenzo Testa?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhat made you think the espresso machine was the cause?”
    â€œThe 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—”
    â€œBut that’s not what happened. The start of the fire was farther back in the store, near the utility room—”
    â€œThat’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—”
    â€œThat’s because the bomb went off in the back of the store—”
    â€œWhoa there.” The captain raised a calloused hand. “Don’t be usin’ a word like bomb so freely.”
    â€œI was an eyewitness. I know what I saw.”
    â€œAnd what did you hear then? A loud explosion?”
    â€œNo . . .” 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.”
    â€œSo you think the cause was a gas leak?”
    â€œI think it was arson , some kind of device rigged to go off at a certain time—”
    â€œStop. 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