“Let’s not play games, Lieutenant. We have a meeting of the heads of finance of the Free World coming here. Plus a threat to the public safety, and like the Chief said, we don’t have much time.”

There was a directness about this guy I liked. Not the usual Washington type.

“So everything’s still on?” Gabe Carr, the mayor’s deputy, asked.

“On?” The Washington man looked around the room. “The locations are secure, right? We have adequate manpower, don’t we, Chief?”

“Every uniformed man on the force at your disposal next week.” Tracchio’s eyes lit up.

I cleared my throat. “What about the e-mail we received? What do we do with it?”

“What do you want to do with it, Inspector?” the Washington guy asked.

My throat was dry. “I want to answer it,” I said. “I want to start a dialogue. Map out the contact points they respond from. See if they divulge something. The more we talk, the more they might reveal.…”

There was one of those sticky, protracted silences, and I was hoping I wasn’t about to be shoved off this case.

“Right answer.” The federal agent winked at me. “No need for all the melodrama, I just wanted to see who I was working with. Joe Molinari,” he said, smiling, and pushed across his card.

As I read it, as hard as I tried not to change my expression, my heart picked up a beat, maybe a couple of beats.

DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY, the card read. JOSEPH P. MOLINARI. DEPUTY DIRECTOR.

Shit, this guy was all the way up!

“Let’s start a dialogue with these bastards,” said the deputy director.

My head was still buzzing from my meeting with Molinari as I headed back to my office. On the way, I stopped at Jill’s.

A worker was vacuuming the corridor, but her lights were still on.

An Eva Cassidy CD was playing lightly in the background. I heard Jill dictating into a recording device.

“Hey.” I knocked on the door. A look as apologetic as I could muster. “I know you left some messages. It probably won’t help if I tell you about my day.”

“Well, I know how it began,” Jill said. Icicles.

Deserved.

“Look, I can’t blame you for being mad.” I stepped in, placing my hands on the top of a high-backed chair.

“You could say I was a little mad,” Jill said, “earlier in the day.”

“And now?”

“Now …I guess you could call it very fucking mad, Lindsay.”

There wasn’t a hint of humor in her face. When you needed someone to seriously bust some balls—to use the wrong metaphor—Jill was your gal.

“You’re torturing me,” I said, and sat in the chair. “I realize what I did was way out of bounds.”

Jill laughed derisively. “I would say the part about sending a hit man after my husband seemed a bit wide of the lines—even for you, Lindsay.”

“It wasn’t a hit man,” I corrected her. “It was a knee-cracker. But who’s being technical. What can I say? You’re married to a total SOB.” I pulled the chair up to the side of her desk. “Look, Jill, I know it was wrong. I didn’t go there to threaten him. I went for you. But the guy was such a tight assed creep.”

“Maybe what the guy didn’t appreciate was our business being laid out like a laundry list in his face. What I told you was in confidence, Lindsay.”

“You’re right.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Gradually, the little lines of anger in her brow began to soften. She pushed back her chair from the desk and rolled it to face me, almost knee to knee.

“Look, Lindsay, I’m a big girl. Let me fight my own battles. You’re my friend in this case, not the police.”

“So everybody’s telling me.”

“Then hear it, honey, because I need you to be my friend. Not the 101st Airborne.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “Usually a friend hears another out, invites her to lunch, maybe sets her up with a cute coworker… Barging into her husband’s office and threatening to have his knees capped … that sort of stuff … we call them enemies, Lindsay.”

I laughed. For the first time I saw a glimmer of a smile crack through Jill’s ice. A glimmer.

“Okay, so as a friend, how are you and the SOB since he punched you?” I sniffed back a false smile.

Jill laughed, shrugged. “I guess we’re okay… We talked about counseling.”

“The only counseling Steve needs is from a lawyer, during an arraignment.”

“Be my friend, Lindsay, remember… Anyway, there are more important matters to discuss. What’s going on in this city?”

I told her about the message Cindy had received that morning, and how it ratcheted up the case. “You ever hear of an anti-terrorism guy named Joe Molinari?”

Jill thought. “I remember a Joe Molinari who was a prosecutor back in New York. Top-notch investigator. Worked on the World Trade Center bombing. Not hard to look at, either. I think he went down to Washington in some capacity.”

“ ‘Some capacity’ means the Department of Homeland Security and my new point man on the case.”

“You could do worse,” Jill said. “Did I mention he wasn’t hard to look at?”

“Cut it out.” I blushed.

Jill cocked her head. “Normally you don’t go for the federal types.”

“ ’Cause most of them are just career guys looking to score a promotion on our sources and leads. But this Molinari seems like the real deal. Maybe you could do some groundwork for me.…”

“You mean like what kind of litigator he is?” Jill smiled, cat-eyed. “Or whether he’s married? I think Lindsay’s a little taken with the special agent.”

“Deputy director.” I wrinkled my nose.

“Oh …the man’s done well.” Jill nodded approvingly. “I did say he was handsome, didn’t I?” She grinned again. We both laughed.

After a while, I took Jill’s hand. “I’m sorry I did what I did, Jill. It would kill me if I added to what you’re going through. I can’t promise to stay out, at least not completely. You’re our friend, Jill, and we’re worried sick for you. But I’ll give you my word…I won’t put a hit out on him. Not without running it by you first.”

“Deal.” Jill nodded. She squeezed my hand. “I know you’re worried for me, Lindsay. And, really, I love you for it. Just let me see it through my way. And leave the cuffs at home next time.”

“Deal.” I smiled.

For a Swiss, Gerd Propp had acquired a lot of American tastes and habits. One of them was going after salmon. In his room at the Governor Hotel in Portland, Gerd excitedly laid out on the double bed the new Ex Of?cio fishing vest he had just acquired, along with some hi-tech lures and a gaff hook.

His job, as an economist with the OECD out of Geneva, might be thought by some as stiff and tedious work, but it did bring him to the States several times a year and had introduced him to men who shared the same passion for coho and chinook.

And that was where Gerd was headed tomorrow, under the guise of finalizing his speech before the G-8 gathering in San Francisco next week.

He put his arms through the brand-new fishing vest and regarded himself in the mirror. I actually look like a professional! As he adjusted his hat and puffed out his chest in his fancy vest, Gerd felt as energized and manly as a leading man in a Hollywood film.

There was a knock on the door. The valet, he assumed, since he had left word at the front desk to bring up a press for his suit.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a young man not in a hotel uniform at all but in a black fleece jacket and a cap hiding part of his face.

“Herr Propp?” the young man asked.

“Yes?” Gerd pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What is it?”

Before he could utter another word, Gerd saw an arm shoot toward him. It caught him in the throat, knocking the air out of him. Then he was shoved back onto the floor, landing hard.

Gerd tried to shake his head clear. His glasses were no longer on his face. He felt the ooze of blood running from his nose. “My God, what is going on?”