Burnout (NYPD Blue & Gold)

by Tee O'Fallon

  Another hand-painted sign indicated the towering brick building with fluted columns she’d just passed housed the town’s municipal offices and police station. The tree-lined streets were decorated gaily with red-white-and-blue banners for the July Fourth holiday two weeks away.

  A large black-and-white striped awning on the main thoroughfare caught her eye, and she slowed to see it was a restaurant. When she got close enough to read the sign, she burst out laughing. Raven barked, as if she, too, could read the sign.

  “The Raven’s Nest. Well, whatdya know?” She pulled into an empty parking spot in front of the restaurant. Turning to Raven, she said, “With that name, we’ve got to check this place out.”

  After lowering the windows to allow fresh air into the SUV for Raven, Cassie shut off the engine and threw the key chain with its bulky remote start gizmo into her handbag. She grabbed her gun and extra magazines and shoved them on top of her detective’s shield inside the bag. Before leaving the vehicle, she looked through the rear window, then each way along the street. No one was watching or waiting for her, at least not that she could see.

  To Raven, she ordered, “Stay. Guard.”

  After getting out of the Trail Blazer, she smoothed a few wrinkles from her jeans and cream-colored camisole then headed to the restaurant, her sandals clip-clopping on the pavement. A cool, welcome breeze whipped her hair in front of her face. She tucked it behind her ears and glanced back to see wind ruffling Raven’s fur as the dog stuck her head out the open window. No need to worry about anyone stealing something in the Trail Blazer, not with a seriously intense former K-9 standing watch.

  The striped awning of the quaint café shielded a bank of large windows, giving the place a French bistro-type flair. When she pulled open the front door, a small brass bell jingled overhead. No sooner had the door shut behind her than the warmth and hospitality of the place became obvious.

  The floors were a classic black-and-white vinyl checkerboard design, with matching gingham curtains hanging at the windows. Bright red cloths adorned the round tables and the rectangular booths. Cassie estimated the restaurant could accommodate about seventy-five people at maximum occupancy.

  Kitchen bells dinged and dishes clattered. The smell of bacon and fried eggs made Cassie’s mouth water. Waitresses in black uniforms balanced enormous circular trays loaded with food and still managed to fill customers’ coffee cups at the same time. An antique brass cash register rang every time the cash drawer opened.

  The place was in the midst of breakfast chaos, and she loved it. This was exactly the kind of restaurant she had once imagined opening. That was, when her dream of being a chef had been alive and well.

  Cassie made her way to the counter and sat at a barstool. Her seat gave her an unobstructed view into the kitchen, and she realized that had been the design plan, to make the kitchen staff part of the entertainment. She could see through the opening to the commercial ovens and grills where three chefs in white uniforms clanged spatulas, flipped eggs and flapjacks, and scooped up steaming piles of hash browns.

  The kinetic energy of the place seeped into her veins, awakening a yearning she’d long ago ditched for the allure of a shiny gold badge. She sighed. This could have been my life, the one I really wanted. If only she hadn’t caved to family tradition and become a cop. First her grandfather, then her father. All three of her brothers, then her. Dad had been so proud when she’d received her detective’s shield. The whole family had turned out for the ceremony.

  Cassie swiveled on the stool, allowing her to take in more of the restaurant’s interior. The walls were a rich golden color and looked like aged Venetian plaster. Tasteful paintings of foreign places added to the European bistro atmosphere. The only modern accessory on the walls was a large television mounted high over the serving counter. Local morning news blared out over the din from the kitchen.

  Something slapping loudly behind her made Cassie spin. A slim woman in her early forties, about five-three and buzzing with energy, stood on the other side of the counter. Sitting on the surface in front of her was a large laminated menu.

  “Coffee?” the waitress asked in a friendly tone.

