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 key-board. Here goes...She typed:Tell me, why are you doing these things? I think you are a woman. Are you? There are bet-ter 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 pa.s.sively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.

Chapter 60.

IT WAS HARD working the rest of the day. I met with Trac-chio 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 gla.s.s 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!s.h.i.t, it's only 7:45.Molinari was early.I threw another towel around my hair and frantically hopped around - dimming lights, taking out another wine-gla.s.s. 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 bypa.s.s 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 Guantnamo. I've seen him work.""Hey, Martha." Molinari squatted down. He ma.s.saged her head behind the ears until she closed her eyes. "You're gor-geous, 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. h.e.l.l, 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."

Chapter 61.

JOE MOLINARI was facing me, and the bed sheets were rum-pled in a mess around us. I was noticing that he was even bet-ter 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-s.e.x question.""I'm divorced, Lindsay. I date now and then. Time per-mitting." 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 a.s.signment."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 a.s.shole, Joe Molinari."All of a sudden, I shot up in bed. "Oh my G.o.d, 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 G.o.d you're home." Her voice was tense, unus-ual 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."

Chapter 62.

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 s.p.a.ce. 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?"Then I heard Otis barking. The brown lab ran from inside the kitchen."Hey, boy." I patted his back. He seemed happy to see a familiar face. "Where's Mommy?" I asked. I knew one thing. Jill would never leave him. Steve maybe, but not Otis."Jill... Steve?" I called around the house. "It's Lindsay. And Claire."Jill had just re-done the place in the past year. Patterned couches, melon-colored walls, a tufted leather ottoman for a coffee table. The house was dark and silent. We checked around the familiar rooms. No reply. No Jill.Claire exhaled and said, "This is really starting to give me the creeps."I nodded and squeezed her shoulder. "Me too."C'mon," I said to Claire, "I'm going up to check upstairs. We're going to check."Climbing the stairs, I couldn't put aside the thought of a crazed Steve charging out of some room like in some teenage horror movie. "Jill...Steve?" I called out again. I tugged at my gun just in case.Still no answer. The master bedroom lights were off. The big four-poster bed was made. Jill's toiletries and makeup in the bathroom.When I last spoke with her she was going to bed. I was about to go back into the hallway when I saw it.Jill's briefcase.Jill didn't go anywhere without her "traveling office." It was a running joke. She didn't go to the beach without her G.o.dd.a.m.n work.I took a cloth and held it by the strap, loosely. I met Claire back in the hallway. She'd checked the other rooms. "Noth-ing...""I don't like this, Claire. Her car's in the driveway." My eyes drifted to her case. "This...She slept here, Claire. But she never left for work."

Chapter 63.

I HAD NO IDEA how to get in touch with Steve.It was late - who the h.e.l.l knew where he was staying. And Jill had only been missing for the day. She could show up and be p.i.s.sed over all the attention. There was nothing to do but wait and worry ourselves sick and, in my case, feel guilty.I called Cindy and she was there in fifteen minutes. Claire called Edmund and said she was going to stay for a while, maybe the night.We sat in Jill's den, curled up on couches. There was always the chance she'd had a change of mind and gone to visit Steve, somewhere.Around eleven my cell phone rang. But it was only Jacobi, checking in, telling me no one in the Berkeley bars they'd checked admitted to recognizing Hardaway. Then we all sat around without speaking. I don't even remember what time we dozed off.I woke a few times in the night, thought I heard some-thing. "Jill?" But it wasn't her.First thing in the morning, I went home. Joe had made the bed and left the apartment looking tidy. I showered and called in to the office to say I'd be late.An hour later I was down at Steve's office in the Financial Center. I left the Explorer right there on the street. By the time I pushed through the office doors, I could barely control the panic I was feeling.Steve was right there, in reception. He was practically draped over the receptionist, sipping a coffee, his leg perched casually on a chair."Where is she?" I said. I must've startled him because coffee splattered all over his pink Lacoste shirt."What the h.e.l.l, Lindsay..." Steve held up his hands."Your office," I said, glaring at him hard."Mr. Bernhardt?" the receptionist said."It's okay, Stacy," Steve said. "She's a friend." Yeah, right.As soon as we were down in his corner office I slammed the door. "Are you nuts, Lindsay?" Steve said.I pushed him into a chair. "I want to know now where she is, Steve.""Jill?" He turned up his palms and actually seemed con-fused."Cut the s.h.i.t, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. Jill's missing. She didn't show up for work. I want to know where she is.""I don't have the slightest idea," Steve said. "What do you mean, 'missing'?""She had a trial yesterday, Steve," I said, losing control, "and she didn't show up for it. Does that sound like Jill? She didn't come home last night, either. Her car's there. And her briefcase. Someone got inside the house.""I think you've got your facts a little twisted, Lieutenant," Steve said with a derisive laugh. "Jill tossed me out the other night. She changed the locks on Fortress Bernhardt.""Don't mess with me, Steve. I want to know what you've done. When was the last time you saw her?""How about eleven o'clock the other night, through my own living-room window, as I was banging on the f.u.c.king door, trying to get back into my own house?""She told me you were coming by yesterday morning to pick up your things."Anger flashed in his eyes. "What the h.e.l.l is this, an inter-rogation?""I want to know where you spent Friday night" - I stared at him hard - "and everything you did Sat.u.r.day morning before you came to work.""What's going on? Do I need a lawyer, Lindsay?"I didn't answer his question, just turned away and walked out of there. I hoped to G.o.d Steve didn't need a lawyer.

