SUDDENLY I WAS DIZZY with disbelief.

I heard Tracchio speaking, but it was as if his desk had shot back through the wall and he was talking to me from somewhere over the freeway.

"You'll have a dotted-line reporting relationship to me. Keep your current pay grade, of course…"

Inside my head, I was screaming, Demotion? You're demoting me? Today?

I made a grab for the edge of his desk, needing to hold on. I saw Tracchio fall back into his chair, the expression on his face telling me that he was as stunned by my reaction as I was by his announcement.

"What is it, Boxer? Isn't this what you wanted? You've been nagging me for months -"

"No, I mean, yes. I have. But I wasn't expecting -"

"Come on, Boxer. What are you telling me? I spent all night clearing this up and down the line because you said it's what you wanted."

I opened my mouth, closed it again. "Give me some time to get my head around this, okay, Tony?" I sputtered.

"I give up," Tracchio said, picking up his stapler and banging it down on his desk. "I don't understand you. I never will. I give up, Boxer!"

I don't remember leaving the chief's office, but I do remember a long walk to the stairway, a strained smile on my face as people called out their congratulations when I passed their desks.

My mind was cycling on a short loop.

What the hell had I been thinking?

And what did I want?

I found the stairwell and was leaning heavily on the banister, making my way down to the squad room, when I saw Jacobi coming up the other way.

" Warren, you're not going to believe this."

"Let's get out of here," he said.

We took the stairs to the ground floor and out onto Bryant, heading toward the Flower Mart.

"Tracchio called me last night," Jacobi said as we walked. I looked up at him. Jacobi and I have never had any secrets from each other, but I read pain on his face, and that jolted me.

"He offered me the job, Lindsay. Your job. But I told him I wouldn't take it unless it was okay with you."

The rumble under my feet was surely the Caltrain coming into the station, but it felt like an earthquake.

I knew what I was supposed to say: Congratulations. Brilliant choice. You'll be great, Jacobi.

But I couldn't get out the words.

"I need some time to think, Jacobi. I'm taking the day off," I sputtered.

"Sure, Lindsay. Nobody's going to do anything unless -"

"Maybe two days."

"Lindsay, stop! Talk to me."

But I was gone.

I jaywalked across the street. Got my car out of the lot and drove down Bryant to Sixth, and from there got onto 280 South, heading toward Potrero Hill.

I jerked my phone off my belt and autodialed Joe's cell phone as I drove, listened to the ring tone as I floored my Explorer and took it into the fast lane.

It was one p.m. in Washington.

Pick up, Joe!

The ring went into his voice mail, so I left a message: "Call me. Please."

Then I phoned San Francisco General.

I asked the operator to put me through to Claire.

I WAS HOPING TO HEAR Claire's voice, but Edmund answered the phone. He sounded as if he'd spent another night sleeping in a chair.

"How is she?" I asked through the crimp in my throat.

"Having another MRI," he said.

"Tell Claire we got the shooter," I said. "He confessed, and we've got him locked up."

I told Edmund that I'd check in with Claire later, then I dialed Joe again. This time I got the voice mail at his office, so I tried him at home.

Got his voice mail there, too.

I braked at the light on Eighteenth Street, tapped my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, stepped on the gas as the light turned green.

An old memory came into my mind – the day I'd been promoted to lieutenant on the heels of bringing down the "bride and groom killer," a psycho who'd surely earned a top-ten ranking in the Most-Depraved-Criminal Hall of Fame. At the time, I viewed my promotion as pretty much a political appointment. No woman had held the job before. I'd stepped up, let them pin a gold shield on me, without ever knowing if the power and responsibility of the job were what I wanted.

I guess I still didn't know.

I had asked to be put back on the line, so of course Tracchio didn't understand my reaction. Shit. I didn't understand it myself.

But sometimes you couldn't know a thing until you were there.

A dotted-line reporting to Tracchio was bullshit.

I'd be going backward in rank.

Could I handle taking orders from Jacobi?

"I told him I wouldn't take it unless it was okay with you," he'd said.

I needed to talk to Joe.

I pulled the phone back from the passenger seat and hit redial, the sound of Joe's voice on his outgoing message calling up so many memories: the storybook trips we'd taken together, our lovemaking, little things about Joe that I adored – every moment savored because I didn't know when I'd see him again.

What I wouldn't give to be in his arms tonight, to have him wrap me up in his love, and to feel his ability to see the real me. His touch could make the bad feelings go away…

I clicked off my phone without leaving a message, called Joe's other two numbers – same thing.

I pulled my car into a parking spot, set the hand brake, and sat there stupidly, looking at nothing, wishing that I could see Joe.

And then a bright idea broke through.

Hey, I can.

I DIDN'T LOOK LIKE ANYONE ELSE in the flight lounge, all men in gray suits and red or blue ties – and me. I'd dressed in a new butter-colored cashmere V-neck, tight jeans, and a waist-skimming tweed jacket. My hair gleamed like a halo. Men stole glances, gave my ego a boost.

As I waited for the plane to board, I checked things off in my mind: That Martha's dog sitter was on duty. That I'd locked up my gun and badge in my dresser drawer. That I'd left my cell phone in my car. Actually, leaving my cell phone was an oversight, but I didn't need a shrink to tell me that by shedding my hardware, I was telling the Job to go straight to hell.

I was traveling light, but I had brought the essential stuff: lipstick and my round trip business-class ticket to Reagan National that Joe had given me with his keys and a note saying, "This is your 'come-to-Joe' pass and it's good anytime. XOXO, Joe."

I felt a little reckless as I boarded the plane. Not only was I leaving town with a major conflict unresolved but something else was giving me the jitters.

Joe had made surprise visits to me, but I'd never dropped in unannounced on him.

The glass of preflight champagne helped settle me down, and as soon as the plane lifted off, I lowered my seat into the reclining position and slept, waking up only when the pilot's voice announced our imminent descent into DC.

Once on the ground, I gave a cab driver Joe's address in northwest DC.

A half hour later, the cab swooped around the plantings and fountains in front of the deluxe, L-shaped Kennedy-Warren Apartment Complex. And only minutes after that, I stood in the densely carpeted top-floor hallway of the historic wing, ringing Joe's doorbell.

Well, I'm here.

When he didn't answer, I rang the bell again. Then I slipped the first key into the lower lock, used the second key on the dead bolt, and opened the door.

I called out, "Joe?" as I stepped into his unlit foyer. I called again as I approached the kitchen.

Now I was asking myself, Where was Joe?

Why hadn't he answered any of his phones?