I am sautéing butter and garlic, about to pour the water from the linguini when the good officer of the law arrives.

His timing is impeccable.

"Would you like any pasta?"

Fred hesitates, I imagine due to protocol. "I really can't stay long."

I serve him some anyway, in case he changes his mind. "When's the last time you've had a decent meal, or a good night's sleep for that matter?"

"Thank you," he says, submitting. "I honestly can't remember. To either."

"I know you're pressed for time, so we can talk while we eat."

He nods. "This is really good," he mumbles as he swallows his first hearty forkful. That's when I notice that he isn't wearing a wedding band. There's only one reason a good-looking man with an appreciation for a home-cooked meal is single: married to the job. "So have you done your homework?"

I glance down at my ring finger, vacant since yesterday. "I did have a busy afternoon." I tell him about what I read and ask him a few questions. Some he answers, some he can't. Then I inquire about something I know is personal: "I saw your name a few times in an article about the first victim. You knew him, didn't you? Jonathan Baxter, wasn't it?"

"Yes." I don't expect him to elaborate, but he finishes his plate, and his expression turns nostalgic. "I always knew him as Johnny. We went to the same Catholic prep school. My dad was a janitor with the perk of free tuition and Johnny was always in and out of the hospital, one ailment after the next. We weren't quite the norm there, so we became good friends. His parents–good people, doctors–helped me pay for college. And I was the best man at Johnny's wedding. I was just a rookie in the department at the time, but I wish I trusted my gut about his bride-to-be. There was just something off about her. She knew exactly how to twist things to get what she wanted." Whatever mode he had slipped into–the sad, honest, remorseful one–he suddenly shakes it off. "So, anyway. Back to Sam. I have to ask. Do you think he would help the lovely Rebecca Donovan?"

"If there's something in it for him."

"More than sex?"

We take the conversation into my living room where Fred's laptop is waiting for him. He takes the armchair. "For Sam, money is the best aphrodisiac." I peek out the window before I sit down on the couch. It's snowing again, heavily. "And unlike your Goldilocks, it has to be his money. My ability to pay the bills without his contribution never exactly lifted his spirits." Fred looks up at me like he expects more. "There was this one time..." I chuckle at my audacity to tell him the story coming to mind. "He took me to a fancy hotel, no reason at all other than for fun and he had this extreme burst of...hard to pick a word, really. Passion, I guess?" Though it flirted with aggression. "All because he had me covered in hundred dollar bills."

"That sounds like a lot of money for someone in his profession."

"I agree. And, oh! I did do some snooping around. I found Sam's birth certificate." I admit that I had stopped by Metrazzle. I begin rambling about Sam's lie of omission–no listed father, a mother with a different name, one I'm not convinced is dead–and when I realize Fred isn't typing anymore, I glance over and see his head jerk back to consciousness.

"I'm sorry. You're tired and it's probably not that important."

"No." He rubs his hands over his face. "I'm the one who should apologize." His olive-toned skin is tinted red when he looks back at me, and so are the whites of his eyes. "I was listening and yes, if you think it's strange, it could be worth looking into."

He really wants to catch this woman and he's putting himself through hell to find her.

I stand up. "Why don't I make some coffee?"

"Yes, please."

I go into the kitchen and make it strong. "How do you take it?" I call to him once I've gathered the mugs and all the fixings together including real cream, cinnamon, and cocoa powder.

He doesn't answer.

When I step into the room, I discover the strong, noble, dedicated police detective asleep in my armchair.

He's probably a few years older than I am–late thirties, early forties–but he looks innocent and irresistibly vulnerable.

I cover his lap with an afghan blanket and turn out the lights. Tomorrow is Sunday and I don't have the heart to wake him.