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“No! This might be a bomb. I want you to very quietly call the police while I take this outside.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Just call the police, okay?”
“Holy crap! You're serious. That guy gave you a bomb?”
“Maybe . . .”
“Put it under water,” Fred said. “I saw a show on television and they put the bomb under water.”
Fred ripped the box out of my hand and dumped it into the chicken fryer. The boiling oil bubbled up and spilled I over the sides of the fryer. The oil slick carried to the grill, there was a sound like phuunf, and suddenly the grill was covered in blue flame.
Fred's eyes went wide. “Fire!” he shrieked. He grabbed a super-size cup and
scooped water from the rinse sink.
“No!” I yelled. “Get the chemical extinguisher.”
Too late. Fred threw the water at the grill fire, a whoosh of steam rose in the air, and fire raced up the wall to the ceiling.
I pushed Fred to the front of the store and went back to make sure no one was left in the kitchen area. Flames were running down the walls and along the counters and the overhead sprinkler system was shooting foam. When I was sure the prep area was empty I left through a side door.
Sirens were screaming in the distance and the flash of emergency-vehicle strobes could be seen blocks away. Black smoke billowed high in the sky and flames licked out windows and doors and climbed up the stucco exterior.
Customers and employees stood in the parking lot, gawking at the spectacle.
“It wasn't my fault,” I said to no one in particular.
Carl Costanza was the first cop on the scene. He locked eyes with me and smiled wide. He said something to Dispatch on his two-way, and I knew Morelli would be getting a call. Fire trucks and EMT trucks roared into the parking lot. More cop cars. The crowd of spectators was growing. They spilled onto the street and clogged the sidewalk. The evening news van pulled up. I moved away from the building to stand by the Buick at the outermost perimeter of the lot. I would have driven home, but the keys were in my bag, and my bag was barbecued.
The flashing strobes and the glare of headlights made it difficult to see into the jumble of parked cars and emergency trucks. Fire hoses snaked across the lot and silhouettes of men moved against the glare. Two men walked toward me, away from the pack. The silhouettes were familiar. Morelli and Ranger.
They had a strange alliance. They were two very different men with similar goals. They were teammates of a sort. And they were competitors. They were both smiling when they reached me. I'd like to think it was because they were happy to see me alive. But probably it was because I was my usual wreck. I was grease stained and smoke smudged. I still had the headset taped to my head. I was still wearing the awful chicken hat and Cluck pajamas. And globs of pink foam hung from the hat and clung to my shirt.
They both stood hands on hips when they reached me. They were smiling, but there was a grim set to their mouths.
Morelli reached over and swiped at the pink gunk on my hat.
“Fire extinguisher foam,” I said. “It wasn't my fault.”
“Costanza told me the fire was started with a bomb.”
“I guess that might be true... indirectly. I was working the drive-thru window, and Spiro pulled up. He tossed a gift-wrapped box at me and drove away. The box was ticking, and Fred got all excited and dumped the box in the vat of boiling oil. The oil bubbled over onto the grill and next thing the place was toast.”
“Are you sure it was Spiro?”
“Positive. His face and hands are scarred, but I'm sure it was him. The card on the box said 'Time is ticking away'”
Morelli took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “Call it,” he said to Ranger.
“Heads.”
Morelli caught the quarter and slapped it over. “Heads. You win. I guess I have to clean her up.”
“Good luck,” Ranger said. And he left.
I was too exhausted to get totally irate, but I managed to muster some half-assed outrage. I glared at Morelli. “I don't believe you tossed for me.”
