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.
“This is not the time or place, Clare.” His expression was still rigid, but when he spoke once more, his tone was softer. “Please.” He stepped close, put his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s not do this. Let’s go check on your friends.”
I didn’t argue. Not then. Mike wasn’t wrong about the timing. So I shelved my questions (for the moment) and let him guide me through the doors of the emergency room.
Seven
“Osso buco is another example,” Madame was saying.
“Is that beef? Like the bourguignon?” The voice was gruffly male, its pitch low enough to dub James Earl Jones.
“Veal, dear. The veal hind shank, to be precise, sawed into three-inch-thick pieces...”
As I came around the white partitioning curtain in the busy ER, I found Madame regally propped on the pristine sheets of a narrow hospital stretcher. Her silk pantsuit was still smoke stained and wrinkled, but her face was freshly washed, her hair brushed into a sleek silver pageboy.
Relief washed over me — along with fear, anger, gratefulness — the internal emotional swell was nearly as powerful as the moment I’d seen her carried out of that charred caffè.
She hadn’t yet noticed me. Her focus was on the man occupying the next stretcher, and I was glad of that. It gave me a few moments to swallow back tears, compose myself.
“So how hard is to make?” asked Madame’s ER neighbor.
The bare-chested guy wore black leather pants and a Vandyke beard long enough to braid. Every inch of skin art along his muscled arms had something to do with Harley Davidson, and if that weren’t enough of a giveaway, the flaming hog across his chest released scripted exhaust that plainly read Hells Angels.
“Osso buco? It’s a snap!” Madame chirped. “Salt and pepper the shanks, dredge them in flour, and brown them in a skillet with a bit of olive oil. Then just cover with a mixture of chicken or veal stock, sautéed onions, carrots, and celery and dry white wine — or French vermouth, whichever you prefer.”