But his father had said, "Don't scorn luck. A lot of my success in life has been luck. Ditto my father's, and his father before him. If I could wish just one thing for you, Isaac, I think I would wish you to be lucky."

"Really?" Isaac thought his father might at least wish he had a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball or early admission to a really good college.

His father had taken him into his lap. (How Isaac missed that lap, which was big and warm and safe, although he was really getting too big for such things.) "Well, I guess I would wish first and foremost that you would be a virtuous man."

"What does that mean?"

"To be good, to have… well, virtues. To be honest and kind and modest. You know, the Christians take credit for the Golden Rule-love your neighbor as you love yourself-but the Jews have their own version, and it is much older. And, I think, a little wiser. We say, 'Do not do to your neighbor what you would not want done to yourself.' That makes more sense to me. I don't think it's possible to love others as we love ourselves and our families, but we can avoid doing anything to them that we would not want done to ourselves."

"What if someone is really mean to you? Can you be mean back? Since they started it?"

"It depends. Is someone being mean to you?"

Actually, someone had been mean to him, a boy at school, calling him teacher's pet and Rubin the Nose-Rubber, which made no sense, but everyone laughed as if it were extremely funny. It had been terribly important at the time, but Isaac no longer remembered why that boy disliked him so, or even why it bothered him. It was so long ago, so far away, back in the second grade. The things that once made him cry-another boy's insults, a reprimand from his father, a scary dream-would never make him cry now. He was determined that nothing would make him cry, not in front of Zeke.

He cried only in the privacy of the trunk. Or, sometimes, late at night, long after everyone was asleep. Even then he had learned the trick of crying silently, without even a snuffle, so it was barely like crying at all.

Tess-I know it's commonly believed that Jewish dietary law was nothing more than a series of sensible precautions developed in response to foods that carried risks-trichinosis in pork, for example. But Jewish law is more subtle than that, Tess, and trying to reduce its tenets to mere pragmatic considerations robs it of its deep philosophical underpinnings.

Take the tradition of the mikveh , which has gone by the wayside even in some Orthodox families. It is not the misogynistic, female-phobic practice some would have you believe. The rationale for abstinence is not that women are "unclean" but that the days following the prohibition is when they're at their most fertile . For further insight into your new client, I strongly recommend you read Herman Wouk'sThisIs My God .

Ask a question, get an answer. So far the SnoopSisters had few concrete ideas about how to find Natalie Rubin and her children. But Tess's casual question about Mark Rubin's refusal to shake her hand had started a lively thread, with posts from Susan Friend in Omaha, who could always be counted on to provide the historic and intellectual overview of any topic, and Jessie Ray in Houston, who reminded the SnoopSisters that Texas husbands once had carte blanche to execute men who trespassed on their land or their women. And now this gently chiding missive from Margie Lynn in Southern California.

I read Marjorie Morningstar as a teenager, Tess typed back. Do I get half credit for that?

The sun was barely up, and Tess was in bed, her laptop balanced on her knees, the greyhound stretched across the foot of the bed like a lumpy quilt, the Doberman on the floor. Since Crow had left for Virginia to help his mother through her chemo and recovery, Tess had allowed the dog to take his place, but Esskay was a poor substitute for a number of reasons. She didn't give back rubs, and she wouldn't spoon. And her breath remained as vile as the day Tess had met her, despite changes to her diet and a tooth-cleaning regimen that required Tess to don a rubber fingertip and scrub each fang individually.

No wonder Tess didn't get manicures more often. Using one's fingers as a greyhound's toothbrush did not keep nails in tip-top shape. She wondered if Kitty's growing obsession with her wedding would lead her to a keener interest in Tess's grooming. Almost without thinking, she shared these thoughts with the SnoopSisters. This morning check-in had become a ritual of sorts, making her feel as if she had human company while sipping her first cup of coffee.

A first yesterday, interview-by-manicure.Makes it hard to take notes, but it also makes it difficult for the person you're questioning to walk away. Riddle me this: Why do Baltimore's manicurists tend to be Russian, when they're Korean almost everywhere else? No, never mind, I'm sure I'm showing my cultural/ethnic ignorance all over again, possibly being racist.

At any rate, I'm lucky I could focus on the interview at all. Tyner Gray, the lawyer for whom I've worked off and on, dropped a bombshell over lunch. He's going to marry my aunt. They've lived together for almost two years, but I find this discombobularing for some reason. Perhaps because I've been instructed to wear a dress and warned that my aunt, a once-sensible woman, is now a giddy bride-to-be with visions of bows and peplums and handkerchief hems. I'm not even sure what a peplum is, but I know one of you will enlighten me.

She stopped to admire her hands. Well, hand. Lana had done a superb job on the left; the right one bore the marks of the rush job that it had become once Tess's questions grew sharper. She sent the e-mail off, feeling extremely productive. How many people went through their in-box at sunrise, then spent an hour rowing?

Almost as soon as her e-mail vanished, her computer trilled back at her, and an instant message popped up on her screen. No-nonsense Gretchen, up even earlier in Chicago, had some on-topic advice:

Sorry, just saw your request to the digest. (I get it as individual e-mails.) When I was a city cop, there was a woman coming up behind me, Nancy Porter, very good police, who ended up leaving the department about the same time I did. She's out in the county, in Homicide. Call her, use my name. If there's something hubby isn't telling you, she'll share.

You're a gem, Gretchen,Tess typed, making a note of the office and pager numbers that Gretchen had enclosed for the detective.

Tell me something I don't know.

Tess promptly disconnected from the Internet and dialed the work number, assuming she would get voice mail. But the detective had just arrived at her desk, showing up early for the seven-to-three shift. Tess thought such a seemingly ambitious county Homicide cop, who saw perhaps one case for every thirty the city worked, would be up for any distraction, but Detective Nancy Porter was reticent to the point of rudeness until Tess dropped Gretchen's name. Then she was just reticent.

"Yeah, I know about the Rubin family," she said. She had a high, clear voice, almost little-girlish. "Family Crimes worked it, but the detective ran a lot of the stuff by me because I've done some missing-kid work. It's interesting, a stone-cold whydunit. It's just not a criminal case."

"I'm curious to know why the department is so sure of that."

Nancy didn't answer right away. She didn't answer any questions right away, and while her cautious manner made Tess impatient, it also struck her as admirable. She should try it herself sometime, thinking before she spoke.