Chapter 64.

ANGER WAS NO LONGER the word for what was tearing at me as I headed back to the Hall. It was deeper than anger. Every time I glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of my own eyes, I kept thinking, I've seen those eyes before.On the job. On the faces of parents and wives when some-one close to them is missing. The wordless panic when something horrible has taken place but just hasn't played out yet. Stay calm, we tell them. Anything can happen. It's still early.And that's what I was telling myself as I drove back to the office. Stay calm, Lindsay. Jill could turn up anytime....But looking at myself in the rearview mirror, I couldn't stop thinking, Same eyes.Back at the Hall, I put in a call to Ingrid Barros, who was Jill's housekeeper, but she was at a meeting at her kid's school. I sent Lorraine and Chin up and down Jill's street on Buena Vista Park to see if anyone had noticed anything suspicious. I even ordered a trace on Jill's cell phone calls.Someone must have called her. Someone must have seen her. It didn't make sense that she had completely disap-peared. Jill wasn't the disappearing type.I did my best to focus on the picture we were getting on Stephen Hardaway as it started to drift in throughout the day. The FBI had been looking for Hardaway for a couple of years, and though he wasn't on the Most Wanted, he was close enough to raise suspicions now.He'd been raised in Lansing, Michigan. After high school, he came west and went to Reed College in Portland. That's when he began turning up in the system. Oregon records showed an arrest for aggravated a.s.sault at an anti-WTO demonstration at the University of Oregon. He was a suspect in bank robberies in Eugene and Seattle. Then in '99, he was caught in Arizona trying to buy blasting caps from a gang member who turned out to be local ATF. And that was when Stephen Hardaway disappeared. He'd jumped bail. He was rumored to be involved in a string of armed robberies in Washington and Oregon. So we knew he was armed, danger-ous, and had a desire to blow things up.Not a word on him for the past two years.About five, Claire knocked at my office. "I'm going crazy, Lindsay. C'mon, get a cup of coffee with me.""I'm going crazy, too," I said, and grabbed my purse. "Maybe we should call Cindy over," I said."Don't bother," she said, and pointed down the hall. "She's already here."The three of us went down to a cafeteria on the second floor. At first we just sat around stirring our drinks, the silence as thick as June fog.Finally I just sucked in a breath. "I think we all agree, Jill's not out there, pining away on some rock. Something's hap-pened. The sooner we admit that, the sooner we can find out what it is.""I keep thinking there has to be some explanation," Claire said. "I mean, I know Steve. We all do. He wouldn't be my ideal partner, but I can't believe he's capable of anything like this.""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 s...o...b..rd 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."

Chapter 65.

