Free Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Page A

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’m fine, Mike, really. How is Madame? And Dante?”
    â€œThey’re both doing well.”
    â€œThank goodness.”
    â€œThey’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?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œHi 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.
    â€œTore 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.
    â€œGuys, 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