Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online

violators, is he?”
    I just kept staring. The last time I saw this character was aboard a fire-rescue boat that had pulled me out of New York Harbor. Even then, surrounded by the men of the marine squad, he was throwing thinly veiled insults at his cop cousin.
    The captain grinned wider at my silence, then used a thumb and forefinger to smooth his mustache, more vivid than his flame-colored roof. “Well, the Quinn family black sheep never did know how to treat a lady.”
    Before my fried brain could even begin to formulate a response to that charge, the radio clipped to the man’s coat came to life. As if in stereo, the transmission also echoed through Lieutenant Crowley’s receiver.
    â€œThis is Brewer,” the voice said.
    â€œGo ahead, Bigs,” Crowley answered.
    â€œTen forty-five. Repeat. Ten forty-five. Both victims—”
    Victims? “What’s a ten forty-five?” I shouted. “What’s he saying?”
    â€œTake it easy, honey,” the captain replied, his monotone maddeningly casual. “They’re bringing your friends out right now. Alive and well.”
    Donning his white helmet, the captain pushed toward the smoldering building. A whoop went up from the firefighters around me as James emerged from the smoking caffè, cradling Madame.
    Pristine peach pantsuit blackened, silver hair a sooty tangle, cheeks and chin smudged with grime, my former mother-in-law looked like an elegant, antique doll that some careless child had badly mistreated. One thin arm held on to her rescuer’s strong neck, while the other hugged the old photo album from Enzo’s basement.
    The enormous firefighter named Bigsby appeared next, toting Enzo Testa. As he gently laid the elderly man out on a stretcher, I could see Enzo was in bad shape—conscious but gasping, a long string of dark phlegm under his nose.
    In no time, Madame was ringed by a concerned circle of bunker coats. I had to push through the wall of muscle just to get to her.
    â€œClare!” Tears were in her eyes and mine, too. I moved to hug her, but a female paramedic jumped in first, trying to place an oxygen mask over her mouth. Madame pushed it away.
    â€œAre you insane?” I told her. With her cheeks flushed, I wasn’t sure what had affected her more—the ordeal of the fire or all the grappa she’d drunk. “You need oxygen after the smoke you’ve inhaled!”
    â€œYes, but”—the octogenarian coughed once then gestured to the army of strapping young firemen surrounding her—“I’d really prefer mouth to mouth.”

FOUR
    THE puddle-strewn pavement gleamed like black onyx. The street was so drenched in places you’d think a cleansing storm had passed. But there was no rain-swept freshness in the evening’s air, just a miasma of smoke, creosote, and scorched wood.
    Next door, the Red Mirage was vacated and closed. But the continued glow of its neon sign, along with the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, made the scattered puddles flicker with an almost demonic hue.
    Around me, the men of Engine Company 335 were going through the painstaking process of draining and rewrapping the infinite hose. A rookie fireman swept glass off the sidewalk. Others tossed metal tools back into the truck. I’d watched them use those same tools to tear apart the caffè’s walls and ceiling.
    I would have gone with Madame to Elmhurst Hospital, but she asked me to remain behind and retrieve her handbag from the basement. Because the keys to my car, my apartment, and every single lock in the Village Blend were in my own bag (also in the basement) I decided she was right and I’d better stick around.
    Shivering in the cold March night, I peered once more into Enzo’s place. The flames were gone now, but his beautiful interior looked like a rest stop on the road to hell. Water had replaced the element of fire, and it was just as