Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Why do you call Lieutenant Crowley ‘Oat’?”

“You haven’t seen him without his bottle top — ”

“His what?

“His soup bucket, his umbrella.”

“English?”

“His fire helmet . You haven’t seen him without his head gear.”

“Oh.”

“He’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.”

“He’s named after oatmeal? I’m sure he hates that moniker.”

“Trust 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.

“Clare...” His tone was different, no longer playful. “Earlier you said someone else might have a motive to torch old man Enzo’s shop.”

“Yes.”

“Who 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.

“You were right, Michael,” I replied carefully. “It’s not my line of work. Forget I said anything.”

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.

“You 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.”

“You 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 knees nearly gave out as I jumped down from the high vehicle, but I felt a whole lot better a moment later, when Mike Quinn, my Mike Quinn, pushed through the ER’s exterior doors, his ruddy complexion looking pale in the halogen-flooded entryway.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

I nodded.

Mike’s arms went around me. The embrace was much needed, but it came with the slight, familiar stab from the handle of his service weapon, tucked into the holster beneath his sport coat and trench. The momentary prod perfectly summed up our relationship — extraordinarily affectionate, punctuated with the occasional, unexpected jab (metaphorically speaking).

My ex-husband once called the man Dudley Do-Right, but Mike wasn’t perfect or even above using a dodgy ploy to get the job done. He hadn’t started out as a suit-wearing detective, either. He’d earned his gold shield by coming up in the ranks, which included decorated undercover work as an anticrime street cop, so he was far from naïve or a guy you’d want to cross.

Still my ex was right about one thing: Crime solving wasn’t a game to Mike Quinn. It was the fulfillment of what he saw as an almost sacred obligation to remove murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and predators from the rest of the population, which was why I didn’t mind the familiar little butt from his weapon. I liked the momentary reminder of my man’s place in the world, his dedication to a job that protected the weak, the innocent, the naively trustworthy — which occasionally included yours truly.

When we parted, he held me at arm’s length for a cool Mike-like once-over, from the top of my smoke-scented hair to the tips of my soiled, ruined boots.

“I’m fine, Mike, really. How is Madame? And Dante?”

“They’re both doing well.”

“Thank goodness.”

“They’ll probably release Mrs. Dubois in the next hour,” Mike said. “Dante Silva is awake, with a mighty big headache. He may have a concussion so they’re waiting for the results of his tests before they’ll release him. And Mr. Testa isn’t doing so well...”

I tensed. “What’s wrong with Enzo?”

“It’s his heart they’re worried about, but he’s in good hands. They’re monitoring every beat in the ICU — ”

And that’s when it came: the slam . Like a gunshot, the driver’s side door on the Suburban opened and closed with explosive force.

“Hi there, Mikey .”

Arms folded, Captain Michael Quinn regarded his cousin across the vehicle’s hood then flashed him what might have been a grin if it hadn’t look more like the baring of gritted teeth.

Crap. I’d held out hope that we’d dodged this bullet, but it came all the same.

“Tore yourself away from doling out traffic tickets to check up on the little lady, eh?”

Mike’s eyes went dead cold. “Excuse me a minute, sweetheart,” he said with disturbing calm. In a few smooth strides he’d circumvented the front of the Suburban to confront his cousin.

The two were pretty evenly matched, which is to say both were over six feet with wide shoulders, long legs, and prize-fighter reaches. Captain Michael may have been a bit taller, but I’d seen Mike power-cuff suspects with the kind of fluid force that I doubted the fireman could counter.

The conversation began with the captain folding his arms and muttering something. Mike’s eyes narrowed, and he shoved his finger into the breast of his cousin’s bunker coat. His other hand reached backward, toward his belt, as if he were going for his handcuffs. Now the captain’s eyes blazed, and I feared a shouting match — or worse — was about to explode.

“Guys, don’t fight!” I called.

Without even glancing in my direction, the men stepped farther away, locking themselves in a furious, whispered exchange.

I strained my ears to hear what the two were saying, but the noise of traffic and hospital workers was too loud. Finally, when it looked like fisticuffs were about to break out, a third figure in fireman’s gear thrust himself between the men.

“Knock it off!” Oat Crowley barked.

That I heard.

Crowley reached into his pocket and shoved a set of keys into Mike’s hand. “Your girlfriend’s car is parked down that block.” He pointed then shot a naked glare my way before pushing against his boss with both arms. “C’mon, Cap, I’m going inside to check on Ronny Shaw, and you need to go back to the firehouse. There’s paperwork waiting.”

Captain Michael looked pleased with the scene he’d created, even threw a final, cheeky wink in my direction before turning back to continue arguing with Oat.

My Mike didn’t miss the devil’s wink. He came back to me in body after that but not in spirit. “Let’s go inside,” he said, taking my elbow a little too roughly.

“No! What was that all about?”

“Forget it happened,” he said with a brusque finality that I rarely heard from him. The retrograde attitude sounded more like his cousin’s.

“Sorry. No sale.” I planted myself.