He sat next to me.

"You are a vast storehouse of personal information," I whispered. "How the h.e.l.l do you know about Spence?"

He shrugged and leaned in, keeping his voice low. "Information is what I do. What do you think the 'I' in IT stands for? I promise I won't breathe a word of it. I just brought it up because I knew that the two of you knew. This is not Spence's first rehab. Do you think he'll make it?"

I looked at Cheryl to see if she'd take the question. Not a chance in h.e.l.l.

"Yes," I said. "He knows that if he doesn't, he's going to lose the best woman he ever had."

"That's precisely what I was thinking, and if Kylie MacDonald ever winds up single again..." Matt took a long, thoughtful pause into fantasyland. "h.e.l.l, mate," he said, "I don't have to tell you how fantastic she is."

"No, you don't," I said, trying to keep my eyes away from Cheryl and my head as far away from the past as I could and even further away from the future. "No, you don't."

"Well, enjoy your lunch, you two," Matt said, getting up. "And I know I've said this before, Zach, but brilliant job on the Hazmat case."

He headed toward the door. Cheryl stared at me without saying a word. Ten seconds into the silence, she burst into a girlish giggle, and I immediately started laughing with her.

"Well, that certainly gives new meaning to the phrase embarra.s.singly awkward social situation," she said. "You thought he had the hots for me, and it turns out he has the hots for Kylie. How do you feel about that?"

"I feel like it's something I don't want to talk about," I said. "Certainly not now, and absolutely not within a hundred yards of Gerri's Diner."

"How about a hundred miles from Gerri's Diner?"

"I don't understand."

"I think I'm ready to take this relationship to the next level," she said.

"Okay..."

She slid her iPhone across the table. "I know I've mentioned it, but I've never even shown you a picture."

I looked at the screen. It was a picture of a white house, its roof, front yard, and driveway covered with snow.

"It's even prettier in the summer when the flowers are out, or in October when the leaves are turning," she said.

"Is that your house in Woodstock?" I said.

"Half the time. The settlement says that Fred and his child-bride-to-be have it the other half, but..."

"But what?"

"They won't be using it for a while. The soon-to-be-next Mrs. Fred Robinson is pregnant."

"Hmmm," I said, stroking my imaginary beard. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I feel like it's something I don't want to talk about," she said. "Ever. So, would you like to drive up to Woodstock this weekend, rake some leaves, breathe some country air, lie by the fireplace, and drink wine?"

"It sounds like it could be almost as much fun as the paperwork I've been grinding out."

"You'll love it. That house was once a very joyful part of my life, and then one day it wasn't. I'm finally ready to go back there and find the joy again, and I'd like it to be with you. So, what do you say? This weekend?"

"Are you kidding? I was wondering if you were ever going to invite me."

"Well, now you can stop wondering."

Me? Stop wondering? Never happen. Even now I was wondering if Spence would make it through rehab, and if he didn't, would Kylie leave him, and if she did, would Matt ask her out, and if he did- Cheryl smiled at me, reached across the table, and, without caring who was watching and who wasn't, took my hand in hers.

I smiled back, covered her hand with mine, shook all the other baggage out of my head, and wondered, How the heck did I get to be this lucky?

Acknowledgments.

The authors would like to thank Undersheriff Frank Faluotico and First Sergeant Alan Rowe of the Ulster County NY Sheriff's Office, NYPD Detective Sal Catapano, Dr. Lawrence Dresdale, Bob Beatty, Mel Berger, and Jason Wood for their help in making this work of fiction ring true.

For the Women's Murder Club, this is more than bad luck. This is murder.

For an excerpt, turn the page.

It was an ugly Monday just after noon. There had been no sign of sun so far, just a thick fog that had put the blocks to traffic around the Golden Gate. I was behind the wheel of the squad car and Inspector Rich Conklin, my partner of many years, was in the seat beside me when Claire called my cell phone.

Claire Washburn is my closest friend, and also San Francisco's Chief Medical Examiner. This call was strictly business.

"Lindsay," Claire had shouted over the braying of car horns. "I've got two DBs in a single-car smashup and I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm looking at. If you and Richie are in the neighborhood, I could use another opinion."

She gave me her location and I told her we'd be there as soon as weather and traffic permitted. I repeated to Rich what Claire had said and turned the car around.

My partner is smart, steady, a gla.s.s-half-full type of guy, and on this particular day he was pretty happy with himself.

He said, "Claire wants us to look at a traffic fatality?"

"She doubts it's an accident."

I followed Lincoln through the Presidio and past the Crissy Field Overlook toward the bridge as Conklin called Brady and told him we were answering Claire's call. He phoned Claire and told her we were about eight minutes out, then picked up where he left off, asking my advice on his romantic dilemma.

"It's Tina's birthday. We've been together for two months," he said. "So, what do I get her that means 'I like you a lot so far?'"

This line of conversation was tricky. Rich is like a younger brother to me. We're tight. We talk about everything. But his ex-girlfriend, Cindy, is my home girl. And Cindy was still suffering from their breakup six months ago. She hadn't given up hope that she and Richie could get back together.

To tell the truth, I was hoping for that, too.

I kept my eyes on the road, stayed on Lincoln, a two-laner flanked by historic buildings on the left and a parking lot on the right for visitors to the bridge. We drove slowly past the nifty old houses on Pilots' Row and then hit a wall of traffic.

"Looks like we're walking," I said.

I braked on the shoulder, turned on the flashers, grabbed my jacket, and locked up. Then my partner and I started up the incline. Richie didn't miss a beat.

