It was hard working the rest of the day. I met with Tracchio for an hour and had Jacobi and Cappy retrace the bars around Berkeley with Hardaway’s photo. Every once in a while I felt my mind drifting and my heart beating a little faster when I thought about tonight. But as Joe Molinari had said, we gotta eat.

Later, in the shower at home, inhaling a fresh lavender smell as I rinsed myself clean from the day, a guilty smile spread over my face: Here I am, a glass of Sancerre on the ledge, my skin tingling like a girl on her first date.

I hurried around, straightening up a bit; arranged the bookshelf; checked the bird roasting in the oven; fed Martha; set the table overlooking the bay. Then I realized I still hadn’t heard from Jill. This was crazy. Still in my towel and wet hair, I placed another call to her. “This is getting ridiculous. C’mon, get back to me. I need to know how you are.…”

I was about to call Claire to see if she had heard from Jill when the buzzer rang.

The front door buzzer!

Shit, it’s only 7:45.

Molinari was early.

I threw another towel around my hair and frantically hopped around—dimming lights, taking out another wineglass. I finally went to the front door. “Who’s there?”

“Advance team for Homeland Security,” Molinari called.

“Yeah, well, you’re early, Homeland Security. Anyone ever tell you about buzzing up from the outside door?”

“We generally bypass those things.”

“Look, I’m gonna let you in, but you can’t look.” I couldn’t believe I was standing there in my towel. “I’m opening the door.”

“My eyes are closed.”

“They’d better be.” Martha came up beside me. “I’ve got a dog who’s very protective of me.…”

I unlocked the door, opened it slowly.

Molinari stood there, his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. A bouquet of daffodils. Eyes wide open.

“You promised.” I took a step back, blushing.

“Don’t blush.” Molinari stood there, smiling. “You’re gorgeous.”

“This is Martha,” I said. “You behave, Martha, or Joe’ll have you tossed into a doghouse in Guant?namo. I’ve seen him work.”

“Hey, Martha.” Molinari squatted down. He massaged her head behind the ears until she closed her eyes. “You’re gorgeous, too, Martha.”

Molinari stood up, and I grabbed my towel tighter. He grinned a little.

“You think Martha would get upset if I said I was dying to see what’s under that towel?”

I shook my head, and the towel covering my hair fell away to the floor. “How’s that?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Molinari said.

“While you two are talking,” I said, backing away, “I’ll get dressed. There’s wine in the fridge, vodka and scotch on the counter. And there’s a bird in the oven if you have an urge to baste.”

“Lindsay,” Molinari said.

I stopped. “Yes …”

He took a step toward me. My heart stopped—except for the part that was beating violently out of control.

He put his hands on my shoulders. I felt myself shudder, then seem to sway very slightly in his hands. He put his face close. “How long did you say before that bird is ready?”

“Forty minutes.” Every little hair on my arms stood on edge. “Or so.”

“Too bad …” Molinari smiled. “But it’ll have to do.”

And just like that, he kissed me. His mouth was strong, and as soon as he touched my lips heat shot through me. I liked his kiss and I kissed him back. He ran his hands down the length of my back, pressed me close. I liked his touch, too. Hell, I liked him.

My bath towel fell to the floor.

“I have to warn you,” I said. “Martha’s a terror if someone gets the wrong idea.”

He glanced over at Martha. She was curled up in a ball. “I don’t think I have the wrong idea.”

Joe Molinari was facing me, and the bed sheets were rumpled in a mess around us. I was noticing that he was even better looking up close. His eyes were deep blue and had a nice sparkle to them.

It was hard to describe how good I felt, how natural this seemed, how right. The little tremors rippling down my spine were unexpected, but definitely pleasant. It had been two years since I had felt anything like this, and that was, well … different. I didn’t know everything about Molinari. Who was he away from the office? What did he have going on back home? Truth was, I didn’t care right now. I just felt good. It was enough.

“This may seem like a strange time to ask this question,” I said, “but just what is your personal situation back East?”

Molinari took a breath. “Not complicated …Usually I just mess around with interns and subordinates I meet on the case.” He smiled.

“C’mon.” I sat up. “It’s a legitimate after-sex question.”

“I’m divorced, Lindsay. I date now and then. Time permitting.” He stroked my hair. “If you’re thinking, does this happen very often …?”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You know. This. Where we are. On assignment.”

Molinari turned and faced me. “Just so there’s no doubts, I’m here because the moment you walked into that meeting, I, well … bells started going off. And since then, the only thing I’ve been impressed with more than how good you are on the job is how good you looked once I pulled that towel off you.”

I took a breath and stared into those very blue eyes. “You just make sure you’re not an asshole, Joe Molinari.”

All of a sudden, I shot up in bed. “Oh my God, dinner.”

“Forget the chicken.” Molinari smiled and pulled me closer. “We don’t gotta eat.”

The phone rang. What next?

My first urge was to let it go. I waited for the answering machine to pick up.

When the voice came on, it was Claire’s, sounding urgent. “Lindsay, I’m worried. Pick up if you’re there. Linds?”

I blinked, then rolled over to the night table and fumbled for my phone. “Claire. What’s wrong?”

“Thank God you’re home.” Her voice was tense, unusual for Claire. “It’s Jill. I’m at her house, Lindsay. She’s not here.”

“She had a trial. Did you try the office? She’s probably working late.”

“Of course I tried the office,” Claire shot back. “Jill never showed up today.”

I bolted up, confused but also afraid. It didn’t make sense. “She said she had a trial, Claire. I’m sure of it.”

“She did have a trial, Lindsay. She just didn’t show. They’ve been looking for her all day.”

I pressed my back against the headboard. When I thought about the possibility of Jill bagging work, not calling in, it didn’t fly.

“That’s not Jill,” I said.

“No,” Claire answered, “that’s not Jill at all.”

Suddenly I was worried. “Claire, do you know what’s going on? What happened with Steve?”

Claire answered, “No. What are you saying?”

“Stay where you are,” I said.

I hung up the phone and sat there for a second. “I’m sorry, Joe, I gotta go.”

A few minutes later I was driving at full speed down Twenty-third over to Castro. I ran through the possibilities: Jill was depressed. She needed some space. She’d gone to her parents’. Any of them could be true. But Jill would never—never—not show up for court.

I finally pulled up in front of her town house on Buena Vista Park. The first thing I noticed was Jill’s sapphire blue 535 still in the driveway.

Claire was waiting on the landing and we hugged. “She doesn’t answer,” she said. “I rang the bell, banged on the door.”

I looked around, didn’t see anyone. “I hate to do this.” Then I broke a pane in the front door and reached inside. I was thinking that Steve could have gotten inside, too—easily.

Immediately, the alarm sounded. I knew the code, 63442, Jill’s state employee number. I punched it in, trying to make up my mind if the alarm being armed was a good sign.

I flicked on a light. I called, “Jill?”