  The woman, whose tag indicated her name was Rose, had stylishly coiffed short, spiky brown hair, in an Upper East Side kind of way. Her mascara, eyeliner, and red lipstick were flawlessly applied. She wore a pale green skirt and matching green silk short-sleeved blouse. A thick gold necklace, bracelet, and button earrings completed the ensemble. Not your typical small-town waitress getup. Hostess, maybe.

  “Please.” Cassie returned Rose’s smile.

  “Make that two,” a deep, masculine voice said from close behind her—a voice that sent pleasant chills racing up her spine. “I’ll take mine to go.”

  “Hey, Mike,” Rose said as she turned to pour two cups of coffee, one into a white mug and one into a paper cup. “Dressed kind of casual this morning, aren’t you?”

  Cassie swiveled her stool enough to check out the body from which that incredible voice had come. Oh, man. She did a double take, the guy was hot. And so, so close, not three inches from her shoulder.

  Mike, as Rose called him, was about six-three, with thick, dark brown hair that curled adorably around his ears. He had the clearest, deep blue eyes she’d ever seen, making her feel as if she were peering into the translucent waters of the Caribbean.

  Faded jeans hugged a pair of long, muscular legs while a not too snug black T-shirt clung to a broad, sculpted chest. She could well imagine running her fingers through Mike’s wavy brown locks, something she’d never been able to do with any cop she dated. Most of them cut their hair so short they might as well have been bald.

  “Gotta head to Albany for training,” Mike said to Rose. “Call Jimmy if you need anything. He’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  Cassie finished admiring Mike’s body, right up to his ruggedly handsome jawline covered by a light growth of beard. The only thing marring his tanned face was a scar above his left eye. Nah, marring wasn’t the right word. It made him look sexier. And a little dangerous. When she lowered her gaze, she was pinned by a pair of twinkling eyes.

  Oh, jeez. Caught staring. Smooth, Yates. Real smooth.

  “Hi,” Mike said.

  The café was still as noisy as when Cassie first walked in, but for some odd reason she barely noticed it. The only thing she heard was that deep, melting voice directed straight at her. “Hi,” she managed to mumble.

  “Here you both go,” she heard Rose say, but the woman’s voice sounded far, far away.

  All Cassie’s senses kicked into overdrive, but her brain stopped performing with its usual crisp, detective-like efficiency.

  Heat emanating from the man was like a warm caress on her body. And that scent he wore… It reminded her of Old Spice, only more subtle, more sophisticated. That aftershave did wonders for a guy, not to mention it was a surefire way to get her hormones revved into high gear. If they hadn’t been land-locked, Cassie would have bet this guy really did have a girl in every port. She could practically hear the Old Spice jingle in her head.

  “Thanks, Rose,” Mike said without taking his gaze from Cassie.

  At first his expression was inquisitive, almost suspicious. As he narrowed his eyes, dark brows drew together. For an instant, she had the impression he was sizing her up—and not in a physical way. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. Her brother Gray got the same way when he was trying to figure out whether a suspect was handing him a line of shit.

  Well, what the heck is this about? I stopped in for coffee and chow, not to rob the joint.

  A slow, easy grin tipped the corners of Mike’s mouth, stopping just short of a full-fledged smile. Then again, maybe he was just ogling, since from where he stood he had a bird’s-eye view straight down her camisole to her braless breasts.

  “Staying in town or passing through?” he asked.

  “Uh…” She could barely form a coherent sentence. Something about th
is total stranger took her breath—and her speaking faculties—away. “Passing through.”

  Mike’s full, sexy mouth curved upward, revealing a gorgeous set of white teeth. “Shame.”

  “Uh, yeah,” she muttered. Crap. She’d never been at a loss for words. Bullshit was her forte, something honed to professional undercover perfection.

  “Sugar? Milk?”

  She turned as Rose plunked a jar of sugar and a spoon onto the counter, along with a small silver pitcher of milk. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Rose winked at her, then looked to Mike with raised eyebrows. “Hair’s getting a little long, isn’t it, Mike?” When he didn’t answer, Cassie was afraid to look at him to see if those intense blue eyes were still focused on her. The café was air-conditioned, but her neck and chest felt hot and sweat began to drip between her shoulder blades.

