“Well, keep believing,” Cindy said, frowning, “it’s been two days.”

Claire looked at me. “You remember that time Jill had to go through Salt Lake City on her way back from Atlanta, and while they were just waiting there at the gate, she took one look at all the snow in the mountains and said, ‘Screw it, I’m outta here!’ She hopped off the plane, rented a car, and skied Snowbird for the day.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, the thought bringing a smile to my face. “Steve had some client thing he wanted to drag her to, the office was trying to locate her, and where was Jill? Up at eleven thousand feet, in a rented suit and skis, in powder heaven. Having the best day of her life.”

The image brought a smile to all our faces, a tearful one.

“So that’s what I think.” Claire took a napkin and dabbed her eyes. “I think she’s skiing powder. I have to believe she’s skiing powder, Lindsay.”

Cindy stayed at her desk late that night, when only a handful of Metro stringers trolling the police wires were still around. The truth was, where else could she go?

This thing with Jill was killing her; it was killing all of them.

Word had leaked out. A missing A.D.A. was news. Her city editor asked if she wanted to write it. He knew they were friends. “It’s not news yet,” she had snapped. Writing it made it news. Made it real.

This time it wasn’t happening to someone else.

She stared at a photo of them she kept taped to her cubicle. The four of them, in their old haunt, Susie’s, their corner booth, after they solved the bride and groom case. A few margaritas had left their brains leaking like a wetlands preserve. Jill had seemed so invincible. The power job, the power husband. Never once had she let on.…

“C’mon, Jill,” Cindy whispered, feeling her eyes glistening over. Come through this. Walk through that door. Show your pretty face, smiling. I’m praying, Jill. Walk through that fucking door.

It was after eleven. Nothing was happening here. It was just her way of keeping the vigil, keeping up hope. Go home, Cindy. Call it a night. Nothing you can do now.

A maintenance man vacuuming the stall winked at her. “Working late, Ms. Thomas?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “burning the midnight oil.”

She finally threw a few things in her purse and checked her computer one last time before she logged off. Maybe she’d call Lindsay. Just to talk.

A new e-mail flashed on her screen.

Cindy knew without even opening it who it was from. Toobad@hotmail.com.

She knew the timing. She knew they warned her of a new victim every three days. It was Sunday. August Spies were due.

“You were warned,” the message began. “But you were arrogant and didn’t listen.”

Oh God. A tiny cry escaped from Cindy’s throat.

She flashed down the screen, reading the terrifying message, the chilling signature at the end.

August Spies had struck again.

I got home that night at eleven, exhausted and empty-handed. For a few moments I stood thinking at the bottom of the outside stairs. In the morning, Jill would be officially listed as “missing.” I’d have to head up an investigation into the disappearance of one of my closest friends.

“I thought you’d want to know”—I heard a voice above me, catching me by surprise—“I heard back from Portland.”

I looked up and saw Molinari; he was sitting on the top step.

“They found a secretary at Portland State who leaked Propp’s whereabouts to a boyfriend. They traced the gun to him. Local radical. But I suspect that’s not going to cheer you up much tonight.”

“I thought you were supposed to be somebody important, Molinari,” I said, too empty and tired to show how glad I was to see him. “How come you always end up babysitting me?”

He stood up. “I didn’t want you to feel you have to be alone.”

Suddenly I just couldn’t hold back. The floodgates burst, and he came down and held me. Molinari drew me to him tightly as the tears carved their way down my cheeks. I felt ashamed to let him see me like this—I wanted so badly to appear strong—but I couldn’t get the tears to stop.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to catch myself.

“No”—he stroked my hair—“you don’t have to pretend with me. You can let it out. There’s no shame.”

Something’s happened to Jill! I wanted to scream, but I was afraid to lift my face.

“I’m sorry, too.” He held me close. Then he squeezed me gently by the shoulders and looked into my swollen eyes. “I was with the Department of Justice,” he said, and brushed away a few tears, “when the Trade Towers fell. I knew guys who were killed. Some of the fire chiefs, John O’Neill in Trade Center Security. I was one of the heads of the emergency response team, but when all the names started coming in, people I’d worked with, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went into the men’s room. I knew everything was on the line. But I sat in a stall and cried. There’s no shame.”

I unlocked the front door and we went inside. Molinari made me tea as I sat curled up on the couch, Martha’s chin on my thigh. I didn’t know what I would do if I was alone. He came over and poured it for me. I nestled into him, the tea warming me, his arms draped around my shoulders. And we just sat there for a long time. He was right, too—there’s no shame.

“Thank you,” I sighed into his chest.

“For what? Knowing how to make tea?”

“Just thank you. For not being one of the assholes.” I closed my eyes. For a moment, everything bad was outside, far away from my living room.

The telephone rang. I didn’t want to answer it. For a moment, I was feeling a million miles away and, selfish as it was, I liked it.

Then I was thinking, What if it’s Jill?

I grabbed the phone and Cindy’s voice came on. “Lindsay, thank God. Something bad’s happened.” My body clenched. I held on to Molinari. “Jill?” “No,” she answered, “August Spies.”

I listened with a sick, sinking feeling as Cindy read me the latest message. “ ‘You were warned,’ it says. ‘But you were arrogant and didn’t listen. We’re not surprised. You’ve never listened before. So we struck again.’ Lindsay, it’s signed August Spies.”

“There’s been another killing,” I said, turning to Molinari. Then I finished up with Cindy.

The full message said we’d find what we were looking for at 333 Harrison Street, down by the piers in Oakland. It had been exactly three days since Cindy received the first e-mail. August Spies were true to their threats.

I hung up with Cindy and called the Emergency Task Force. I wanted our cops on the scene, and all traffic down to the Oakland port blocked off. I had no idea what type of incident we had or how many lives were involved, so I called Claire and told her to go there, too.

Molinari already had his jacket on and was on the phone. It took me about a minute to get ready. “C’mon,” I said at the door, “you might as well drive with me.”

We were barreling down Third Street toward the bridge with our siren wailing. That time of night there was almost no traffic. It was clear sailing over the Bay Bridge.

Transmissions began to crackle on the radio. Oakland cops had picked up the 911. Molinari and I listened to hear what kind of scene we were dealing with: fire, explosion, multiple injuries?

I shot off the bridge onto 880, getting off at the exit for the port. A police checkpoint had already been set up. Two patrol cars with flashing lights. We pulled up. I saw Cindy’s purple VW being held there. She was arguing with one of the officers.

“Climb in!” I yelled to her. Molinari flashed his badge to a young patrolman, whose eyes bulged. “She’s with us.”

From the exit ramp it was only a short drive down to the port. Harrison Street was right off the piers. Cindy explained how she had received the e-mail. She’d brought a copy, and Molinari read as we drove.