Roast Mortem - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,90

good cop. To a fault maybe, but he’s still my blood—and he’s the only government official in this town I trust.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never let the fire get behind you, darlin’, that’s what it means.”

“English?”

“I can’t give the evidence to any of the brass above me. Someone may have been paid off. There’s no way I can know . . .”

“What’s in the package? Can’t you tell me?”

“Not here. Not now.” He glanced at the doorway again. Shadows moved past, but none materialized. “I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you. But I noticed you came here alone tonight. And you were lookin’ my way an awful lot this evening . . . and I thought maybe . . .”

His eyes held mine. As I waited for him to complete his sentence, an icy breeze touched my hair. I tried not to shiver. “Well?”

“I thought maybe you were havin’ second thoughts about my offer.”

“You mean Atlantic City?”

“I mean me, Clare. You and me.”

Oh brother. “There is no you and me. Is there even a package? Or are you playing me again?”

“What I told you in my office, Clare, that was true. I’ve never met a woman quite like you.”

“Stop it. You’re still trying to get back at Mike.”

“Not this time.”

“Listen to me: I’ve got your number. Mike told me the truth about what happened with your little brother, Kevin. The whole truth. You left out enough of the story to make Mike look like a cold-hearted monster. You told me that story to make me doubt him.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes! I know you’ve been through terrible things in your life, Michael, terrible things . . . and I’m sorry for that. But it doesn’t excuse your treatment of your cousin.”

“My little brother would have been my brother in the FDNY if it wasn’t for my cousin—”

“Mike had nothing to do with what happened to Kevin! Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Your little brother self-destructed right before he was supposed to enter the fire academy because he was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of who?”

“Of you, Michael. I’m a mother! I know!”

He just gawked at me, looking confused.

I sighed. To me it was clear as sunlit glass. Kevin and Lucia had been on the very same unhappy ride, driven by father figures who wanted them to be something they just didn’t want to be.

“Kevin didn’t want to join the FDNY, but he didn’t want to risk your disappointment. He was terrified you’d turn your back on him. So he screwed up royally by driving drunk. He blamed the police, Mike, anyone but himself—and you bought right into it.”

“If my little brother had come to me, told me how he felt, I would have understood. I’d never turn my back on my own flesh and blood.”

“You turned on your own cousin, didn’t you? You’ve been treating Mike like the enemy, but he isn’t. All you did for all these years was twist the real story until it fit into a bogus ‘truth’ you could live with.”

Michael blinked. He suddenly looked less sure of himself. I could only hope it was because a thin wedge of insight was finally penetrating his thick cranium.

“Come on. Don’t you think it’s time that you two buried the hatchet?”

“Aw, darlin’ . . .” He exhaled hard, rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s too much bad blood between us. Years of it. Too much we did to each other. I’d like to be on level ground with my cousin again . . . I would. But Mike won’t want to bury the hatchet with me—not unless it’s in my skull.”

“How can you say that?”

“You don’t know everything.” He parted his lips, pointed. “You see this gold tooth? That was Mike’s right hook . . .”

“What don’t I know? Tell me.”

“No . . .” He held my eyes. “You tell me. Tell me why you’re still sitting here now, talking to me . . . You must feel what’s between us, Clare, because I can feel it . . .”

I began to answer, but somewhere above, the Number 7 train was approaching again, the insistent machinery growing louder, drowning out my words.

Michael leaned closer, his breath so saturated with whiskey I could almost feel the burn of the shot. Before I knew what was happening, the man’s iron band of an arm was behind my back, crushing me close.

“Michael, no!”

He was half drunk and fumbling, more sad than dangerous. The rough brush of his handlebar mustache moved over my mouth first then down

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