I WORK out of the Hall of Justice. The Hall, as we referred to the gray, ten-story granite slab that housed the city's Department of Justice, was located just west of the freeway, on Sixth and Bryant. If the building itself, with its faded, antiseptic halls, didn't communicate that law enforcement lacked a sense of style, the surrounding neighborhood surely did. Hand-painted bail bondsman shacks, auto parts stores, parking lots, and dingy cafes. Whatever ailed you, you could find it at the Hall: Auto Theft, Sex Crimes, Robbery. The district attorney was on eight, with cubicles filled with bright young prosecutors. A floor of holding cells on ten. One-stop shopping, arrest to arraignment. Next door, we even had the morgue. After a hasty, bare-bones news conference, Jacobi and I agreed to meet upstairs and go over what we had so far. The twelve of us who covered homicide for the entire city shared a twenty-by-thirty squad room lit by harsh fluorescent lights. My desk was choice- by the window, "cheerily" overlooking the entrance ramp to the freeway. It was always covered with folders, stacks of photos, department releases. The one really personal item on it was a Plexiglas cube my first partner had given me. It was inscribed with the words You can't tell which way the train went by looking at the tracks. I made myself a cup of tea and met Jacobi in Interrogation Room 1. I drew two columns on a freestanding chalkboard: one for what we knew, one for what we had to check out. Jacobi's initial talk with the groom's parents had produced nothing. The father was a big-time Wall Street guy who ran a firm that handled international buy outs He said that he and his wife had stayed until the last guest had left, and "walked the kids upstairs." They didn't have an enemy in the world. No debts, addictions, threats. Nothing to provoke such a horrible, unthinkable act. A canvass of guests on the thirtieth floor had been slightly more successful. A couple from Chicago had noticed a man lingering in the hallway near the Mandarin Suite last night around 10:30 p.m. They described him as medium build, with short, dark hair, and said he wore a dark suit or maybe a tuxedo. He was carrying what may have been a box of liquor in his hands. Later, two used tea bags and two empty push-throughs of Pepcid tablets on the table were the clearest signs that we'd been bouncing these questions back and forth for several hours. It was quarter past seven. Our shift had ended at five. "No date tonight, Lindsay?" Jacobi finally asked. "I get all the dates I want, Warren." "Right, like I said- no date tonight." Without knocking, our lieutenant, Sam Roth, whom we called Cheery, stuck his head into the room. He tossed a copy of the afternoon Chronicle across the table. "You see this?" The boldface headline read, "wedding night massacre at hyatt." I read aloud from the front page. "Under a stunning view of the bay, in a world only the rich would know, the body of the twenty-nine-year-old groom lay curled up near the door." He knotted his brow. "What, did we invite this reporter in for a house tour of the crime scene? She knows the names, maps out the scene." The byline read Cindy Thomas. I thought of the card in my purse, letting out a long sigh. Cindy goddamn Thomas. "Maybe I should call her up and ask her if we got any leads," Roth went on. "You want to come on in?" I asked. "Look at the board. We could use the help." Roth just stood there, chewing on his puffy lower lip. He was about to close the door behind him, but he turned back. "Lindsay be in my office at a quarter of nine tomorrow. We need to lay this thing out carefully. For now, it's yours." Then he shut the door. I sat down on the table. A heavy weight seemed to be pressing on me. The whole day had passed. I hadn't found a single moment to deal with my own news. "You okay?" Jacobi asked. I looked at him, on the verge of letting it all out, or maybe crying again. "That was a tough crime scene," he said at the door. "You should go home, take a bath or something." I smiled at him, grateful for a sudden, out-of-character sensitivity. After he left, I faced the mostly blank columns of the board. I felt so weak and empty I could barely push myself up. Slowly, the events of the day, my visit to Orenthaler's, wove their way back into my mind. My head spun with his warning: Fatal, Lindsay. Then I was hit with the crushing realization. It was going on eight o'clock. I had never called Orenthaler's specialist.

THAT NIGHT when I got home, I did sort of take Jacobi's advice. First, I walked my dog, Sweet Martha. Two of my neighbors take care of Martha during the day, but she's always ready for our nightly romp. After the walk, I kicked off my Aerosole pumps, tossed my gun and clothes on the bed, and took a long, hot shower, bringing in a Killian's with me. The image of David and Melanie Brandt washed away for the night; they could sleep. But there was still Orenthaler, and Negli's. And the call to the specialist I had dreaded the whole day and never made. No matter how many times I lifted my face into the hot spray, I could not rinse the long day away. My life had changed. I was no longer just fighting murderers on the street. I was fighting for my life. When I got out, I ran a brush through my hair and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. A thought came into my mind that rarely occurred to me: I was pretty. Not a beauty, but cute. Tall, almost five-ten; decent shape for somebody who occasionally binges on beer and butterscotch pr aline ice cream. I had these animated, bright brown eyes. I didn't back down. How could it be that I was going to die? Tonight, my eyes were different, though. Scared. Everything seemed different. Surf the waves, I heard a voice inside me say. Stand tall. You always stand tall. As much as I tried to press it back, the question formed: Why me? I threw on a pair of sweats, tied up my hair in a short ponytail, and went into the kitchen to boil water for pasta and heat up a sauce I had put in the fridge a couple of nights before. While it simmered, I put on a CD, Sarah McLachlan, and sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of day-old Bianco red. I petted Sweet Martha as the music played. Ever since my divorce had become final two years ago, I had lived alone. I hate living alone. I love people, friends. I used to love my husband, Tom, more than life itself- until he left me, saying, "Lindsay, I can't explain it. I love you, but I have to leave. I need to find somebody else. There's nothing else to say." I guess he was being truthful, but it was the dumbest, saddest thing I'd ever heard. Broke my heart into a million pieces. It's still broken. So even though I hate living alone- except for Sweet Martha, of course- I'm afraid to be with somebody again. What if he suddenly stopped loving me? I couldn't take it. So I turn down, or shoot down, just about every man who comes anywhere near me. But God, I hate being alone. Especially this night. My mother had died from breast cancer when I was just out of college. I had transferred to the city school from Berkeley to assist her and help take care of my younger sister, Cat. Like most things in her life, even Dad's walking out, Mom dealt with her illness only when it was too late to do anything about it. I had seen my father only twice since I was thirteen. He wore a uniform for twenty years in Central. Was known as a pretty good cop. He used to go down to this bar, the Alibi, and stay for the Giants game after his shift. Sometimes he took me, "his little mascot," for the boys to admire. When the sauce was ready I poured it over fusilli and dragged the plate and a salad out to my terrace. Martha tagged along. She'd been my shadow since I adopted her from the Border Collie Rescue Society. I lived on Potrero Hill, in a renovated blue Michaelian town house with a view of the bay Not the fancy view like the one from the Mandarin Suite. I sat down, propped my feet up on a neighboring chair, and balanced the plate on my lap. Across the bay, the lights of Oakland glimmered like a thousand unsympathetic eyes. 1 looked out at the galaxy of flashing lights, felt my eyes well up, and for the second time that day I realized that I was crying. Martha nuzzled me gently, then she finished the fusilli for me.