Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online Page A

damaging.
    Though the hydrants were turned off, torrents of gray sludge still poured from the building’s upper levels, staining walls and soiling the colorfully tiled floor. The highly polished wooden tables looked like charred kindling. Broken lumber and bent panels of tin dangled from the ceiling like ragged fangs inside the mouth of a dead monster.
    Flashlight beams from the fire marshals played across the blackened walls and sodden plaster. Though the stainless steel espresso machine appeared intact behind the thick marble counter, Enzo’s breathtaking mural had been burned beyond recognition.
    A building could always be restored, new furniture purchased, but that astonishing fresco, completed over decades, could never be replaced. As I surveyed the devastation, tears filled my eyes for the man’s lost art.
    Something inside the shop crashed to the floor and I started. A moment later, I felt a large body step up behind me and place a blanket over my shoulders.
    â€œYou’re shiverin’, dove.”
    Captain Michael Quinn turned me around to face him. Hot tears had slipped down my chilled cheeks. I swiped at them.
    â€œI heard you made a save tonight,” he said. “The men told me you pulled out a kid twice your size.”
    â€œDante is one of my baristas. I wasn’t about to let him burn alive.”
    â€œBut you could have burned alive tryin’ to save him.”
    â€œAnyone would have done what I did.”
    â€œOh, sure, any firefighter with a cast-iron pair.” He gave me a little smile.
    For the first time, I noticed an old burn scar, just under the man’s left ear, a patch of flesh blanched pinkish white. His bulky white helmet was tucked under one arm, baring his sweat-slickened hair. The change in light had altered the shade, I realized. At the height of the blaze, it looked fiery orange. Now it seemed more subdued, a deep, muted burgundy, like brandy-soaked cherries.
    The man’s bunker coat was open and flapped a bit in a sudden March gust. Ignoring his own fluttering clothing, he tucked the blanket more tightly around me.
    â€œI’m surprised you’re still here,” he said. “Unless you lingered for a reason? To catch a ride home with me, maybe?”
    Is he kidding? Laugh lines creased the edges of his smoke-gray eyes, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.
    â€œI can’t go anywhere, not at the moment. My car keys are in my handbag in the basement, so I’m waiting on a couple of your guys. They volunteered to search for it . . .”
    â€œThen take a load off while you’re waiting. After what you went through, you shouldn’t be on your feet.”
    My mouth was dry, my skin was clammy, and my legs were beginning to feel like underchilled aspic. “I’m fine.”
    â€œYou’re fine ? Right. Sure you are.” The captain shook his head. “Come on . . . ”
    His big hand went to my lower back. Too weak to fight the current, I flowed along, letting him propel me toward the back of one of the fire trucks.
    He plunked down his helmet on the truck’s wide running board, unwrapped another blanket, and placed it on the cold metal. With two heavy hands, he pressed my shoulders until I was sitting on it. Then he grabbed a paper cup and decanted something from a canary yellow barrel strapped to the vehicle’s side.
    â€œDrink.”
    I took the cup, sniffed. It smelled citrusy. Gatorade , I realized, and took a sip, followed by a big swallow.
    Oh my God . . .
    I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty, but now my body seemed to be absorbing the liquid’s electrolytes before they even hit my stomach. As I drained the first cup, I realized the captain was already offering me a second. I drained that, too.
    â€œGood girl.”
    I threw him a look.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m not a girl.”
    â€œWhat should I be sayin’, then? Good boy? ” He folded his arms. “Too