Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Fine. I’ll call the cops.” But patting his pockets, Matt realized he’d left his cell in my Blend office.

“Reach into my pocket and take mine,” I said.

Ryan was speeding north on Hudson. He hooked a right on Clarkson Street just as the light turned red. I ignored the signal and followed, horns blaring behind me. He made another sharp right, but Matt managed to grab my cell despite the turns.

“Press six three times,” I told him.

“Not 911?”

“It’s my speed-dial code for Sergeant Franco.”

“That jackass!”

“Tell him you’re Joy’s father.”

“Joy? What does our daughter have to do with — ”

“Remember last year’s Christmas party? Remember when you told Joy to stay away from Franco? Bad idea!”

“Franco?” Matt said over the phone. “I’m Joy’s father — ”

“Tell him we’re chasing the guy who assaulted Captain Quinn and murdered James Noonan! Tell him the scumbag tried to kill us and now he’s fleeing the country!”

“He heard you,” Matt said, and held the phone to my ear.

“He’s on Delancey Street and coming your way!” I yelled. “He’s heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. Watch for a black BMW!”

“This is Manhattan, Clare,” Franco replied. “All the BMWs are black.”

“He has a big white NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund sticker on his bumper, and I’ll be right behind him in my red clunker. Where are you?”

“I just hijacked a pickup from the construction site. If your perp makes the bridge, we could lose him.”

“You have to stop him, Franco! Any way you can!”

I saw the bridge lights ahead. I was closing in on Ryan’s BMW, too, until a little green pizza delivery car cut in front of me. I braked to avoid a collision, and Ryan raced toward the ramp.

The delivery car sped up, too. It was hard to see Lane’s BMW past the big Jackrabbit Pizza sign on top of the little green car, and I looked for a way around him. That’s when Franco’s dirty yellow pickup shot out from between two other vehicles and T-boned Ryan’s BMW!

The delivery car was so close it slammed into the BMW, too. And I ran into both of them. Time crawled as I watched my hood flip open and the safety glass shatter. The shoulder strap bit into my chest, my nose flirted with the steering wheel, and my cell phone flew out of Matt’s hand and right through the windshield.

Then everything got very quiet. Matt and I exchanged stunned glances. Finally, we popped our doors.

Franco, in construction clothes, stood next to the BMW, a handgun aimed at a moaning Ryan Lane.

“Are you okay?” he asked, glancing our way.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I was fine,” Matt replied, “until I found out you’re dating our daughter.”

“Come again?” Franco said without shifting aim. Suddenly, the door on the pizza car opened and the driver took off at a run.

“Hey, you!” Franco shouted, but didn’t try to follow, his aim stayed true.

I pointed to the wrecked pickup. “I’m sorry, Detective. Did I just blow your cover?”

“Yeah,” Franco replied. “But you also solved my case.”

I didn’t understand what the man meant until more police arrived, Sully among them. The older detective eyed my totaled Honda and turned to me. “You have insurance, Clare?”

“Not enough to buy a new car...” But Mike was cleared. The cost was more than worth it.

Then Sully joined Franco, who tucked his gun away and pointed to that little pizza delivery car, a green Nissan. The vehicle was shattered in the front and rear. But Franco was more interested in the illuminated Jackrabbit Pizza sign on the roof, now broken loose from the car and lying on its side.

“Check it out!” Franco whacked Sully in the arm. “I told you the drugs were in the pizza car!”

A tidy hole had been cut into the Nissan’s roof, a cover for the hole now swung loose on its hinges — and stuffed inside that hollow, lighted sign were dozens of plastic bags. Franco began yanking them out and opening them up. They were filled with club drugs.

Sully nodded, looking pretty pleased. “That delivery driver left the construction site when you grabbed the pickup. I think he thought you were chasing him .”

Franco shrugged. “Hey, man. Whatever works.”

Under other circumstances, that kind of slapdash philosophy might have given me pause. But considering the events of the past few days, I had to admit —

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Boy, oh boy...” Michael Quinn lifted a shaky hand and touched his bandaged head. “That expensive whiskey really packs a wallop.”

“It wasn’t Josie’s aged Irish that hit you, Michael. It was her boyfriend. A guy named Ryan Lane.”

“Well, can’t say as I blame him for it,” he said. “Not after the way Josie was goin’ on at the pub.” He paused. “And I can’t say as I blame my cousin for what happened the other night, either.”

One of the captain’s eyes was covered (the socket required reconstructive surgery), but the other appeared alert behind his bruised flesh. He gazed up at me now through that one good eye, blinking slightly at the bright morning sunlight that washed over the hospital room.

As he stirred and tried to sit up, the IV hose became tangled, and I rose from my chair to help him. “Let me adjust your bed for you,” I said. As the head of the mattress elevated, he turned whiter than coconut cake.

“Ouch.”

“You okay?

“Yeah, but I think I’ll be payin’ a little visit to that Ryan fella when I’m out of here.”

“If you do, it’ll be behind a sheet of Plexiglas.” I adjusted his pillows. “The man’s in custody — for assaulting you... and for killing James Noonan.”

Under his scarlet moustache, Michael’s lips tightened. “I still can’t believe Jimmy’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry... he was a real hero, and his killer will pay. The charges against Lane are piling up. The DA’s nailing him on Bigsby Brewer’s death, and they’re exhuming the body of Josie Fairfield’s husband.”

“Old man Fairfield?” The captain’s one good eye squinted.

“Turns out Lane was originally trained as a pharmaceutical engineer. He whipped up some concoction that knocked James out long enough to fake the suicide, brought it to him in a bottle of wine. Apparently he used a higher dose of the stuff to murder Josie’s husband. According to Josie, she and Ryan Lane had been sleeping together behind her husband’s back. That’s when Lane became obsessed with her. He wanted her for his own, so he killed her husband.”

“The poor bastard...”

“But then Josie began losing interest in Lane and looking around for a new conquest — you were an oldie but goodie, Michael, and she decided she wanted to rekindle the old passion.”

Michael grunted. “She was the only one...”

“Unfortunately, Ryan Lane had already decided to force Josie into ‘retiring’ with him. Given the roof spike fraud and embezzled millions, she looked as guilty as he did. Lane expected an even bigger payday in a few months when the sale of the company went through. He’d planned out his and Josie’s getaway, their change of identities, their new life in South America. He’d even purchased an estate with a coffee farm.”

“He must have known the roof spike would eventually fail...”

“I think he was counting on that. Just one more reason Josie could never return to her old life. But when Bigsby died, Lane knew his time was up. He probably could have gotten away with it — if the wheels of bureaucracy had ground as slowly as usual. But you and James messed that up, jeopardized everything. He killed James and tried to kill you to buy himself enough time to escape with Josie — and the millions he’d already stolen...”