3rd Degree (14 page)

Jill's voice mail came on. “Hi, it's District Attorney Jill Bernhardt....”

Damn, Jill usually had her cell phone on. But I remem-bered about how she said she had a long day ahead in court. “It's me, Lindsay. It's two o' clock. Where you been?” I thought about saying more, but I wasn't in private. “Call me. I want to know how you are.”

“Something wrong?” Molinari said when I hung up.

I shook my head. “A friend... She threw her husband out last night. We were supposed to talk. It's just that the guy's turned into a real creep.”

“She's lucky, then,” Molinari said, “to have a cop for a friend.”

The thought amused me. Jill lucky to have a cop for a friend. I thought of calling her at the office, but she'd get back to me as soon as she turned on her phone. “Trust me, she can handle herself.”

We turned on the ramp to the Bay Bridge. I didn't even have to use the top hat, as there was almost no traffic into the city. “Smooth sailing,” I said. “We caught a break. Finally.”

“Listen, Lindsay...” Molinari turned to me, his tone changed. “What do you think about having dinner with me tonight?”

“Dinner?” I thought for a second. I turned to him. “I think we know that might not be the best idea.”

Molinari nodded in a resigned way, as if the thought got the better of him. “Still, we both gotta eat....” He curled a smile.

Holding the wheel, I felt my palms starting to sweat. Geez. There were a hundred reasons why this could be wrong. But hell, we had lives, too.

I looked at Molinari and smiled. “We gotta eat.”

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 passively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.

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 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 wine-glass. 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 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. 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 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-sex 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 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, 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.”

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?”

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 goddamn 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.”

I HAD NO IDEA how to get in touch with Steve.

It was late - who the hell knew where he was staying. And Jill had only been missing for the day. She could show up and be pissed 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.