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 cu-bicle. The four of them, in their old haunt, Susie's, their cor-ner booth, after they solved the bride and groom case. A few margaritas had left their brains leaking like a wetlands pre-serve. 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 glisten-ing over. Come through this. Walk through that door. Show your pretty face, smiling. I'm praying, Jill. Walk through that f.u.c.king 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. 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 G.o.d. A tiny cry escaped from Cindy's throat.She flashed down the screen, reading the terrifying mes-sage, the chilling signature at the end.August Spies had struck again.

Chapter 66.

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 investiga-tion 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 Port-land."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 emer-gency 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 a.s.sholes." Iclosed 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 G.o.d. Something bad's happened." My body clenched. I held on to Molinari. "Jill?" "No," she answered, "August Spies."

Chapter 67.

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 inci-dent 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.As we neared the port, flashing green and red lights were all over the place. It seemed as if every cop in Oakland was on the scene. "C'mon, we're getting out here."The three of us jumped out and ran toward an old brick warehouse marked 333. Trestles rose into the night. Huge container loads were stacked everywhere. The port of Oak-land actually handled the majority of the freight traffic in the Bay Area.I heard my name being called. Claire, jumping out of her Path?nder, ran up to us. "What do we have?""I don't know yet," I said.Finally I saw an Oakland precinct captain I'd worked with coming out of the building. "Gene!" I ran up to him. With what was going on, I didn't have to ask."The victim's dumped on the second floor. Single shot to the back of the head."Part of me winced, part of me relaxed. At least it was only one.We headed up steep metal stairs, Claire and Cindy follow-ing behind. An Oakland cop tried to stop us. I pushed my badge at him and moved past. A body was on the floor, par-tially wrapped in a b.l.o.o.d.y tarp. "G.o.ddammit," I said. "Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." Two cops and an EMS team were leaning over the victim.There was a note fastened by a metal twist to the tarp. A bill of lading." 'You were warned,' " I read it out loud. "'The criminal state is not exempt from its own crimes. Members of the G-8, come to your senses. Renounce the colonizing policies. You have three more days. We can strike anywhere, anytime. August Spies.' "At the bottom of the page I saw the words in bold print,RETURN THIS TO THE HALL OF JUSTICE.My body stopped dead. A wave of panic tore at me. For a second I couldn't move. I looked at Claire. Her face crumpled with shock.I pushed an EMT out of the way. I went down on my knees. The first thing I came upon was the victim's wrist - the aquamarine David Yurman bracelet I knew so well."Oh no," I gasped. "No, no, no..."I peeled back the tarp.It was Jill.

Part Four

Chapter 68.

THINKING BACK, I remember only flashes of what hap-pened next. I know I stood there, unable to comprehend what I was seeing: Jill's beautiful face, lifeless now. Her eyes staring forward, clear, almost serene. "Oh no, no...," I repeated over and over.I know my legs gave out, and someone held me. Claire's voice, cracking: "Oh my G.o.d, Lindsay..."I couldn't take my eyes off Jill's face. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. I reached out and touched her hand. She still had her wedding ring on.I heard Cindy start to cry, and saw Claire holding her. I kept repeating over and over, This can't be Jill. What does she have to do with August Spies?Then things fell into a daze. I kept reminding myself, It's a crime scene, Lindsay, a homicide scene. I wanted to be strong for Claire and Cindy, for all the cops around. I asked, "Did anyone see how she got here?" I looked around. "I want the area canva.s.sed. Someone could've seen a vehicle."Molinari tried to pull me away, but I shook him off. I had to look around, find something. There was always some-thing, some mistake they had made. You a.s.sholes, August Spies... You sc.u.m.Suddenly Jacobi was there. And Cappy. Even Tracchio. My homicide team. "Let us handle it," Cappy said. Finally, I just let them take charge.I was beginning to understand that this was real. These emergency lights, they weren't in my head. Jill was dead. She'd been killed, not by Steve but by August Spies.I watched them take her away. My friend. Jill...I watched Claire help place her into the morgue van and send it off, sirens blaring. Joe Molinari comforted me as best he could, but then he had to return to the Hall.Then as the crime scene quieted down, Claire, Cindy, and I sat on the steps of an adjoining building in the light rain. Not a word pa.s.sed between us. My brain echoed with ques-tions I couldn't answer: Why? How does this fit? It's a different case! How can Jill be connected?How long we sat on those steps I don't know. The haze of urgent voices, flashing lights. Cindy weeping, Claire holding her. Me too stunned to even speak, my fists clenched, turn-ing the question over and over. Why?A thought kept creeping into my head. If only I had gone to Jill's that night. None of this might have been....Suddenly a ringing broke the silence. Cindy's cell. She answered, her voice tremulous. "Yes?" Cindy drew a breath. "I'm at the scene."It was her Metro desk.In a halting voice, she gave details of what had taken place. "Yes, it looks like it is part of the terror campaign. The third victim..." She described the location, the e-mail she had received at the paper, the time.Then Cindy stopped. I could see tears glazing her eyes. She bit her lip, as if she was afraid to let the words out. "Yes, the victim's been identified. Her name is Bernhardt... Jill." She spelled it letter by letter.She tried to say something else, but the words caught in her throat. Claire reached for her. Cindy sucked in a breath, wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said, nodding. "Ms. Bernhardt was Chief a.s.sistant District Attorney of the City of San Fran-cisco...."Then, in a whisper, "She was also my friend."

