"There's also another man, James Young. He lives in the apartment that Alf was spying on the night he was murdered. Franco says Young had nothing significant to add to the investigation, but maybe the man didn't want to talk to the cops. Maybe, if he has something to say, he'll talk to me."

"Good lead, Cosi. But guess what . . ." By now, Mike's deep voice had thickened as beautifully as my white sauce. His lips were so close to my ear, his low, gravelly buzz felt downright ticklish. "I don't want to talk about this anymore-"

"You don't?"

"No," he whispered. "But I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"We can talk all you want tomorrow."

Quinn's nearness, his fingers, his lips were all getting to me, but I was reluctant to drop the subject. "What are we supposed to talk about tonight, then?"

"Anything else."

"I don't understand."

"I just want you to let go for a little while, Cosi. Give your head a rest."

"You think I can't handle the stress of an investigation?"

"It's not you. It's the job. Everyone has to learn to let go. Some guys lift weights. Some guys lift a bottle." He tilted his head toward the Riesling.

"You think I have a problem?"

"No. I think you're still new at this and you should take my advice. Let go. Give it a rest."

"Let go?"

"Yeah, and guess what?" he whispered into my ear. "I'm going to help you right now. Close your eyes . . ."

"Mike-"

"Close 'em." 'em."

I did.

"Now forget about anything related to evidence or procedure or even criminal mischief-"

Quinn's little teasing kisses were moving as he talked: from my earlobe to the back of my neck to the hollow of my throat. Finally, he reached for the belt of my short terrycloth robe, and his mouth continued its downward path.

Oh, God, Mike . . .

A few minutes later, I realized why Mike Quinn didn't need free weights, a Nautilus machine, or a bottle to forget his stresses and give his brain a rest.

His chosen method of distraction wasn't exactly something one could do in public, but it wasn't exactly torture, either, so I went with it; and for the next few hours, anyway, the Lieutenant and I had a deal.

FOURTEEN.

"GOOD morning," I whispered on a yawn.

Quinn kissed my head. "Get enough sleep?"

"I got what I needed."

The night had been a blur of sweet vino, creamy clam sauced linguine, 24/7 Christmas tuneage, and Quinn's intense lovemaking. A dead-to-the-world sleep followed, and when I awoke the next morning, I was sure the light of leprechaun gold had found a shining path through the cracks in my curtains.

Quinn's mood, however, wasn't even close to that good. He was still next to me on the mattress, wide awake, cradling me in the crook of his arm, but his gaze was far away-and not on the other side of the proverbial rainbow.

"What's wrong?" I asked when his good-morning smile faded too quickly. "You having second thoughts about being annoyed with my arrest?"

"No. Nothing like it."

"What then?"

"I didn't want to bring it up last night. I needed to let things go for a little while, too, you know?"

"Let go of what? What's the matter?"

"I've got a cold case heating up . . ."

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I sat up. "I'll make coffee."

TEN minutes later, we were back at the kitchen table, but on opposite sides of it this time.

With a freshly pressed mug of my Breakfast Blend in hand, Quinn started talking about his job-something he'd been doing with me for years now, first as a barista, then as a friend, finally as a lover.

"You remember Thanksgiving night, when I was called in?" he began.

"Sure," I said. "I finally got some bonding time with your kids."

Molly Quinn was nine; Jeremy had just turned eleven. Typically, Mike would spend time alone with his daughter and son. He explained why, of course. After Mike's wife left him for a slightly younger, much wealthier Wall Street whiz, she moved their children from their Brooklyn home to her fiance's Long Island estate. With new schools, a new home, and the new man in their mom's life, Mike wanted his kids to get comfortable with visiting his new apartment in the city before introducing another new person into their already drastically changed world.

I respected that. I also suspected, given Mike's years of marital problems, that he wanted to make sure he and I were on solid ground before he started complicating our relationship.

Well, the day before Thanksgiving, Mike's ex-wife did that for us. Leila decided to accompany her super-rich fiance to Connecticut for a Thanksgiving Day social gathering with some even wealthier people who suggested their guests leave the kiddies with the nannies. Leila had a housekeeper who also looked after the kids, but the woman had the week off, so Leila ended up dumping the pair with Mike.

As for my Thanksgiving Day plans, I'd already accepted Madame's invitation to attend a party at Tavern on the Green. Mike was supposed to be my dinner date-until his ex changed plans on him. So I changed my plans, too.

I bowed out of Madame's dinner, went to Mike's place instead, and cooked a turkey with all the trimmings. Mike offered to treat us to a restaurant, but I knew a homemade Thanksgiving dinner would help make his new apartment feel more like a home to him, Molly, and Jeremy. The kids couldn't have been sweeter. We even bundled them up that morning to see the Macy's parade.

The dinner turned out to be a huge success. Like their dad, the kids practically swooned over my cooking. And when Mike was called out on a case that night, I sat with the pair. We stayed up till the wee hours, watching a Disney movie, playing cards and Scene It?, and eating slices of my pumpkin praline tart until Daddy came home again.

"The kids are still talking about your food, you know."

"Good thing." I laughed. "Because I'm lousy at cards. They beat the pants off me at Crazy Eights."

Quinn nodded, but his smile was fading fast.

