Standing there, I did my best to pretend that it didn’t matter hearing those words, but my general rule about Feds notwithstanding, I was curious. Who wouldn’t be?

But a few reasons why I shouldn’t be popped into my head as well. Like the murder cases on my board. And the fact that Molinari was the second most powerful law-enforcement figure in the country. And unless I was misreading the little tingle bubbling up my spine, knocking down the old Chinese wall in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t exactly the best protocol.

“There’s an eleven o’clock back to San Francisco,” Molinari said. “I promise I’ll have you to the airport in plenty of time. C’mon, Lindsay.”

When I hesitated one more time, he stood up. “Hey, if you can’t trust Homeland Security … who can you trust?”

“Two conditions,” I said.

“Okay,” the deputy director agreed. “If I can.”

“Seafood,” I said.

Molinari showed the outline of a smile. “I think I know just the place.…”

“And no FBI agents.”

Molinari’s head went back in a laugh. “That’s the one thing I can definitely guarantee.”

“Just the place” turned out to be a caf? called Catch, down on Vine Street, which was like Union Street back home, filled with trendy restaurants and cutesy boutiques. The ma?tre d’ led us to a quiet table way in the back.

Molinari asked if he could handle the wine, ordering a pinot noir from Oregon. He called himself a “closet foodie” and said what he missed most about a normal life was just staying home and puttering around the kitchen.

“Am I supposed to believe that one?” I grinned.

He laughed out loud. “Figured it was worth a try.”

When the wine came I held up my glass. “Thank you. For backing me up today.” “Nothing to thank,” Molinari said. “I felt you were right.” We ordered, then talked about everything but work. He

liked sports—which was all right with me—but also music, history, old movies. I realized that I was laughing and listening, that time was going by pretty smoothly, and that for a few moments all of the horror seemed a million miles away.

Finally, he mentioned an ex-wife and a daughter back in New York.

“I thought all the deputy-level personnel had to have a little woman back home,” I said.

“We were married fifteen years, divorced for four. Isabel stayed in New York when I started work in Washington. At first, it was just an assignment. Anyway”—he smiled wistfully—“like many things, I would do it differently if I could. How about you, Lindsay?”

“I was married once,” I said. Then I found myself telling Molinari “my story.” How I was married right out of school, divorced three years later. His fault? My fault? What difference did it make? “I was close again a couple of years ago.… But it didn’t work out.”

“Things happen,” he said, sighing, “maybe for the best.”

No,” I said. “He died. On the job.”

“Oh,” Molinari said. I knew he was feeling a little awkward. Then he did a lovely thing. He simply put his hand on top of my forearm—nothing forward, nothing inappropriate—and squeezed gently. He took his hand away again.

“Truth is, I haven’t been out much lately,” I said, and lifted my eyes. Then trying to salvage the mood, I chuckled. “This is the best invitation I’ve had in a while.”

“It is for me, too.” Molinari smiled.

Suddenly his cell phone beeped. He reached in his pocket. “Sorry …”

Whoever it was seemed to be doing most of the talking. “Of course, of course, sir … ,” Molinari kept repeating. Even the deputy director had a boss. Then he said, “I understand. I’ll report back as soon as I have anything. Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

He flipped the phone back into his pocket. “Washington … ,” he apologized.

“Washington, as in the director of homeland security?” It gave me a bit of a kick to see Molinari as part of a pecking order.

“No.” He shook his head and took another bite of his fish. “Washington, as in the White House. That was the vice president of the United States. He’s coming out here for the G-8.”

I can be wowed.

“If I wasn’t a Homicide lieutenant,” I said, “I might believe that line. The vice president just called you?”

“I might press *69 and show you,” Molinari said. “Except that it’s important we begin to establish more trust.”

“Is that what we’re doing tonight?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.

Whatever was starting to happen, those little pinballs pattering inside were now crashing around my ribs like the drums in “Sunshine of Your Love.” I was aware of the tiniest film of sweat at my hairline. My sweater was starting to feel prickly. Molinari reminded me of Chris.

“I hope we’re starting to trust each other,” he finally said. “Let’s leave it at that for now, Lindsay.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” I said.

He paid the check, then helped me on with my jacket. I brushed against his arm and, well, electricity flared. I glanced at my watch. 9:30. Forty minutes to the airport to catch that flight I needed to be on.

Outside, we walked a block or two along Vine Street. I wasn’t really paying attention to the shops. The night was cool but very pleasant. What was I doing here? What were the two of us doing?

“Lindsay”—he finally stopped to face me—“I don’t want to say the wrong thing.…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say next. “My driver’s down the block if you want.… But there’s always the six A.M. flight.”

“Listen …” I wanted to touch his arm, but I didn’t. I’m not even sure why not.

“Joe,” he said.

“Joe.” I smiled. “Was this what you meant by being out of the field?”

He took my bag and said, “I was just thinking it’d be a shame to waste a perfectly good change of clothes.”

I do trust him, I was thinking. Everything about Joe Molinari inspired trust. And I definitely liked him. But I still wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, and that told me all I needed to know for right now.

“I think I’m just gonna let you think I’m a bit harder to get than I really am”—I bit my lip—“and make that flight at eleven.”

“I understand.…” He nodded. “It doesn’t feel right to you.”

“It’s not that it doesn’t feel right.” I touched his hand. “It’s just that I didn’t vote for your administration.…” Molinari laughed out loud. “But just for the record, it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.”

That made him smile, too. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I have some things to attend to up here. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

Then Molinari waved down the block for his car. The black Lincoln drove up. The driver climbed out and opened the door for me. Still not completely sure that I was doing the right thing, I got in.

Suddenly something hit me and I rolled down the window. “Hey, I don’t even know what flight I’m on.”

“Taken care of,” Molinari said. He waved and slapped the side. The car started to pull away.

As soon as we were on the highway, I shut my eyes and began to review the day, but mostly my dinner with Molinari. After a while the driver said, “We’re here, ma’am.”

I looked outside and saw that we were at some remote part of the airfield. Yep, I can be wowed. Waiting for me on the tarmac was the Gulf stream G-3 jet I had flown up in that morning.