Chapter 69.

I KNEW I WOULDN'T be able to sleep that night. I didn't want to go home.So I stayed at the crime scene until the lab teams had come and gone; then for about an hour I crisscrossed the deserted streets of the port searching for anyone, a night worker, a vagrant, who might've seen who dumped Jill off. I drove around, afraid to go to the office, afraid to go home, reliving the awful sight over and over again, tears streaming down my face. Turning over that tarp - seeing Jill!I drove until my car seemed to know the place I was headed. Where else did I have to go? Three o'clock in the morning. I found myself at the morgue.I knew Claire would be there. No matter what time it was. Doing her job because it was the one thing that could hold her together. In her blue scrubs, in the operating room.Jill was laid out on the gurney. Under those same harsh lights where I'd seen so many victims before.Jill...My sweet darling girl.I stared through the gla.s.s, tears wending down my cheeks. I was thinking I'd failed her in some way.Finally I pushed through the gla.s.s doors. Claire was in the middle of the autopsy. She was doing what I was doing. Her job."You don't want to be in here, Lindsay," she said when she saw me. She drew a sheet over Jill's exposed wound."Yeah, I do, Claire." I just stood there. I wasn't going to leave. I needed to see this.Claire stared at my swollen, tear-stained face. She nodded, the tiny outline of a smile. "At least make yourself useful and hand me that probe on the tray over there."I handed Claire her instrument and traced the back of my hand against Jill's cold, hard cheek. How could this not be some dream?"Widespread damage to the right occipital lobe," Claire spoke into the microphone on her lapel, "consistent with a single, rear-entry gunshot trauma. No exit wound; the bullet is still lodged in the left lateral ventricle. Minimal blood loss to the affected area. Strange...," she muttered.I was barely listening. My eyes still fixed on Jill."Light powder burns around the hair and neck indicate a small-caliber weapon fired at close range," Claire continued.She shifted the body. The opened rear of Jill's skull appeared on the monitor.I couldn't watch that. I looked away."I'm now removing what looks like a small-caliber bullet fragment from the left ventricle," Claire went on. "Signs of severe rupture, symptomatic of this type of trauma, but... very little swelling..." I watched Claire as she probed around and removed a flattened bullet. She dropped it into a dish.A jolt of rage tensed me. It looked like a flattened.22. Caked with specks of Jill's blood."Something doesn't fit," Claire said, puzzled. She looked up at me. "This area ought to be covered in spinal fluid. No swelling of the brain tissue, very little blood."Suddenly Claire the professional clicked in. "I'm going to open up the chest cavity," she spoke into the mike. "Lindsay, look away.""What's wrong, Claire? What's going on?""Something's not right." Claire rolled the body over, took out a scalpel. Then she slipped the blade down a straight line from the top of Jill's chest.I did avert my eyes. I didn't want to see Jill like that."I'm doing a standard sternotomy," Claire dictated into the mike. "Opening up the pneumo chest area. Lung mem-brane is soft, tissue... degraded, soupy... I'm exposing the pericardium now...." I heard Claire take a deep breath. "s.h.i.t."My heart started racing. I was fixed on the screen now. "Claire, what's going on? What do you see?""Stay there." She put up a hand. She had seen something horrible. What was it?"Oh, Lindsay," she whispered, and finally looked at me. "Jill didn't die from a gunshot.""What!""The lack of swelling, blood seepage." She shook herhead. "The gunshot was delivered after she was dead." "What are you saying, Claire?" "I'm not sure" - she looked up - "but if I had toguess... I'd say ricin."