"So, anyway," I said, trying to help him along. "You said something about a cold case heating up?"

He nodded again. "It's connected to the one I was called to consult on Thanksgiving night-"

"You mean the Pilgrim's Daughter case?"

I listened as he recited the facts. A wealthy young blue-blood was found dead, alone in her apartment, the previous Thursday night. The woman, Waverly "Billie" Billington, was a Mayflower descendant and an heiress of the founder of Pilgrim Investments-a firm with the less-than-original catchphrase "Solid as Plymouth Rock."

Just like they did after Santa's slaying, the tabloids had a field day with their Black Friday headlines: Pilgrim's Daughter OD's on Pills Instead of Turkey Pilgrim's Daughter OD's on Pills Instead of Turkey, Plymouth Rock Heiress Found Stone-Cold Plymouth Rock Heiress Found Stone-Cold, that sort of thing.

Up to now, Quinn hadn't said much about the girl's tragic death, and I assumed it was because the case was open and shut. Taking too many drugs or mixing the wrong ones was not a homicide-although it could very well be a suicide.

I said as much.

"There are complications with that conclusion," Quinn replied.

"Such as?"

"Such as . . . the young woman's family is friends with the mayor, the police commissioner, two state senators, and an influential city council member. The Billington girl attended schools with some of their children and occasionally socialized with them in Manhattan clubs. So they want it all to go away as fast as possible. My captain's down our necks with this one. He's made it known the case should be cleared as an accidental death."

"Even though it could have been suicide?"

"They want it closed."

I studied Quinn's set jaw. "I get a feeling there's a but but coming . . ." coming . . ."

"The details on this one started me thinking about a cold case from last Thanksgiving. Another attractive young woman, about the same age, living alone, died the same way. Cora Arnold had far less money and fewer connections than the Billington girl, so she didn't make front-page news."

"She overdosed?"

Quinn nodded. "Died Thanksgiving evening last year. Except the Arnold girl didn't have a domestic, so the body wasn't found until that Sunday night when she failed to show up for her sister's birthday party."

"You think there are similarities in the cases?"

"Not just the timing-both dying on Thanksgiving night. But both died from ingesting the same prescription drug, an opioid narcotic, one that neither of them had been prescribed."

"No other pills in the apartment?"

"No. The girls were drinkers and known to be promiscuous. They both had a male guest sometime that day."

"Sex?"

"They had sex. They drank. And he ate junk food."

"Junk food?"

"Both girls were very slender and had hardly any food in their apartments. No junk food in the cupboards or fridge. Yet there were empty bags of potato chips, pretzels, Doritos-but none of that food was found in either of the girls' stomachs."

"You have semen, I take it?" I paused. "That came out wrong. What I meant was-"

Quinn smiled. "I know what you meant. DNA isn't the problem. Finding the match is. These young women had a lot of people in and out of their lives-friends, relatives, strangers. Fingerprints were taken, but nothing matched perps with previous records. No matches on known boyfriends."

"Given her level of society and the social-circle issue with the bigwig offspring, I take it interviews are a touchy potato. How aggressively can you question friends and family?"

"What do you think?"

"Your bosses want the case closed. That's what I think."

Quinn took a long, sullen sip of coffee. "I think this girl was a victim, Clare, not a suicide, and not an accidental death. I think there's a guy out there who's partying with dangerous drugs. He may not have meant to kill these girls, but he did, and he's at least guilty of manslaughter. He must know about this latest death, given the headlines, but he hasn't stepped forward. And I don't think he will. He drugged both girls-even if they took the stuff willingly, he left them unconscious without a second thought. And I think he'll do the same thing again."

"Then you have to find him, Mike. No matter what your bosses say."

"I know."

"What did your superiors say when you told them all this?"

Quinn's frown deepened. "Circumstantial similarities. It doesn't help my theory that both girls had a history of using drugs recreationally-although rarely."

"Didn't the domestic worker see anyone come into the apartment?"

"The domestic's a young, single woman-a live-in. She was given the day off, which she spent with her sister's family in Queens. She returned around eight that night. That's when she found her employer."

I sipped my own coffee, considering the facts. "What did the victim do that day?"

"We know that Billie went to a party that morning on the Upper West Side-a large apartment that had a view of the Thanksgiving Day parade."

"That kind of parade-watching party is pretty common in the city," I said. "What did the people at the party tell you?"

"Billie talked to almost everyone there. She watched the parade and left the party alone. She entered her building alone. The doorman never announced anyone for her, and the lobby security camera confirms the doorman's story. There's a service entrance to the building, no camera on it, but it's securely locked from the inside and there's no sign of a break-in."

"The man must have lived in Billie's building, then, right?"

"That's what we think; even though Billie had no history of sleeping with anyone in her building, it could have been a solitary sexual fling. We're still working on getting DNA samples from the male residents-including the married men. It's a touchy legal issue. Most have lawyers who are fighting it. This is a tough one, Cosi."

I sipped more coffee, then drummed my fingers on the tabletop. "Wouldn't the DNA help your theory? If the Billington and Arnold girls had sex with the same man-even if you can't ID the guy yet-wouldn't that prove the pattern you're arguing?"

"Yes, it would, and I'm trying to get that test done."