M. J. paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. His gaze was much too searching, too intimate for comfort. She didn't trust him; more important, she didn't trust herself. But those primitive threads of desire were spinning between them all the same, drawing her toward what could only be a mistake. Lord knew, she had never in her life felt such temptation.

She set the plate down on the coffee table and slowly wiped her fingers on the napkin. "You can flirt all you want with me," she said. "It's not going to change things. I still have a job to do. Questions to be answered."

"And suspects to be suspicious of."

"Yes."

"It doesn't bother me, being a suspect. Because I'm not guilty of anything. Neither is my company."

"Still, the name Cygnus does keep popping up in all sorts of places."

"What do you want me to say? Confess that I'm manufacturing some secret drug in the basement? Selling it on the streets for a profit? Or maybe we can come up with a truly diabolical scheme, say, I'm single-handedly trying to solve Albion's crime problem by killing off the junkies. The ultimate drug rehab! And that's why I was at the mayor's benefit. Because Sampson's in on it too!" He cocked his head and smiled, revealing yet again those beautiful white teeth of his. "Come now, M. J.," he said, leaning towards her. "Doesn't that sound the slightest bit ridiculous?"

He did make it sound ridiculous, and she didn't appreciate the insult. "I don't discount any possibilities," she said.

"Even wild and crazy plots?"

"Is it so wild and crazy?"

He was moving closer, but she was too stubborn to give up an inch of territory on that couch. She held her ground, even as his hand reached up to touch her face, even as he gently stroked her cheek.

Even as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

"If you knew me," he whispered against her mouth, "you wouldn't ask these absurd questions."

She felt an exhilirating rush of desire, felt it leap through her veins and flood her face with its warmth. Together they tumbled to the cushions. At once he settled on top of her, his weight driving her deep into the couch, his mouth closing over hers. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought, as her arms circled around his neck, tugging him hard against her mouth. He fumbled at his jacket, trying to peel it off and at the same time keep kissing her. She opened her eyes and caught a dizzy glimpse of his fair hair in disarray, of the circle of lamplight playing on the ceiling. What am I doing? she thought. Making love in an office. Yielding on a business couch.

"Don't," she said. He went on kissing her, his mouth ever more demanding. She said again, louder, "Don't," and pressed her hands against his chest.

He pulled away, his gaze hungrily searching her face. "What's wrong?"

"You. Me." She rolled away and slid free, onto the carpet. At once she scrambled to her feet. "It just doesn't work, Adam."

He sat up and smoothed back his hair. "I thought it was working just fine," he said with a grin.

"Tell me something," she said, restlessly moving about the room. "How often do you use that handy little couch of yours?"

He let out a sigh of frustration. "Not often enough."

"When was the last time?"

"You mean… truthfully?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "Never."

"That's being truthful?"

"I am. I've never used this couch. I mean, not for that purpose." He patted the cushion. "Look, see how clean it is? Oops, coffee stain there. But that's all." He gazed up at her with a look of pure innocence. And regret. "Tonight you and I would've inaugurated it."

She laughed. "Why is it I don't feel particularly honored?"

He sighed. "M. J., you have to understand. I've been a widower for some time now. And here you are, this wildly attractive woman. And I…" He shrugged. "Got a little carried away."

"Is that plan B? Flattery?"

"Flattery's not my style. You should know that."

"That's just it, Adam. I don't know you. Except as a phone number in the hand of a corpse. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring introduction."

They both started as the phone rang. Adam went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Grace." A pause, then: "We're on our way." He looked at M. J. "The results are back."

They found Grace sitting in front of the computer terminal. A readout was just rolling out of the printer. She tore off the page and handed it to Adam. "There you have it, Mr. Q. A little booze. Traces of decongestant. And that." She pointed to a band on the chromatographic printout.

"Did you analyze this band?" asked Adam.

"I ran it against mass and UV spectrophotometry. I'm not a hundred percent sure of its structure. It'll take some more noodling around. But I can tell you it's a morphine analogue. Something new. Levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6,10 beta-dihydroxy class."

M. J. looked sharply at Adam. He was staring at the printout in shock.

"Zestron-L," said M. J.

Grace glanced at her in puzzlement. "Zestron-L? What's that?"

"Check with the research wing," said M. J. "They'll help you run the immunoassay. That should identify it once and for all."

"You mean our research wing?" Grace looked at Adam. "Then it's…"

Adam nodded. "The drug is one of ours."

8

Lou Beamis looked blearily across his desk at M. J. He hadn't slept much last night-domestic homicide at 2:00 A.M.-and his normally smooth black face was sprouting the bristly beginnings of a new beard.

"It's gone beyond a simple trio of OD's, Lou," M. J. said. "We're talking corporate theft. An untested drug, out on the streets. And maybe more deaths on the way."

Shradick shuffled in, looking just as shaggy as Beamis. He carried with him the definite odor of McDonald's-a sausage and biscuit, which he eagerly unwrapped as he sat down at his desk.

"Hey, Vince," said Beamis. "Hear the latest? You'll be just thrilled."

Shradick took a bite of his breakfast. "What's new?"

"Novak's got a tox ID on two of our overdoses."

"So what is it?" asked Shradick, obviously more interested in his sausage.

"Something called Zestron-L."

"Never heard of it."

"Of course you haven't. It's something new they're cooking up at Cygnus. Shouldn't be on the street at all."

"Somehow," said M. J., "it got out of Cygnus. Which means they've had a theft."

Shradick shrugged. "We're Homicide."

"This is homicide. Three dead people, Vince. Now, you don't really want any more bodies, do you? Or are you that desperate for overtime?"

Shradick looked balefully at Beamis. "Are we chasing this?"

Beamis leaned back and groaned. "If only it was nice and neat, you know? A bullet hole, a stab wound."

"That's neat?"

"At least it's cut and dried. Homicide with a capital H. But this is spinning our wheels. Folks who OD, it's a risk they take, sticking a needle in their veins. I don't really care where they get the stuff."

"Would you care if it was strychnine they were shooting up?"

"That's different."

"No, it isn't. In large doses, Zestron-L is every bit as deadly. How do you know we haven't got some right-wing fanatic out there, some nut trying to clear the junkies off the streets? And by the way, he's doing a good job."

Beamis sighed. "I hate that about you, Novak."

"What?"

"Your unassailable logic. It isn't feminine." He hauled himself out of his chair. "Okay. Lemme arrange for us to duck out a couple of hours. We'll head over to Cygnus."

"Man, oh, man," grumbled Shradick, after Beamis had left the room. "I shoulda stayed home in bed."

The smell of Shradick's sandwich was making M. J.'s stomach turn. She shifted in her chair and glanced down at Beamis's desk. A reed-thin black woman and two lads smiled at her from a framed photo. Lou's family? She forgot sometimes that cops had families and homes and mortgage payments. Next to that was a photo of Beamis in Marine uniform-Vietnam. Then a third photo, Beamis and another man, grinning like two hucksters on the steps of the Albion PD.