Chapter 70.

THERE WAS ALWAYS something intimidating about meeting Charles Danko in person. Even at a fancy place like the Hunt-ington Hotel in San Francisco. Danko fit in anywhere. He was wearing a tweed jacket, pinstriped shirt, and a rep tie.There was a girl with him, pretty, with a tangle of bright red hair. He always liked to keep you off guard. Who is she?Mal had been told to wear a suit jacket and even a tie, if he could dig one up. He had, and he found it kind of funny - bright red with tiny bugles in the design.Danko stood rather formally and shook Mal's hand, just another of his odd off-putting gestures. He waved a hand around the dining room. "Could there be a safer place for us to meet? My Gawd, the Huntington!"He looked at the girl and they both laughed, but he didn't introduce her."Ricin," Malcolm said, "it's brilliant. What a great day - we got Bengosian! We can do so much damage here. h.e.l.l, we could wipe out this capitalist den in about a minute flat. Go over to the Mark and take out another hundred rich blood-suckers. Take the trolley and spring death on anybody we pa.s.sed.""Yes, especially because I figured how to make it as a concentrate."Malcolm nodded, but he looked nervous. "I thought this was about G-8?"Danko looked at the girl again. They shared condescend-ing smiles. Who the h.e.l.l is she? What does she know?"Your focus is too narrow, Mal. We've talked about that before. More than anything else, this is about terrifying people. And we're going to scare them, believe me. Ricin will do the trick. Makes anthrax look like something only farm animals should fret about."He stared hard at Malcolm now. "You have a delivery sys-tem for me? For the ricin?"Malcolm had stopped making eye contact. "Yeah.""And more of your explosives?""We could blow the Huntington right off the map. The Mark, too." Malcolm finally allowed himself a sheepish smile. "All right, who is she?"Danko threw back his head and laughed. "She's someone brilliant, just like you. She's a secret weapon. Let's leave it at that. Just another soldier," he said, then looked into the girl's eyes. "There's always another soldier, Malcolm. That's what should be scaring the h.e.l.l out of everybody right now."

Chapter 71.

