“This is Mrs. Quadrelli,” I quickly added in serious staccato. “I brought her down from the ICU to verify that Enzo is not available for an official interview at this time.”
“That’s right! Ms. Cosi is right!” Mrs. Quadrelli’s beetle-brown head began bobbing again. “Lorenzo is undergoing tests. He can have no visitors. None at all, certainly not you.”
Mike shifted in his yellow plastic waiting room chair, set the newspaper down, and regarded us, his amused expression fading into one of guarded confusion.
Mrs. Quadrelli frowned at Mike’s off-track expression. “You are a police officer, aren’t you?” She turned to me. “Did he ever show you his identification, Miss Cosi? You can’t be too careful these days.”
I met Mike’s eyes. “Officer, let me explain: This woman is a friend of Enzo’s. As I told you earlier, I don’t live in Queens, but Mrs. Quadrelli here might have some ideas about who set that fire because I’m sure it wasn’t Enzo.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Enzo would never set fire to that caffè. He was attached to it. Too attached if you really want to know.”
I cleared my throat. “So, Officer, if you’d like to ask questions about who might have had a motive to burn the place down, Mrs. Quadrelli here might be able to offer you some leads.” Please follow me, Mike. Please!
A nano-flash of annoyance crossed Mike’s rugged features. It was instantly replaced with his still-as-stone cop mask. Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his endless form to its full height. With his gaze holding mine, he said, “Have a seat, Mrs. Quadrelli. And talk to me . . .”
Oh, Mike, thank you . . .
“Tell me what you think is relevant,” Mike began. “Talk about anything you can think of—”
Anything other than Maria Tobinski’s medical history, and the saga of Pinto, the dog who rides around in a little red wagon.
I touched the woman’s arm. “Try to stay on the subject of Enzo and his caffè. Police officers don’t have a lot of patience.” I shot Mike an apologetic look. In my experience, patience was Mike Quinn’s defining characteristic—although with Chatty Cathy here, who knew?
Mrs. Quadrelli settled into the plastic chair and looked up (way up) at the broad-shouldered cop now towering over her. Finally, she turned to me.
“He showed you his ID, right, Miss Cosi? You never said.”
With a barely perceptible sigh, Mike reached inside his sport coat, pulled out the well-worn leather wallet and flashed his shield.
“That’s a gold badge!” A scolding finger appeared in my face. “This man’s not just an officer, Miss Cosi. He’s a detective.”
“Oh?” I said, exchanging another look with Mike. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to demote you.”
Mike’s lips twitched. “No problem.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Quadrelli. “Now why don’t you start at the beginning . . .”
Contrary to my advice, Mrs. Q began filling Mike in on her relationship with Enzo, starting with their first passing conversation, the weather that day, and what clothes they were wearing.
I am going to need caffeine, I realized, as soon as possible.
The only visible source was a bank of machines on the other side of the waiting room.
Vending machine coffee. God help me . . .
Cringing, I crossed over. My handbag smelled of smoke as I opened it and gathered enough change to satisfy the DelishiCo Individual Brew coffee machine twice. Oh, sure, each cup was “individually brewed,” as promised, but that didn’t matter much when the water bin hadn’t been flushed in months, and coffee oils had built up along the internal spout.
I loaded up on the powdered cream, poured in a stack of sugar packets, and returned to Mrs. Quadrelli’s side, handing over the cup of coffee I’d promised her.
About then, Mrs. Q’s eyes went teary. “And I think maybe it was those men who did it, who set the fire . . .”
“Men?” I echoed. “What men?”
“Theo, the Greek boy, and the other one, Kareem—he’s from Morocco or Egypt or something. They run that nightclub next to Caffè Lucia—”
“The Red Mirage?” I asked, recalling the scruffy-chinned guy with the foreign accent who’d called my car a junk heap.
“That’s the one. Those are the two fellows who manage the place. Theo’s been here for years. His family lives by the park. But Kareem is a new émigré, a real shady type.”
“What do you mean by shady?” Mike asked. His deep voice remained measured, but his eyes betrayed the tiniest flicker of newly awakened interest.