Roast Mortem

“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.”

Thirty-Nine

“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...”

I stopped talking when I realized Michael’s attention had drifted.

“Noonan...” he whispered. “That lad’s my last...”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it.” He shifted again. “Anyway, Clare, I want you to know... I’m not proud of the way I acted the other night. I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. And you’re not the only one — ”

The sound of a throat clearing stopped Michael’s words. I turned to find a broad-shouldered detective leaning against the doorframe. It appeared he’d been listening a while.

Mike Quinn glanced briefly at his cousin. Then his arctic blue gaze locked onto me.

“Hi, Clare.”

I couldn’t find my voice.

“Sully gave me a ride over,” Mike said. “Filled me in pretty good. Sorry about your car.”

“I’m not.”

Mike opened his arms and I went into them. When we were through embracing, I noticed Michael on the bed. Despite his pain — and for the first time since I’d arrived — the man was smiling.

Mike released me and approached his cousin. I held my breath, watching the two stare at each other.

Finally, Michael lifted his hand and held it there.

With a silent nod, Mike shook it.

Epilogue

Six weeks later, Madame and I were heading back over the Queensboro Bridge. This time, I’m happy to say, her art-dealer boyfriend, Otto Visser, was driving.

We were attending the opening of Osso Buco Pronto! — a nouvelle Italian restaurant. The location was Long Island City, but the event looked more like a gallery show in SoHo than the launch of an outer-borough eatery (even one with a Manhattanesque ironic name). Oh, sure, there were trays of samples from the restaurant menu, and a brigade of food writers (online and print) were in attendance, but there were just as many members of the art world here, and for very good reason.

From our corner booth, Madame and I joined the applause when Lorenzo Testa appeared in a wheelchair