"So, I was thinking I'd get her a pair of earrings. Or does the ring in earring send too much of a message?"

"Not unless they're diamonds," I said.

"Hah," said Conklin.

I said, "Rich, in my humble opinion, you and Tina are at flowers and dinner. That's safe, sweet, and her mother won't send out invitations."

"Okay. And do I sign the card love or not?"

I couldn't help it. I rolled my eyes and threw a sigh.

"Richie, do you love her? Or don't you? You have to figure that one out."

He laughed.

"Could you stop giggling," I said.

He gave me a salute. "Yes, ma'am, Sergeant Boxer, ma'am. And could you put in for a sense of humor?"

"You're asking for it," I said.

I gave him a little shove and he laughed some more, and we kept walking up the incline, pa.s.sing cars that were inching forward, pa.s.sengers getting out, shouting curses into the fog.

My cell phone rang again.

Claire said, "Hurry up, okay? I can't hold off the d.a.m.ned Bridge Authority much longer. The tow truck is here."

The scene was surreal, and I don't use the term lightly.

From what I could see, a late-model red Jeep had lost control in the outside northbound lane and careened across five lanes before hitting the walkway barrier and slamming into the railing, which was bulging to accommodate the Jeep's front end.

All but one lane had been closed, and a narrow ribbon of traffic was opened to alternating north- and southbound traffic that crawled past the Jeep, which was half swallowed by fog up to its taillights.

Law-enforcement vehicles were haphazardly parked on the roadway: Bridge Authority SUVs, fire department, CHP vehicles, black-and-whites and personnel to match were clumped around the Jeep. I saw people I knew from the ME's office shooting pictures of the accident. A traffic cop heaved over the railing.

At the same time, a tow truck was pulling into position to remove the Jeep, in prep for reopening this, the only thoroughfare between San Francisco and Sausalito.

A Bridge Authority uni checked out our badges and called out, "Dr. Washburn. You got company."

Claire came out from behind her van, shaking her head, saying, "Hey, you guys. Welcome to some kind of crazy. Let me give you the tour."

She looked worried, and as we closed in on the Jeep, I saw why. The windshield had exploded outward, the front end was crushed, accordion-style, and as I peered into the front seat, my scalp actually crawled.

I've seen a lot of gruesome scenes in my eleven years in Homicide, but this one vaulted to the top of the "most gruesome" list. I mean, number one.

Two young people, white male in the driver's seat, white female in the pa.s.senger seat. Both looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Their arms were akimbo and their heads thrown back, mouths open in silent screams.

But what drew my attention directly were the victims' midsections, which were gaping, b.l.o.o.d.y holes. And I could see where the blood and guts had gone.

The driver's side was plastered with bits of human debris mixed with fragments of clothing and other detritus I couldn't identify. One airbag was draped over the steering wheel. The other covered the pa.s.senger from the thighs down.

Claire said, "We've got blood and particles of human tissue stuck all over everywhere. We've got damage to the seat belts and the dashboard and the instrument panel, and that's a b.u.t.ton projectile stuck in the visor. Also, we've got a dusting of particulate from the airbags sugaring everything.

"These areas, right here," she said, pointing to the blown-out abdomens of the deceased, "this is what I'm calling explosive points of origin."

"Aw, Christ," Rich said. "They had bombs on their laps? What a desperate way to kill yourself."

"I'm not ready to call manner of death, but I'm getting a handle on cause. Look at this," Claire said. She got an arm around the pa.s.senger and leaned the young woman's body forward. I saw spinal tissue, bone, and blood against the back of the seat.

My morning coffee was now threatening to climb out of my throat, and the air around me seemed to get very bright. I turned away and took a couple of deep breaths, and when I turned back I had the presence of mind to say, "So, this bomb, or should I say bombs plural, blew all the way through the bodies?"

Claire said, "Correct, Lindsay. That's why my premature but still educated opinion is that we're looking at a bomb that exploded from inside the abdomen. Abdomens, plural.

"I'm thinking belly bombs."

The lunch-hour rush had escalated from peeved to highly outraged. Traffic cops were taking c.r.a.p from irate drivers, and TV choppers buzzed overhead like houseflies circling a warm apple pie.

The tow-truck operator called out in my direction, "Hey. Like, can someone extract the victims? We gotta open the bridge."

Here's what I knew for sure: I was the ranking homicide cop on the scene, the primary investigator until the case was permanently a.s.signed. Right now, my job was to protect the scene from contamination, and-no joke-the scene was a six-lane highway.

I marched over to the tow-truck driver and told him, "Thanks, but the wreck is staying here and please extract your truck from my bridge."

As the tow truck moved out, I addressed my fellow law-enforcement officers, saying, "Whatever this is, it's not an accident. I'm locking the bridge down."

"Bravo," Claire said. "We agree."

I dismissed nonessential personnel and phoned Charlie Clapper, head of CSU. I told him to drop whatever he might be doing and hustle over.

"Jam on the gas and jack up the sirens," I said.

I reported in to Brady, told him what I knew. He said he would get hold of the chief and the mayor and would be on scene ASAP.

Yellow tape was unspooled and a perimeter set up with a wide margin around the Jeep, and roadblocks were placed at both ends of the bridge. Conklin and I doc.u.mented the scene with our cell-phone cameras and notepads and chewed over some theories.

I was enormously relieved when Clapper's van came through with a flatbed truck behind it. Both vehicles parked outside the cordon, and the unflappable Clapper and half a dozen criminalists disembarked.