People were going to die here soon. Quite a lot of people, actually.

Charles Danko sat pretending to read the Examiner underneath the giant fountain in the sparkling glass atrium of the Rincon Center just off Market Street, downtown near the Bay Bridge. From above him, an eighty-five-foot plume of water splashed breathtakingly into a shallow pool.

Americans like to feel awe, he thought to himself—they liked it in their movies, their pop art, and even their shopping centers. So I’ll make them feel awe. I’ll make them feel in awe of death.

It would be busy here today, Danko knew. The Rincon Center’s restaurants were getting ready for the surge of the lunch crowd. A thousand or more escapees from law firms and real estate trusts and financial advisers around the Financial District.

Too bad this can’t stretch out a little longer, Charles Danko thought, and sighed, the regret of someone who has waited such a long time for the moment. The Rincon Center had proved to be one of his favorite places in San Francisco.

Danko didn’t acknowledge the well-dressed black man who picked out a place beside him facing the fountain. He knew the man was a veteran of the Gulf War. Despondent ever since. Dependable, though perhaps a little high-strung.

“Mal said I could call you ‘Professor.’ ” The black spoke out of the side of his mouth.

“And you are Robert?” Danko asked.

The man nodded. “Robert I am.”

A woman started to play on a grand piano in the center of the atrium. Every day at ten to twelve. A melody from Phantom of the Opera began to fill the gigantic space.

“You know who to look for?” Danko asked.

“I know,” the man said, assured. “I’ll do my job. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a very good soldier.”

“It must be the right man,” Danko said. “You’ll see him come into the square at about twenty after twelve. He’ll cross it, maybe drop some change off for the pianist. Then he’ll go into Yank Sing.”

“You seem awfully sure he’ll be here.”

Danko finally looked at the man and smiled. “You see that plume of water, Robert? It falls from a height of precisely eighty-five point five feet. I know this because having sat in this spot for a very long time, I have calculated the exact angle of an imaginary line stretching from the center of the pool, and the corresponding right angle created at its base. From there, it was easy to extrapolate its height. You know how many days I’ve sat and watched this fountain, Robert? Don’t you worry, he’ll be there.”

Charles Danko stood up. He left behind the briefcase. “I thank you, Robert. You are doing something very brave. Something that only a small few will ever commend you for. Good luck, my friend. You’re a hero today.” And you’re serving my purpose as well.

On a dank, drizzly afternoon in Highland Park, Texas, we said good-bye to Jill. I had said good-bye to people I loved before. But I had never felt so empty or numb. And never so cheated.

The temple was a modern brick-and-glass structure with a steep-angled sanctuary filled with light. The rabbi was a woman, and Jill would’ve liked that. Everyone flew down. Chief Tracchio, D.A. Sinclair. Some associates from the office. Claire, Cindy, and me. A group of girls from high school and college Jill had kept in touch with over the years. Steve was there, of course, though I couldn’t bear to speak to him.

We took our seats, and an aria from Turandot, Jill’s favorite, was sung by a local choir.

Bennett Sinclair said a few words. He praised Jill as the most dedicated prosecutor on his staff. “People said she was tough. And she was tough. But not so tough that respect and humanity were ever casualties in how she conducted herself. Most of us have lost a good friend”—he pressed his lips—“but the city of San Francisco is going to miss one hell of a lawyer.”

A classmate from Stanford showed a picture of Jill on the women’s soccer team that went to the national finals, and made the crowd laugh when she said it didn’t take long to know who really had it together, as Jill was the only one on the team who joked that “doubling up” meant carrying two majors.

I got up and spoke briefly. “Everyone knew Jill Meyer Bernhardt as this self-assured, achieving winner. Top of her law school class. Strongest conviction rate on the D.A.’s staff. Free-climbed the Sultan’s Spire in Moab,” I said. “I knew her for all those things, too, but mostly as a friend whose deepest inner wish wasn’t about convictions or big cases but simply to bring a child into this world. That was the Jill I loved best, the real Jill.”

Claire played the cello. She slowly climbed the platform and sat there for a while, then the choir joined in the background in a hauntingly beautiful version of “Loving Arms,” one of Jill’s favorite songs. How many times we used to sing that song, meeting after work at Susie’s, straining in margarita-drenched harmony. I watched Claire close her eyes, and the tremors of the cello and the softly singing voices in the background were the perfect tribute to Jill.

As the final verse began, the pallbearers picked up the casket, and Jill’s family reluctantly rose to follow.

And as they did, a few of us began to clap our hands. Slowly at first, as the procession walked by. Then one by one, everyone joined in.

As the casket neared the rear doors, the pallbearers stopped and held it for a few seconds, as if to make sure Jill could hear her tribute.

I was looking at Claire. Tears were streaming down my face so hard, I thought they would never stop. I wanted to shout out, Go, Jill… Claire squeezed my hand. Then Cindy squeezed the other.

And I thought to myself, I’ll find the bastard, Jill. You sleep easy.

It was after midnight by the time Cindy got home. Her eyes were raw, her body numb, and she wondered if she would ever recover from losing Jill.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The answering machine was blinking. She’d been out of touch all day. She ought to check her e-mail, maybe just to get Jill off her mind.

She went to her computer and checked out the Chronicle’s front page. The story of the day was ricin. Jill’s COD had gotten out. Her death, coupled with Bengosian’s, had put the city in a panic. How easily could ricin be obtained? What were the symptoms? What if it got into the water supply? Were there antidotes? How many people could die in San Francisco?

She was about to check her e-mail when an Instant Message bubbled through. Hotwax1199.

Don’t waste your time trying to trace this,

the message began. Cindy froze.

No need to even write it down. It belongs to a sixth-grader in Dublin, Ohio. He doesn’t even know it’s gone. His name is Marion Delgado, the message continued. Do you know who I am?

Yes, Cindy wrote back. I know who you are. You’re the son of a bitch who killed my friend Jill. Why are you contacting me?

There’s going to be another strike, the answer appeared.

Tomorrow. Not like before. A lot of innocent people are going to die. Completely innocent people.

Where? Cindy typed. She waited anxiously. Can you tell me where? Please!

This G-8 meeting has to be canceled, the message returned.

You said you wanted to help, so help, goddamnit! These people, the government, they have to own up to their crimes. Murdering innocent people, just for oil. Multinationals on the loose, preying on the poor across the world. You said you wanted to get our message across. Here’s your chance. Make these thieves and murderers stop their crimes now.

There was a silence. Cindy wasn’t sure if the messenger was still there. She didn’t know what to do next.

More words appeared on her screen.