“Where across the bay, Warren?”

“Harmon Avenue in Oakland.” I drew a little mental map, and we both came to the same realization. “Near the McDonald’s where little Caitlin was found.”

Geographically, it was starting to fit into place. “Get that photo to every storefront in the neighborhood.”

“Already done, LT.” Jacobi’s eyes had that little sparkle they got when he was holding something back.

“There been a lot of calls,” I said, cocking my head at Warren. “What makes you think this one’s real?”

He winked. “She was buying an asthma puffer.”

Cindy, Claire, and I had finished most of our Coronas and a plate of wings by the time Jill arrived. She hung her coat and came up warily to the booth, the nerves easy to read in her thin smile.

“So,” she said, dumping her briefcase, and tossed herself next to Claire, “who wants to be first to prod?”

“No dissection,” I said. “Wings … and here …” I tilted what was left of a beer into her glass.

We all raised our glasses, Jill a little hesitantly. We had this moment of quiet, everybody trying to figure out just what was right to say. How many times had we met together before? At first, four women with tough jobs who had come together just to pool our resources, solve a crime.

“To friends,” Claire said. “Ones who will be there for one another. That means for anything, Jill.”

“I’d better drink this,” Jill said, her eyes starting to grow moist, “before I run my nose in it.”

Jill drained about a third of the glass in a deep swallow. She drew a breath. “Okay, no reason to beat around the bush, right? You all know?”

Everyone nodded.

“Telephone, telegraph, tele-Boxer.” Jill threw a wink my way.

“If you’re in pain, we’re all in pain,” Claire said. “It would be the same for you if the roles were reversed.”

“I know it would.” Jill nodded. “So I guess what happens next is that you guys tell me I don’t exactly fit the profile of the typical battered spouse.”

“I think the only thing that’s next,” I said, wetting my lips, “is for you to tell us how you feel.”

“Yeah.” She drew a tight breath. “First, I’m not battered. We fight. Steve’s a bully. He’s never hit me with a fist. He’s never struck my face.”

Cindy moved to object, but Claire held her back.

“I know that doesn’t exonerate him, or justify anything. I just wanted you to know.” She bit her bottom lip. “I guess I can’t describe how I feel. I’ve tried enough of these cases to know the range of emotions. Mostly, I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed to admit that this is me.”

“How long has it been going on?” Claire asked.

Jill leaned back and smiled. “You want the truthful answer to that question, or the one I’ve been telling myself the past few months? The truthful one is, from before we were married.”

I felt myself clench my teeth.

“It was always something. What I would wear, something I would buy for the house that didn’t fit his style. Steve’s very big on telling me I’m stupid.”

“Stupid?” Claire gasped. “You run intellectual rings around him.”

“Steve’s not dumb,” Jill said. “He just doesn’t see a lot of possibilities. At first, he would just squeeze me, like here, in the shoulders. Always pretend that it was inadvertent. Once or twice he threw things when he had a fit. My purse. Once, I remember”—she started to laugh—“it was this slab of Asiago cheese.”

“Why?” Cindy shook her head, incredulous. “Why would he do these things to you?”

“Because I paid a bill late. Because I splurged on a pair of shoes when we were starting out and low on funds.” She shrugged. “Because he could.”

“This has been going on since we’ve known you?” I said, stunned.

Jill swallowed. “Guess I’ve been holding out on you guys, huh?” The waitress had brought some quesadillas and there was a Shania Twain song in the background. “It’s like you’re bribing me.” She dipped a quesadilla in some guacamole and laughed. “New interrogation method. ‘Yes, I know where Osama bin Laden is hiding, but please, another one of those little cheesy things if you would.…’”

We laughed. Jill always knew how to make us laugh.

“It’s never the big things,” Jill said. “It’s always something trivial. The big things, I truly feel we really are partners in life. We’ve been through a lot together. But the small things …I accept a date for dinner with people he doesn’t like. I forget to tell the housekeeper to take in his shirts. He

makes me feel like I’m a stupid child. Ordinary.”

“You’re anything but ordinary,” Claire said.

Jill dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “My cheerleaders …I could shoot the son of a bitch and you’d be praising my aim.”

“We’ve already been discussing that option,” Cindy said.

“You know I’ve actually thought about it.” Jill shook her head. “About who would try my case. Hey, I think I’ve let things get a little melodramatic.”

I asked, “How would you counsel a woman who came to you with the same predicament? Jill the prosecutor now. Not Jill the wife. What would you say?”

“I’d tell her I’d slap a suit on him so fast, it would be sticking to his ass the next time he took a shit,” she said, and laughed.

One by one, we all laughed, too.

“You say you need a little more time,” I said to Jill. “We’re not here to make you change your life today. But I know you. You’re staying around because you feel it’s your responsibility to make this work. I want your promise, Jill. He doesn’t even have to close his fist. If there’s one more incident, I’ll come and pack your things myself. My place, Claire’s place, Cindy’s … Well, forget Cindy’s … it’s a dump. But you’ve got choices, hon. I want you to promise, the next time he even threatens you, you’re gone.”

There was a sheen on Jill’s face, a glimmer in those sharp blue eyes. Something made me think I had never seen her look prettier. Her bangs curled a little over her eyes.

“I promise,” she finally said, blushing behind a smile.

“This is for real,” Cindy pressed her.

Jill raised her palm. “The Highland Park Brownies, swear on your sister and never betray; otherwise, your face will break out with huge zits, oath.”

“That sounds sufficient,” Claire said.

Jill took our hands in the middle of the table. “I love you guys,” she said.

“We love you, Jill.”

“Now, can we goddamn order,” she said. “I feel like I just took the law boards again. I’m starved.”

Maybe it was because I didn’t sleep, tossing the whole night because this SOB—who was always the first to dash away when one of his buddies had the urge to go golfing, and pretended to be this fawning, adoring husband in public—was hurting one of the sharpest girls in the city, someone I loved.

Whatever it was, the thought of Steve gnawed at me for most of the next morning, until I could no longer sit there, fielding calls, pretending to keep my mind on the case.

I grabbed my purse. “If Tracchio’s looking for me, tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”

Ten minutes later I pulled my car in front of 160 Beale, one of those glass skyscrapers off of lower Market filled with accountants and law partners, where Steve’s office was.

All the way up to the thirty-second floor I was steaming, nearly hyperventilating. I pushed through the doors of Northstar Partnerships; a pretty receptionist behind a desk

smiled at me.

“Steve Bernhardt,” I said, dropping my shield in her face.

I didn’t wait for her to call, but headed straight into the corner office I’d once visited with Jill. Steve was rocking back in his chair, in a lime green Lacoste shirt and khakis, on the phone. Without so much as breaking his tone, he winked and pointed me into a chair. I got your wink, pal.

I waited through the remainder of some business conversation, my anger growing as he peppered his call with overused tech clich?s like “Sounds like you’re trying to boil the ocean on that one, buddy.”