"Hey, don't hold back on our account." Stanny-O chuckled.

Griffin scowled at him.

"OK, so he's another asshole. We seem to have hit the motherlode in this case, don't you think, Quinn?"

"Absolutely."

"But that don't mean he's sending the letters. You really think he's our man, Griffin?"

"Probably."

Stanny-O frowned. "And his motive?"

"Money."

"As things stand right now, we've got no physical evidence on him," Quinn said. "He's lost a boatload of money in the last year, but he's managing to stay afloat. His printer doesn't match up and his prints aren't on any of the letters."

"And whose prints are?"

Quinn smiled a bit. "Well, Griffin, the letters that came before we arrived were covered in fingerprints-yours, Marjorie's, and Audie's. After we asked you to be careful handling the paper, there have been none at all."

Griffin frowned, and just then the door to Audie's office opened and Marjorie walked out, smiling, an empty plate and teacup in her hand. She gave Quinn a reassuring nod and gestured toward Griffin 's office.

"Would you mind if I had a word with you, Detective? Can we use your office, Griffin?"

"Sure."

Quinn followed Marjorie, entered the office, and leaned up against the wall. He was surrounded by soccer action photographs- Griffin apparently played with the Baltimore Blast and the Chicago Fire. Above Griffin 's desk was a photo of him and Audie, sitting on the stoop of an apartment building, their heads together, grinning.

Finally-Quinn had seen a picture where Audie was smiling.

"How do you think she's holding up, Detective?" Marjorie eased herself into the computer chair, smoothing down her stylish straight skirt. "It's obvious that you two have hit it off, and I thought maybe she was opening up to you a little bit. She's a difficult person to read sometimes."

Quinn nodded and studied Marjorie with appreciation. She was a slim, attractive woman with nice pale eyes and fashionably short silver hair. She moved with surprising grace for someone her age.

Though she seemed devoted to Audie, he and Stan had checked out her background just to be sure, and found nothing that would indicate a motive for sending the notes. Marjorie's business partnership with Helen Adams had made her a very wealthy woman. She'd welcomed them graciously into her elegant La Salle Street townhouse and talked for hours about the Homey Helen column, answering all their questions and then some. Her computer equipment wasn't a match.

"I thought she was doing OK up until this morning," Quinn answered her.

"Are you with her all the time, Detective? Is somebody with her all the time?"

Quinn looked down into Marjorie's worried face and wished he had something more reassuring to tell her. He watched as Marjorie suddenly winced and brought her hand to her head.

"It'll be all right, Marjorie."

She shook her head and swallowed. "It's not… I'm sorry. I've got a horrible headache, and this has been a completely awful morning. You were saying?"

"We're going to post a uniformed officer here and one at her place when Detective Oleskiewicz or myself can't be with her. We'll keep her safe."

She nodded but continued to frown, apparently not satisfied with his answer. Then she sighed.

"I think she likes you quite a bit, Detective." She looked up at him quizzically. "Is the sentiment returned?"

"Are you always this nosy, Marjorie?"

She laughed. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose I am! Television is repulsive and I can only read so many hours before my eyes start to go haywire, so I have to find my jollies somewhere, don't I?"

They shared a brief laugh before her expression went serious again.

"I don't mean to pry, Detective, but has she told you about that Tim Burke, the vice mayor?"

Quinn's whole body stiffened and he felt the little hairs on the back of his neck prick up. "What about him?"

"That he's always bothering her. That he sends her flowers about once a week. That it's been more than a year since they broke up, but the man won't leave her alone."

Quinn stared at her, thinking through all the details-he'd get a search warrant. He'd confiscate Burke's home and work computer equipment. He'd-

"And Audie just told me he showed up the other night at her apartment. Uninvited, of course."

He'd kill him. The lying sack of shit-of course Audie wasn't "coming around." How could he have wondered for a moment that it was possible?

"Thank you, Marjorie. I'll talk to Audie about this."

"I was wondering what we should do about her road trip next week. Should we cancel, do you think? Russell will probably go postal on me if I suggest it, but I just don't know if going out of town is a good idea right now."

"Where's she supposed to be?"

" Los Angeles Tuesday through Thursday. Dallas Friday. Atlanta Saturday and Sunday."

"Would she be going alone?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible to cancel?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Then that sounds like a wise thing to do."

Marjorie sighed and stood, still rubbing her forehead. "Then I'll try to handle Russell." She smiled at Quinn bravely on the way out the door, but Quinn could see the discomfort in her eyes. "Maybe it's time I ask for that raise."

When Quinn stepped into the reception area, Audie was there, waiting for him. Her eyes were red and her face looked a bit puffy and all he wanted to do was cradle her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right, that he was right there and he'd keep her safe.

Instead he smiled at her and felt the relief wash through him when she tried to smile back.

"Got any plans for today, Miss Adams?"

She shook her head, her eyes so big and sad and beautiful.

"What do you say to lunch and maybe a nice long run? We haven't seen the lions in a while."

As he watched the edges of those lovely lips curl up in delight, Quinn thought again how much he wanted to hold her-but this time he also thought about crushing her with his mouth, covering her body with his, being inside her, protecting her from all the Timmy Burkes of the world, even if it were the last thing he ever did.

"That sounds absolutely perfect, Detective," she said.

And for a second, Quinn wondered what she'd just agreed to.

They had a long, exhausting run, and on the way back to the apartment they stopped at the grocery, and Audie was certain it was the first time she'd ever been positively giddy in the Dominick's produce section.

And now the man who made her that way was cooking for her, his hair still damp from the shower, his lean, muscled arms and hands chopping and slicing and mixing and stirring.

Audie remembered how she'd taken one home economics class in high school and the teacher had compared cooking to chemistry-the careful mixture of elements to achieve a predictable result, time after time.

Chemistry hadn't been her calling either, as she recalled, and so it made sense that her home ec projects boiled over, congealed, or exploded at random.

Helen had been very disappointed.

But right now, Quinn was showing her how to adjust the gas flame so that the onions would sauté clear, not brown, and she was actually interested-interested in standing close to him and hearing his voice, in breathing in his scent, in feeling him near her.

"Are you listening, Homey? I'll be testing you on this later."

"I'm just fascinated, Quinn. I didn't know what all those little knobs were for."

He shot her a sideways glance and pointed in front of him. "This is called a pan."

"Could you go over that one more time?"

"Just hand over the chicken, Miss Adams," he said. "Do you have a preference between breasts and thighs?"