MICh.e.l.lE HEARD VOICES in the other room. Mal was back from his meeting. Julia was whooping it up as if she'd won the lottery. But Mich.e.l.le felt awful.She knew they had done terrible things. The latest killing didn't sit well with her. That pretty, innocent D.A. She had put aside the image of Charlotte Lightower and the house-keeper who'd been killed in the blast, and found some relief that at least the children had been saved. Lightower, Ben-gosian - they were greedy, guilty sc.u.m.But this one. What had she done to be on the list? Because she worked for the state? What had Mal said? This one is just for the thrill of it, just to show we can. Except Mich.e.l.le didn't really believe that. There was always a hidden agenda with Mal.The poor D.A. knew she was going to die from the minute they forced her into the truck. But she never gave in. Not once. She seemed brave to Mich.e.l.le. The real crime was that she never even knew why she was dying! They wouldn't even give her that.The door creaked open and Mal eased into the room. The look of triumph on his face gave Mich.e.l.le the creeps. He lay down next to her, smelling of tobacco and alcohol. "What happened to my party girl?""Not tonight," Mich.e.l.le said. A wheeze kicked up in her chest."Not tonight?" Mal grinned.Mich.e.l.le sat up. "I just don't understand. Why her? What did she do to anybody?""I mean, what did any of them really do?" Mal stroked her hair. "Wrong employer, honeybun. She represented the big bad state that's sanctioning the criminal pillaging of the world. That's what she did, Mich.e.l.le. She's tanks in Iraq. She's Grumman and Dow Chemical and the WTO all rolled into one. Don't be fooled because she was pretty.""They said on the news that she put away murderers. She even prosecuted some of these CEOs in business scandals.""And I told you not to pay attention to the news, Mich.e.l.le. Sometimes people who do good things die. Hold that thought."She shot a horrified look at him. The cough in her chest grew tighter. She fumbled around the bed for her new inhaler, but Mal blocked her hand. "What did you think, Mich.e.l.le? We were in this just to knock off a couple of fat-cat billionaires? Our fight's with the state. The state is very pow-erful. It won't roll over and die."Mich.e.l.le forced a breath. She realized in that moment that she was different from Mal. From them all. He called her a little girl. But he was wrong. A little girl didn't do the terrible things she had done. She wheezed again. "I need my inhaler, Mal. Please.""And I need to know if I can trust you, honeybun." He picked up the inhaler and twirled it in his fingers like a toy.Her breathing was starting to get heavy now, ragged. And Mal was making it worse, scaring her like this. She didn't know what he was capable of. "You can trust me, Mal. You know that," she whispered."I do know that, Mich.e.l.le, but it's not me I'm worried about. I mean, we work for someone, don't we, hon? Charles Danko isn't forgiving, the way I am. Danko is tough enough to beat them at their own game. He's a genius."She grabbed the puffer out of Mal's hand and depressed it twice, shooting the soothing spray into her lungs."You know the cool thing about ricin?" Mal smiled. "It can get into your bloodstream a hundred ways." He depressed his index finger twice, as though he was triggering an imaginary inhaler. He smiled. "Chht, chht."He had a glint in his eye she hadn't seen before. "Whoa, now that would really get that chest of yours into a state, wouldn't it, hon? Chht, chht."

Chapter 72.

IT WAS BEDLAM at the Hall that morning. As scary as it had ever been since I entered police work.An A.D.A. being killed. August Spies' victim number three.By six A.M., the place was teeming with a hundred Feds: FBI, Department of Justice, ATF. And reporters, crammed into the fifth-floor news room for some kind of briefing. The front page of the Examiner had a big banner headline: WHO'S NEXT?I was going over one of the crime scene reports from Jill's killing when I was surprised by Joe Santos and Phil Martelli knocking at my door. "We're real sorry to hear about Ms. Bernhardt," Santos said, stepping in.I tossed aside the papers and nodded thanks. "It was nice of you to come here."Martelli shrugged. "Actually, that's not why we're here, Lindsay.""We decided to go back through our records on this Hard-away thing," Santos said, sitting down. He pulled out a manila envelope. "We figured if he was here, given what he was up to, he had to turn up somewhere else."Santos removed a series of black-and-white photos from the envelope. "This is a rally we were keeping track of. Octo-ber twenty-second. Six months ago."The photos were surveillance sweeps of the crowd, no one in particular. Then one face was circled. Sandy hair, a narrow chin, a thin beard. Huddled in a dark fatigue jacket, jeans, a scarf that hung to his knees.My blood started to race. I went up to my board and com-pared it with the FBI photos taken in Seattle five years before.Stephen Hardaway.The son of a b.i.t.c.h was here six months ago."This is where it starts to get interesting." Phil Martelli winked.He spread out a couple of other shots. A different rally. Hardaway again. This time, standing next to someone I rec-ognized.Roger Lemouz.Hardaway had an arm around him.

Chapter 73.

