anything quite like it. Or smelled anything like it. The old girl had

cooked for a couple of days."

"No prints but hers on the syringe?"

"No. She did the job herself." Carlson removed his horn-rims to polish

the lenses. "We debated suicide, but it simply didn't fit. As it says

in the report, it appears that she obtained the heroin, was too strung

out to remember to cut it down, and took a quick last ride."

"Where'd she get the horse? This guy Hitch?"

The inspector pursed his lips. "He's small-time. Doesn't have the

connections to deal anything that pure."

"If not him, then who?"

"We've never been able to ascertain. We a.s.sumed she'd made the buy

herself. She was a bit of a celebrity in her day and had a number of

connections."

"You've seen the letter she sent to my department."

"That's why we're willing to reopen the case, Detective. If indeed

we've had a murder here that connects with a murder in your country,

you'll have our complete cooperation." He settled the horn-rims

comfortably on his hooked nose. "It's been nearly twenty years, but

none of us has forgotten what happened to Darren McAvoy."

No, no one had forgotten, Michael thought as he sat in Brian's

oakpaneled office and watched the man read his ex-lover's letter.

There was a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth across the room.

Easy chairs were placed cozily in front of it. Awards and plaques and

photographs lined the shelves and walls. There were a few cardboard

boxes, a testament to the fact he'd only moved in weeks before. His

desk looked more like an executive's than a rock star's. Glossy and

piled with files and papers. Against the wall was a Yamaha keyboard and

synthesizer, along with a huge reel-to-reel tape recorder. There was

only mineral water and soft drinks in the bar. Michael waited until

Brian looked up.

"My father and I discussed it. We thought you should know."

Shaken, Brian groped for a cigarette. "You think it's genuine."

"Yes."

He fumbled with his lighter. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey in the

bottom drawer of his desk-still sealed. It was a test to himself In the

six weeks and three days since he'd tipped a bottle, he'd never wanted a

drink more.

"Sweet Jesus, I thought I knew what she was capable of I can't

understand this." He dragged in smoke like a drowning man sucks air. "If

she was-why would she have wanted to hurt him?" He buried his face in

his hands. "Me. She wanted to hurt me."

"We're still of the opinion that the death was an accident." Hardly

words of comfort, Michael thought. "Logically, kidnapping and the

ransom you would have paid were the motives."

"I was already paying her for Emma." He scrubbed his face with his hands

then dropped them on the desk. "She would have killed Emma, snapped her

neck right before my eyes. She was capable of that in a rage. But to

plan something like this." Lifting his face again, he shook his head. "I

can't believe she could do it."