Free Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle

to you this way,” the captain said, swinging the Suburban around to get clear of the trucks. “King Arthur civilized the British Isles with Excaliber. Babe Ruth broke every record with his Louisville Slugger. And every man jack of us in the FDNY tames the beast with his Halligan tool.”
    The she-beast? Hmm . . . “I think I’m getting it,” I said. And, brother, does it sound Freudian.
    The captain peered through the windshield. “Now where the hell is Oat and that car of yours?”
    My mouth full again, I pointed then swallowed. “Up the block. He’s driving the red Honda.”
    â€œIf that’s your clunker, then you really shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now—or ever.”
    â€œYou’re the second man to insult my car tonight. Not everyone can afford the latest model, you know? It might not look like much, but my Honda’s got pep. And it still gets good gas mileage.”
    â€œSo does a horse. Really, honey. I’m worried about Oat’s safety. Running into a fire is one thing, driving that death-trap is another.”
    â€œWhy do you call Lieutenant Crowley ‘Oat’?”
    â€œYou haven’t seen him without his bottle top—”
    â€œHis what?
    â€œHis soup bucket, his umbrella.”
    â€œEnglish?”
    â€œHis fire helmet . You haven’t seen him without his head gear.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œHe’s prematurely gray,” the captain explained. “When Crowley was still a probie, someone at breakfast noticed his hair was the same color as the milky oatmeal being served and the name stuck.”
    â€œHe’s named after oatmeal? I’m sure he hates that moniker.”
    â€œTrust me, it could have been worse.”
    As we came to a red light, the Number 7 train rumbled loudly along the elevated train tracks over our heads. When it finally passed, the captain turned toward me.
    â€œClare . . .” His tone was different, no longer playful. “Earlier you said someone else might have a motive to torch old man Enzo’s shop.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho exactly were you thinking of accusing?”
    I may have been tired and feeling a little weak, but a part of me came alert with that question. Maybe it was the way the man asked—as if he were afraid of knowing the person. Maybe it was something else. But I went with my gut and held my tongue.
    â€œYou were right, Michael,” I replied carefully. “It’s not my line of work. Forget I said anything.”
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    ELMHURST Hospital was an incongruous sight: a shiny, ultramodern facility planted in the middle of a hardscrabble neighborhood of worn-out storefronts and rundown row houses, most of them packed with recent immigrants from Ecuador, India, Colombia, and Pakistan. By the time we turned onto the hospital’s drive, I’d decided that I would put some questions to Enzo Testa. I didn’t believe the old coffeehouse owner was responsible for torching his own business. But I was far from convinced that the fire was accidental.
    Fire Marshal Rossi had given me his card and told me I could contact him with any further information that I believed was pertinent. As far as I was concerned, that was an invitation to find some.
    As I checked my watch again, Captain Michael swung his official vehicle up to the ER entrance and cut the engine.
    â€œYou know, darlin’,” he said, “it’s not too late to forgo the hospital’s oxygen for a little mouth to mouth at my place.”
    Give it up, man. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou sure? It’s late and you’re taking your chances in there. The ER will be packed. You could be here for a long time, only to be seen by an exhausted intern with a funny-sounding name on the unlucky thirteenth hour of a fourteen-hour shift.”
    I popped the door. “Thanks—but I’ll take my chances with the exhausted intern.”
    My