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
“Hi there,
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.
“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.
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
“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.”
“I like bourbon. Can I use bourbon?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“So why put flour on the shanks if you’re covering ’em with stock, anyways?”
“As the shanks are braising, flour will thicken the sauce for you. Then there’s no need for more difficult measures.”
“I get it. Cooking time?”
“Two hours or so. Finish with a sprinkle of gremolata to add a sprightly flavor note.”
“Gremo-what-a?”
“It’s just a bit of minced garlic with chopped parsley and zest from a lemon.”
“Oh,
“Almost, dear. That zesting tool is called a Microplane — ”
I cleared my throat. Madame turned. “Clare!”
I stepped into her open arms, and the festive aroma of grappa on her breath lifted my spirits. The clashing acrid-ness of smoke in her hair, however, ignited other feelings — ugly ones. I wanted to know who was responsible for putting her here, and I wanted them to pay.
“How are you, Madame?”
“Fit as a Stradivarius.”
“Did you call Otto?”
Otto Visser was the “younger man” in Madame’s life. (He was only pushing seventy.) The dignified,
