“Yes,” Patrick said. “She's the reason I'm here. She misses her sister. There's a music festival up in Nova Scotia, and she's trying to get Sam to come up and play with her.”

“That's something I'd like to hear,” Jack said. “I'm married now, two kids, happy and settled down. But there was something about hearing those two sing that made men turn stupid and go crazy. . . .” He slid a tape across the table to Patrick.

“What's this?”

“It's a bootleg tape of a Saint Paddy's Day show they did at the Blarney Stone, many years ago now. I've had it since then, but my wife doesn't like me to play it. She thinks the sisters sound too sexy for her husband to be listening to. Why don't you take it?”

“Thanks,” Patrick said, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

As seagulls cried overhead, the waiter delivered their dinners. Platters of hard-shell crabs, baskets of french fries, and coleslaw. The three men cracked the crabs with mallets, talking about their lives, families, and cases. When they'd finished, Patrick thanked them for everything, said he hoped he'd see them sooner the next time.

He drove back to 64 Fish Street, listening to the tape Jack had given him. Beautiful, haunting notes played on a pair of fiddles . . . and then the sisters' voices singing “Cliffs of Dooneen.”

God, his knees went weak. The breeze blew in his hair through the car's open window. Marisa's voice sang harmony with her sister's. It trembled with emotion, and he felt she was with him now, whispering the sweet, romantic lyrics right into his ear. The recording quality was pretty bad—someone must have taped it right there in the crowded bar. The sound of glasses clinking and people talking came through, but nothing could block that strain of pure longing in her voice.

She might well be singing about Cape Hawk—the cliffs, the mountains, the foam. He could almost see her standing in her cottage door, feel her in his arms. How would she feel if he was able to convince Sam to come? He wanted to do that for her. . . .

Finding a parking spot a block away, he popped the tape out and stuck it in his pocket for luck. Then he walked up the steps to Sam's house again. This time there were lights on inside. When he knocked, he heard footsteps.

After a few seconds, a woman opened the door. Her hair was soft, golden red, much lighter than Marisa's. But Patrick would have known her anywhere; the family resemblance was in the eyes—kind, curious, and full of good humor.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” he said. “I'm Patrick Murphy.”

“A good Irish name.” She smiled.

“You're Samantha Mahon?” he asked.

“Yep, that's me. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you could play me some Celtic music,” he said.