a week they got that delivery, once a week on a certain day, between certain hours.”
“And you thought this man, this father of your classmate at school, was the stick-up guy?”
“I knew he’d already done time for mail fraud. My classmate—Pete Hogarth was his name—he’d been complaining that his old man couldn’t get any work, also hinted that he had a worsening cocaine habit. So I took matters into my own hands.”
“What did you do?”
“I buddied up to Pete, went back to his apartment to hang out. The place was small, no privacy, but when I heard his dad kept pigeons on the roof, I knew that’s where I’d find evidence—and I did. The gun and the cash were buried in one of the coops. I called the detectives assigned to the case. They arrested Pete’s father. The ballistics matched up. He was the shooter.”
“Leta must have been grateful.”
“Honestly, she was too numb to fully understand what I did. Less than a month later, her family was back living in the Dominican Republic.”
“So much for young love.”
“Don’t sweat it, Cosi. My heart survived.”
“Those detectives handling the case must have been impressed.”
“They were. They checked in on me after that, encouraged me to go to the police academy.”
“But your father wanted you to join the FDNY?”
“I was the oldest. Like I said, I respected my dad, wanted to make him proud. But . . .”
“But . . . ?”
Mike turned on the sofa to fully face me. “As it came down, two of the guys in my class at the fire academy—they were relatives of Pete Hogarth’s. These guys didn’t care that Pete’s father was a scumbag killer. They just figured me for a narc, a rat, a guy you could never trust, and they made it a point of spreading the story of what I’d done.”
“Is that how your cousin felt about you?”
“No. Michael defended me. But it wasn’t enough, and after a few weeks, my reality check kicked in. I knew what I wanted to be doing for the next four decades of my life, and it wasn’t fighting fires. I wanted to be hunting down predators, Clare, getting them the hell off the street. Hogarth shot Leta’s father in cold blood, and I made sure he couldn’t kill again. I liked how it felt when I took him down.”
My mind flashed on Enzo, pale as a cadaver in the ICU; Madame weak and teary on that stretcher; Dante unconscious on the glass-strewn concrete . . .
I closed my eyes. “Does it always feel good to take them down?”
“For me it does. But you don’t always get them, Clare.”
I realized something then, something Mike had known all along . . .
“That’s why you’ve never discouraged me, isn’t it?” I met his gaze. “You solved your first homicide as a kid, without a badge or a gun. You know what someone like me can do.”
“Information and evidence, sweetheart. That’s what clears cases. I can flash my shield all day long, but without information and evidence, I can’t do my job. That’s why we work to develop informants on the street, interview witnesses, run background checks. If you can get those things for an investigator, then you can help him—or her.”
I exhaled. Given the fire marshal’s brush off earlier in the evening, not to mention Captain Michael’s oh-so-subtle warning not to get involved, I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear some encouraging words. Well, I was happy to return the favor.
“I can see why you don’t like retelling that story. But it’s really something what you did. It took guts . . .”
“Thanks.” Mike smiled, but only a little, as if he were flattered by my words but embarrassed, too. Pointing to the take-out bag, he changed the subject. “You want more?”
“Not of that.”
“Something else, then?”
I nodded. The flames in the fireplace were at their peak. I could feel their heat against my skin, hear their teasing pops and sparks. Leaning over, I pulled Mike’s mouth back onto mine.
He was pleased I’d started the kiss. I could feel it in his tightening arms, his widening smile against my mouth. He tugged me closer, used his tongue to part my lips, deepen our connection. Then his hands slipped under my oversized tee, and his slightly calloused fingers generated something with a whole lot more intensity than what he’d started in my living room hearth.
“C’mon,” he whispered, finally breaking away. “Let’s go upstairs . . .”