HALF AN HOUR LATER I pulled up on Durant Avenue at the south entrance to the university. I ran inside Dwinelle Hall, where Lemouz had his office.The professor was there, outfitted in a tweed jacket and white linen shirt, entertaining a coed with flowing red hair."Party's over," I said."Ah, Madam Lieutenant." He smiled. That condescend-ing accent, Etonian or Oxfordian or whatever the h.e.l.l it was. "I was just counseling Annette here on how Foucault says that the same forces which historically depress cla.s.s affect gender, too.""Well, cla.s.s is over, Red." I flashed the student an "I don't want to see you in here in about ten seconds" look. It took her about that long to gather her books and leave. To her credit, Red flashed me a middle finger at the door. I returned the favor."I'm delighted to see you again." Lemouz seemed not to mind and pushed back in his chair. "Given the sad affairs on the news this morning, I fear the subject is politics - not women's development.""I think I misjudged you, Lemouz." I remained standing. "I thought you were just some pompous two-bit agitator, and you turn out to be a real player."Lemouz crossed his legs and gave me a condescending smile. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."I took out the envelope with Santos's photos."What I'm really getting a kick out of, Lemouz, is that I'm what's keeping your a.s.s away from Homeland Security. I pa.s.s along your name, with your public statements, the next time I see you, it'll be in a cell."Lemouz leaned back in his chair, still with an amused smile. "And you're warning me, why, Lieutenant?""Who said I am warning you?"His expression changed. He had no idea what I had on him. I liked that."What I find amusing" - Lemouz shook his head - "is how your blessed Const.i.tution is so blind to people in this country who are wearing a chador or who have the wrong accent, yet so high and mighty about the threat to a free soci-ety when it comes to a couple of greedy MBAs and a pretty D.A."I pretended I hadn't even heard what he just said."There's something I want you to look at, Lemouz."I opened the envelope and spread the FBI photos of Stephen Hardaway across the desk.Lemouz shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps I've seen him.... I don't know where. Is he a student here?""You weren't listening, Lemouz." I dropped another photo in front of him. A second. And a third. The ones taken by Santos and Martelli. Showing Hardaway standing with him, one with his arm draped across the professor's shoulder. "How do I find him, Lemouz? How?"He shook his head. "I don't know. These photos are from some time ago. I believe he was a professor detained after nine-eleven. Last fall. He hung around a couple of our rallies. I haven't seen him since. I don't actually know the man.""That's not good enough," I pressed."I don't know. That's the truth, Lieutenant. He was from up north somewhere, as I remember. Eugene? Seattle? He hung around for a while, but it all seemed to bore him."For once, I believed Lemouz. "What name was he going under?""Not Hardaway. Malcolm something. Malcolm Dennis, I think. I don't know where he is now. No idea."There was part of me that liked seeing Lemouz's slick, superior veneer crack. "I want to know one more thing. And this stays between us. Okay?"Lemouz nodded. "Of course.""The name August Spies. You know it?"Lemouz blinked. The color came back to his face. "That's what they're calling themselves?"I sat down and pushed myself close to him. We had never let the name out before. And he knew. I could see it on his face."Tell me, Lemouz. Who are the August Spies?"

Chapter 74.

"HAVE YOU EVER HEARD of the Haymarket Ma.s.sacre?" heasked me, talking as if I were one of his students."You mean in Chicago?" I said."Very good, Lieutenant." Lemouz nodded. "To this day, there is a statue there. To mark it. On May first, 1886, there was a ma.s.sive labor demonstration up Michigan Avenue. The greatest gathering of labor to that point in the history of the United States. Eighty thousand workers, women and children too. To this day, May Day is celebrated as labor's official holi-day around the globe. Everywhere, of course," he said with a smirk, "but in the United States.""Cut to the chase. I don't need the politics.""The demonstration was peaceful," Lemouz went on, "and over the next couple of days, more and more workers went out on strike and rallied. Then, on the third day, the police fired into the crowd. Two protestors were killed. The next day another demonstration was organized. At Haymar-ket Square. Randolph and Des Plaines Streets."Angry speeches blasted the government. The mayor ordered the police to disperse the crowd. One hundred seventy-six Chicago cops entered the square in a phalanx and stormed the crowd, wielding their nightsticks. Then the police opened fire. When the dust settled, seven police and four demonstrators lay dead."The police needed scapegoats, so they rounded up eight labor leaders, some of whom were not even there that day.""Where is this heading?""One of them was a teacher named August Spies. They tried and hanged them all. By the neck. Until dead. Later on, Spies was shown not to have even been at Haymarket. He said, as he stood on the scaffold, 'If you think that by hanging us you can stamp out the labor movement, then hang us. The ground is on fire where you stand. Let the voice of the people be heard.'"Lemouz stared deeply into my eyes. "A moment barely recorded in the history of your country, Lieutenant, but one that would inspire. One that apparently has."