  Get over it. He’s just a hot guy, and I’ll never see him again.

  “Mike?” Rose repeated.

  “I’ll get it cut when I come back. Wouldn’t want the town to think I was getting sloppy. Gotta go. See you in a week.”

  “Have a good trip,” Rose said.

  “Thanks,” he answered as he reached for the paper cup and dropped money onto the counter.

  “Mornin’, Mike,” one of the waitresses called out.

  “Morning, Ginny,” he answered.

  “See ya when you get back,” one of the customers yelled from the far end of the counter.

  Mike waved to the customer and turned to Cassie. “Any chance you’ll be passing through again in a couple of weeks? This town throws one hell of a July Fourth party.”

  “Now what kind of party would be worth driving all the way back here for?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Depends.” He gave her a look that melted her insides like a grilled cheese sandwich. “Where did you say you were from?”

  “Didn’t.” She pressed her lips together, partly to keep from blurting out something about herself that she shouldn’t, but mostly to keep from grinning like an idiot. One itty-bitty minute and this guy had every nerve ending in her body tingling louder than a chorus of Christmas bells. She couldn’t stop the little grin curving her lips.

  “You should try to make it.” Mike lowered his voice. His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  Hell, yeah.

  “Sounds intriguing,” she answered in a wistful tone that she heard as much as felt, and for a moment, New York City and the NYPD suddenly seemed very, very far away. In another life. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever be back here.”

  A flicker of something passed across Mike’s face. Was it…disappointment?

  “Well then, nice to meet you,” he said with a wink that made her heart go ga-gong. Mike shot her one last devastating look before turning away.

  She watched his perfectly formed butt as it disappeared through the door. Mike was gone, but his presence and the effect he had on her lingered. Her libido might as well be groaning. When she turned back to the counter, Rose fixed her with laughing hazel eyes.

  “That was Mike,” Rose said.

  “Apparently so.” Cassie let out an embarrassed laugh. She felt like a teenager with a crush on the high school quarterback.

  “Mike is Hopewell Spring’s—”

  An angry shout with a heavy French accent pierced the air.

  “Not again.” Rose rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a few more minutes to decide what you want.” She pivoted and rushed into the kitchen.

  From her stool Cassie had the best seat in the house to watch a large man in classic white chef’s garb gesturing and shouting at the kitchen staff, using what Cassie knew from her limited knowledge of the French language to be curse words. Nasty, degrading ones at that.

  Tuning out the rude berating, she scanned the menu, but surprisingly, there was only standard diner fare. She’d expected a more interesting variety based upon the ambience someone had so obviously strived to achieve with both the interior and exterior decor.

  A simple fried egg and cheese sandwich would hit the spot. While she waited for her order to be taken, that same French voice shouted loudly enough for everyone in the café to hear. Back in the kitchen, the Frenchman towered over Rose, reminding Cassie of far too many cops she’d worked with over the years who’d tried to intimidate her by sheer size alone. She’d always chalked it up to them secretly being intimidated by her, but it still pissed her off to see it happen to someone else.

  “That is too damned bad, Madame,” the Frenchman shouted in a heavy accent. “I cannot work with such inferior staff. Either you fire them, or I quit. The choice is yours.” He lifted his chin and aimed haughty stares at each of the young kitchen staff, as if Rose’s decision was a foregone conclusion.

  “You can’t quit.” Rose’s voice rose. “You signed a contract and I have a restaurant full of people. We’re in the middle of service.”

  The entire restaurant went silent, like someone turned off the talk switch. Every patron turned his or her attention to the kitchen. Some rose from their seats to watch the show. Or to step in, perhaps, if things got too rough on Rose. The kitchen staff, which looked like it consisted of two other chefs and a kid washing dishes, abandoned their tasks to witness the heated confrontation. Even the three waitresses froze with their mouths open, balancing plates of food on their hands.

