“Messages are sent from here every night. People use us as a source to air ideas. That’s what we do here. Air ideas.”

“You have a way of determining who was here? Anybody out of the ordinary?”

“Anyone who comes in this place is out of the ordinary.” Kamor grinned. No one smiled at his joke. “Ten o’clock, you say …The place was filled. It may help if you could tell me just whom you’re looking for or what they’ve done?”

I took out the photo of Wendy Raymore and the sketches of the woman who had accompanied George Bengosian. Kamor studied them, ridges digging into his wide brow. He sighed deeply. “I may have seen them over the years or I may have not. Our customers tend to come and go.”

“Okay, then what about these?” I switched gears, taking out the FBI photos from Seattle. One by one, he leafed through them, merely shaking his head.

Then I noticed that he stared twice and blinked.

“You recognize someone.…”

“Merely a thought,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Honestly.”

“No, you recognized a face. Who was it?”

I re-laid the photos in a pattern on his desk.

“Remind me, Madam Lieutenant,” Kamor said, looking up, “why do I want to assist the police on this? Your state is one that is built on corruption and greed. As the enforcers of its will, you are part of its foundation.”

“I guess there’s always this,” Molinari said. He put his face close to the startled Kamor’s. “I don’t really give a damn about what you jerk yourselves off about in here, but you should also know what security bill these crimes will be adjudicated under. We’re not talking withholding evidence, Mr. Kamor. We’re talking treason and conspiracy to commit terror. Take a look at the photos one more time. Please.”

“Trust me, Mr. Kamor,” I said, meeting his eyes, “you don’t want to be anywhere near the heat on this one.”

The veins on the bar owner’s neck began to swell. He lowered his eyes and leafed through the photos again. “Maybe … I don’t know … ,” he muttered.

After some hesitation, he nudged one out. “He’s different now. His hair is shorter, not so much like a hippie. He has a beard. He’s been in here.”

Stephen Hardaway. Alias Morgan Bloom. Alias Mal Caldwell.

“Is he a regular? How do we find him? This is important.”

“I don’t know.” Kamor shook his head. “That is the truth. I remember him, once or twice some time ago. I think he came from somewhere up north.

“One more thing …” Kamor swallowed. “You will remember this the next time you barge in and threaten to deprive me of my rights.”

He flicked another photo forward. Another face he knew.

“This one, I saw in here last night.”

We were staring at Wendy Raymore, the au pair.

We weren’t back in the car for five seconds before I was pressing my palms against Molinari’s in an exhilarated, drawn-out high five. Deputy director or not, he had handled himself pretty well.

“That was good, Molinari.” I could hardly contain my smile. “And you know how clumsy these police goons can be when they’re lugging heavy evidence…”

Our eyes locked, and suddenly I was feeling that nervousness and attraction again. I put the car in gear. “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen with your contacts,” I said, “but I think we’d better start by calling this in.”

Molinari speed-dialed his office with Hardaway’s name and aliases. We got a quick response. His Seattle file detailed a criminal past. Weapons possession, arms theft, bank robbery. By tomorrow morning we would know everything about him.

Suddenly I realized I hadn’t heard from Jill. “I gotta make a call,” I said to Molinari, punching in her cell phone number.

Jill’s voice mail came on. “Hi, it’s District Attorney Jill Bernhardt.…”

Damn, Jill usually had her cell phone on. But I remembered about how she said she had a long day ahead in court. “It’s me, Lindsay. It’s two o’ clock. Where you been?” I thought about saying more, but I wasn’t in private. “Call me. I want to know how you are.”

“Something wrong?” Molinari said when I hung up.

I shook my head. “A friend … She threw her husband out last night. We were supposed to talk. It’s just that the guy’s turned into a real creep.”

“She’s lucky, then,” Molinari said, “to have a cop for a friend.”

The thought amused me. Jill lucky to have a cop for a friend. I thought of calling her at the office, but she’d get back to me as soon as she turned on her phone. “Trust me, she can handle herself.”

We turned on the ramp to the Bay Bridge. I didn’t even have to use the top hat, as there was almost no traffic into the city. “Smooth sailing,” I said. “We caught a break. Finally.”

“Listen, Lindsay …” Molinari turned to me, his tone changed. “What do you think about having dinner with me tonight?”

“Dinner?” I thought for a second. I turned to him. “I think we know that might not be the best idea.”

Molinari nodded in a resigned way, as if the thought got the better of him. “Still, we both gotta eat.…” He curled a smile.

Holding the wheel, I felt my palms starting to sweat. Geez. There were a hundred reasons why this could be wrong. But hell, we had lives, too.

I looked at Molinari and smiled. “We gotta eat.”

The latest e-mail had Cindy rocking back on her heels. For once, she was in the story, not just merely writing it.

And she felt a little scared. Who could blame her, with what was going on? But for the first time in her career, she also felt that she was really doing some good. And that’s what thrilled her. She sucked in a deep breath and faced the screen of her computer.

That wasn’t us in Portland, the message had said.

But why disclaim the killing? Why the five-word denial, nothing more?

To separate themselves. To distinguish their crusade from a copycat killer. That seemed obvious.

But the knot growing in her stomach told her that maybe there was something more.

Maybe she was pressing too hard. But what if—completely outside the box—what if what was coming through wasn’t a denial, but something else. A conscience.

No, that’s crazy, she thought. These people had blown up Morton Lightower’s town house with his wife and a child inside. They had shoved horrible poison down Bengosian’s throat. But they had spared little Caitlin.

There was something else.… She suspected that the person corresponding might be a woman. She had referred to “her sisters in bondage.” And she’d chosen to write to her. There were plenty of other reporters in the city. Why her?

Cindy was thinking that if there was any humanity in this person, maybe she could reach it. Maybe she could tap into it. Reveal something. A name, a place. Maybe it was the au pair writing, and maybe she did have a heart.

Cindy cracked her knuckles and leaned over the keyboard. Here goes …

She typed:

Tell me, why are you doing these things? I think you are a woman. Are you? There are better ways to achieve your goals than killing people who the world views as innocent. You can use me. I can get the message out. Please …I told you I was listening. I am… Use me. Please…Don’t kill anymore.

She read it over. It was a long shot. Longer than a long shot.

And she felt, pausing over the message, that if she sent it, she really would enter the story, that her whole life would change.

“Sayonara,” she whispered to her old life—the one of passively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.