Chapter 75.

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 gla.s.s 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 shop-ping 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. Despon-dent 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 s.p.a.ce."You know who to look for?" Danko asked."I know," the man said, a.s.sured. "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.

Chapter 76.

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-gla.s.s 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 a.s.sociates 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 h.e.l.l of a lawyer."A cla.s.smate 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-a.s.sured, achieving winner. Top of her law school cla.s.s. 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 back-ground 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 back-ground 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Jill. You sleep easy.

Chapter 77.

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 got-ten 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 Mes-sage 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 mes-sage returned.You said you wanted to help, so help, G.o.d-d.a.m.nit! 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 mur-derers 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.Get them to acknowledge their crimes. It's the only way to stop these deaths.This was something else, Cindy was thinking. The writer was reaching out. Maybe a sliver of guilt, or reason, holding back the insanity.I can tell you want to stop this insanity,Cindy wrote.Please, tell me what's going to happen. No one has to get hurt!Nothing. No further reply came."s.h.i.t!" Cindy pounded the keyboard. They were using her, that's all. To get their message out.She typed:Why did Jill Bernhardt have to die? What crime did she commit? Stealing oil? Globaliza-tion? What did she do?A full thirty seconds elapsed. Then a minute. Cindy was sure she had lost the messenger. She shouldn't have gotten mad. This was bigger than her anger or her grief.She finally rested her head against the monitor. When she looked up, she couldn't believe it. More words had appeared.Jill Bernhardt didn't have anything to do with G-8. This one wasn't like the others. This one was personal, the message read.

Chapter 78.

SOMETHING TERRIBLE was going to happen today. Cindy's latest e-mail a.s.sured us of that. And her strange pen pal hadn't been wrong yet, hadn't misled her or lied.It was a sickening, helpless feeling to watch the dawn creep into the sky and know: in spite of all the resources of the U.S. government, all the fancy vigilance and warnings and cops we could put out on the street, all my years of solv-ing homicides... August Spies were going to strike today. We couldn't do a thing to stop the killers.That dawn found me in the city's Emergency Command Center, one of those "undisclosed locations" hidden in a nondescript cinder-block building in a remote section of the naval yard out in Hunter's Point. It was a large room filled with monitors and high-tech communications equipment. Everyone there was on edge. What were August Spies going to pull now?Joe Molinari was there. The mayor, Tracchio, the heads of the fire department and Emergency Medical Task Force, all of us crammed around the "war table."Claire was there, too. The latest warning had everyone freaked out that this new attack could be a widespread one involving ricin. Molinari had a toxins expert on alert.During the night we had decided to release Hardaway's name and description to the press. So far we hadn't been able to locate him, and the situation had only gotten exponen-tially worse. Murder had given way to public safety. We were certain that Hardaway was involved somehow and that he was extremely dangerous.The morning news shows came on. Hardaway's face was the lead story on all three networks. It was like some nerve-racking doomsday countdown straight out of a disaster movie, only much worse. The thought that any minute in our city a bomb could go off or a poison be spread, maybe even by plane.By seven, a few of the inevitable Hardaway sightings had started to trickle in. A clerk was sure he'd seen him in Oak-land at an all-night market two weeks ago. Other calls came from Spokane, Albuquerque, even New Hampshire. Who knew if any of them were for real? But all the calls had to be checked out.Molinari was on the phone with someone named Ronald Kull, from the WTO."I think we should issue some kind of communiqu," the deputy director pressed. "No admissions, but say that the organization is considering the grievances, if they show a cessation of violence. It'll buy us time. It could save lives. Maybe a lot of lives."He seemed to have gotten some agreement and said he would draft the language. But then it had to be approved, by Washington and by the WTO.All this red tape. The clock ticking. Some kind of disaster about to strike at any moment.Then, like the e-mail foretold, it happened.At 8:42 A.M. I don't think I'll ever forget the time of day.