  The Frenchman looked down his nose at Rose. “Without the proper staff, I consider my contract to be null and void.” His blatant attempt at intimidation was lost on the petite woman who parked both her fists on her slim hips.

  “Mr. Pierre,” she growled, “I’ve had enough of your pompous whining. Since the day I hired you, you’ve berated every one of my hardworking staff and you’ve tried to do it to me, too. I tolerated your piss-poor attitude because you trained at some fancy culinary school in Paris. But I must say, your talents in the kitchen have been disappointing.”

  Mr. Pierre opened his pudgy mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a shimmering painted fingernail aimed at his face. Cassie could swear lightning bolts radiated from the woman’s short, spiky hair. Rose was a good five inches shorter than Mr. Pierre and probably weighed close to two hundred pounds less, but with her powerhouse personality, she more than made up for it.

  “I paid you good money for your high and mighty résumé,” Rose continued, “but it’s hardly been worth it. This menu sucks.” She grabbed a nearby menu and threw it onto the floor of the kitchen. “Business never took off like you assured me it would. For this time of day, my restaurant should be packed wall to wall, people lined up on the sidewalk, and it’s not. And you know why? It’s your damned cooking. So you can’t quit, Mon Sewer Pierre, because you’re fired! Get out of my kitchen. Now!”

  With a French-accented huff and a snort, Mon Sewer Pierre yanked his chef’s cap from his head, threw it to the floor, and stormed out the back door of the kitchen.

  For a long moment, nobody in the restaurant said a word. Then one of the sous-chefs clapped. The other chef chimed in, grinning, followed by the kid who’d been washing dishes, then some of the patrons. Waitresses put down their trays and applauded loudly, followed by every customer in the café. The sound was deafening, and Cassie couldn’t help but join in. One of the waitresses, a plump woman with her hair in a bun, put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. Obviously, Mr. Pierre was not a town favorite.

  Rose massaged her temples for a few moments, then came out from the kitchen and stood in the center aisle between the tables and the booths. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she addressed the customers in a calm voice, “I apologize for the disturbance and for any delay this will cause you in being served. We’ll try to accommodate everyone as quickly as possible. Coffee’s on the house this morning.”

  “No problem, Rosie,” a customer shouted from the other end of the counter. “We
never thought the Frenchie’s cooking was that great anyway.” Snickers and laughs erupted from every corner of the restaurant.

  “Dear God,” Rose murmured. “What have I done?”

  “Oh, honey,” the plump waitress said, placing her hand on Rose’s shoulder, “we’ll all pitch in until you can get another chef.”

  Cassie looked around the restaurant. Half the customers were still waiting for their meals. Rose certainly did need another chef and she needed one now.

  “Maybe I can help,” Cassie heard herself say.

  Rose turned to her. “How?”

  “I can cook.”

  “Ever work in a restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you think you can take over a head chef position?” Rose eyed her with unconcealed doubt but cocked her head, as if curious about her qualifications.

  Here goes.

  Cassie took a deep breath. “I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. I never worked at a restaurant, but I’ve cooked for hundreds at upscale charity events.” Police Benevolent Association fund-raisers, truth be told. “And I grew up cooking for my entire family. Other than that, I’m just a gourmet chef wannabe with a lot of experience on the experimental side.” And nothing but time on my hands. For a little while, anyway.

  Rose pursed her rouge-colored lips. “Experimental?”

  “I like to use local fresh ingredients and put my own spin on the classics.”

  “We could certainly use a fresh spin on things. And”—Rose nodded to the kitchen—“I’m desperate.” She assessed Cassie from head to toe. “Hop in back, get yourself an apron, and whip me up something gourmet and ‘experimental’ for breakfast. Then we’ll talk.”

  Cassie couldn’t contain her smile. She jumped off the stool and headed around the counter to the kitchen, chewing the inside of her lip.