The thing Mike Quinn really disliked, however, was my living situation. As the owner of this multimillion-dollar West Village town house, Madame had given both me and her son the legal right to use the duplex (rent free, thank you very much).

The arrangement hadn’t mattered when Quinn and I were just friends, hanging out at the espresso bar, talking about his cases. Matt had used the guest room infrequently, no more than one week a month when he wasn’t traveling. But after Quinn’s wife left him and we started dating, things got complicated.

Quinn refused to put up with my ex-husband barging in any time he liked, so I made the sane and logical decision to move out. Thankfully, Matt proposed marriage to Breanne and moved out first. Problem solved (apart from this week, anyway).

“Matteo’s really not that bad of a guy,” I said. “Once you get to know him better, you’ll see.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, really. He turned down a chance to go to Scores with his pals tonight. And for once he didn’t attempt a pass at me. I wouldn’t say he’s a changed man, but I do think he’s willing to make some adjustments in his lifestyle to see that his second marriage succeeds. I know it’s important to him.”

“Enough about your ex-husband. When can I see you again?”

“After Matt’s wedding on Saturday.”

“That’s too long, Cosi. Come over to my place tomorrow night.”

“I wish I could, but I have way too much to do this week. And by the way, Lieutenant, didn’t you tell me the next six weeks are going to be pretty hairy for you?”

Ten days ago, Mike had been assigned to step in for a detective lieutenant on medical leave. The man had been overseeing a special experimental task force. As Mike explained it to me, prescription drug abuse along with an increased availability of heroin and opiates were resulting in a rash of overdose fatalities in the city. CompStat identified the pattern, and Mike’s captain at the Sixth had proposed a special task force.

The small unit of detectives Mike was now overseeing combined his past expertise in homicide as a precinct detective and narcotics as an anticrime street cop. Nicknamed the OD Squad, these detectives were tasked with investigating any drug overdose within New York ’s five boroughs, lethal or not, and documenting the victim’s sources, whether legit or not. It was a complicated tour of duty that involved liaising with medical professionals, DEA agents, and New York ’s Office of Alcohol and Substance Abuse Services.

Tonight’s case had put Mike on the Upper East Side. He and another detective were just driving away from the hospital, where a wealthy young banker was taken after he’d overdosed on a mix of prescription drugs and cocaine.

“The guy was still alive when the maid found him,” Mike said. “But just barely. We thought we might get a statement out of him, but he’s down for the count. We’ll try again in the morning.”

“Oh, God. I hope he makes it.”

“Yeah, so do I. He’s twenty-six and already divorced. The ex-wife showed right away at the hospital, even before the mother. None of them knew anything about his habit.”

I closed my eyes, the details bringing back way too many bad memories. Suddenly, I was feeling more tired than ever-and wanting to see Mike more than ever, too. “Promise me you’ll stop by the Blend when you get a chance, okay?”

“Sure, but I still don’t believe you can’t get away for one night this week.” Mike’s deep voice went low again, back to sexy growl mode. “Come on, Cosi, one night. Believe me, sweetheart, I’ll make it worth your while.”

I didn’t doubt he could. “Let’s see how the week goes.”

WHEN my bedside phone rang the next morning, I rolled over and picked it up with eyes closed and a dreamy smile on my face.

Mike and I had been making love in a secluded Hawaiian cove on white sugar sand. The sweet weight of his solid body was stretched out on top of me, his caramel-brown hair lifting on the Pacific evening breeze. A banner of glittering stars flickered above us, the rhythmic crashing of the night surf the only sound.

“Hello?” I whispered, expecting to hear Mike Quinn’s delicious growl again.

“Clare, dear, are you awake?”

“Madame?” My eyelids instantly lifted.

“You’re opening in less than an hour. My goodness, aren’t you out of bed yet?”

Except for the cotton candy pinkish crack of sunrise between the drawn drapes, the room was still dark. I reached over and clicked on the lamp. The clock radio read 6:40.

“I ended up closing last night,” I told Matt’s mother through a half-stifled yawn, “so Tucker agreed to open for me today.”

“I woke you then? I’m so sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay.” I yawned again and rubbed my eyes. “What do you need?”

“I was worried about you, Clare. The morning news is reporting that a woman was shot on Hudson last night. It’s on Channel 1 right now, and I can see from the background that the violence was perpetrated a block away from the Blend. Did you know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?

“Yes?

“What about Joy? She’s not in yet, is she?”

“No. Her flight’s on Wednesday. She didn’t want to miss the luncheon you’re throwing Thursday for the coffee guys.”

“What about this woman who was shot? Did you know her?”

“In a way…”

“She was a customer?”

“No…” I slowly sat up and between yawns briefly explained what had happened. Needless to say, Matt’s mother was flabbergasted.

“My goodness! What a tale! You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You know you can count on me to assist!”

“I’m sure I could,” I said carefully, “but there are two very capable female detectives already on the case.”

“Oh,” Madame replied, her disappointment obvious. “Well… how do you know the shooter wasn’t gunning for Matt or you, my dear? How do you know the shooter didn’t simply miss?”

I blinked, considering the possibility for an entire five seconds before letting it go. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, then quickly flailed around my sleep-addled brain for a change of subject. “So, listen, are you all set with your dress for the wedding?”

“The wedding…” Madame sighed. “Hasn’t that son of mine changed his mind yet?”

Oh, jeez, here we go… “No. Matt hasn’t changed his mind. So don’t you think it’s about time you considered changing yours?”

“Not until my boy opens his mouth to say, ‘I do,’ which I fully expect will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”

“The wedding is in four days!”

“And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”

For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one-he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement…

But all of my arguments were to no avail.

“He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”

I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.

“Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”

“That he still loves you?”

Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”