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Shaw—that’s the man you saw pull the front door off its hinges—those two will get that basement door down and bring your friends out.”
    But a moment later, one of those firefighter’s emerged from the oily smoke with his arms wrapped around the other. Paramedics rushed to the pair.
    â€œPut him in a Stokes basket and strap him down tight! It might be snapneck,” Lieutenant Crowley barked to the EMT team. Then he signaled my fireman. “Ronny got clobbered by a chunk of ceiling. We need someone else to go in and make the grab.”
    â€œI’m on it,” my fireman said. Grinning as if he lived for this, he lowered his Plexiglas face shield.
    â€œNot alone, James—” Crowley warned.
    James, I repeated to myself, finally knowing my guy’s name.
    â€œRemember: two in, two out,” Crowley added then spoke into his radio. “Bigsby, you reading me? You’re up.”
    James ran toward the burning building and another fireman, with Brewer stenciled across the back of his coat, paired up with him. Bigsby Brewer was a real colossus, more than a full head taller than my guy, who wasn’t exactly a midget. Side by side, the two vanished into the smoke.
    As I watched them go, I felt my fragile steadiness going with it. James, like every other firefighter here, seemed almost gleeful about risking his life. But after his kindness toward me I couldn’t help feeling I had a third friend in harm’s way.
    I kept my eyes focused on the building’s front door, waiting, hoping, praying that those men would emerge with Madame and Enzo safe, ready for more grappa, and fox-trotting.
    It was about then I sensed a large presence just behind me. In a deep, vaguely familiar voice, the hovering form spoke—
    â€œLet’s have an update, Lieutenant.”
    â€œFire is contained to the single building,” Crowley replied. “The adjacent structure has been evacuated as a precaution, but there’s no sign of any spread. Right now, the nozzle team’s pushing back . . .”
    â€œAnyone hurt?” asked the male voice.
    â€œThe lady here says two civilians are trapped in the basement. Ronny Shaw’s skull got harassed by a nasty chunk of ceiling and is on his way to the docs. Jim and Bigsie are doin’ the snatch and grab on the vics. They should be out any second now.”
    â€œIt’s not like you to miss a rescue, Oat.”
    Oat Crowley shrugged. “I’m going to Lake George in June, Cap. No time to attend Medal Day.”
    The man behind me chuckled and I finally glanced over my shoulder. One look at his face confirmed what I’d suspected: the captain and I had met before. In the reflected shadows of the nighttime inferno, his fair complexion had an almost burnt orange cast. Legs braced, one balled hand propped on a hip, Michael Quinn stood like a municipal tower, a full head taller than his lieutenant and most of the men under his command. His substantial chin sported a prominent cleft, and above his upper lip he wore a trimmed handlebar right out of nineteenth-century New York (or a Lonesome Dove casting call).
    Needless to say, this man was not my Mike Quinn. This fire-haired giant was Captain Michael Joseph Quinn of the FDNY—Mike’s first cousin. Both were born in the same month and year, and both shared their paternal grandfather’s first name, but that’s where the solidarity ended.
    The captain caught my eye. “You went to an awful lot of trouble to get my attention again, Clare, darlin’. You could have just rung me up for a nice romantic dinner. No need for this elaborate production.”
    When I didn’t immediately reply to the man’s stunningly out-of-place innuendo, his hint of a smile blew up into a grin wide enough for his gold tooth to wink at me in the firelight.
    â€œSo are you here all alone, then? Where’s my cousin Mikey? Spending too much time shaking down parking