I came home at 11:00 p.m. with swollen feet and a growling stomach; was greeted at the door by my manic border collie and her tranquil nanny. I walked Karen out to the street, watched the taillights of her old Volvo disappear into the distance. Then I returned to an apartment that was devoid of Joe.

I had spoken to Joe twice a day since he’d left town, but swapping conversational tidbits by phone was way short of being in my husband’s real live presence.

I nuked a he-man-style TV dinner of Salisbury steak and green beans and brought it into the living room. I got into Joe’s big chair, put my feet up on a footstool, and rested my tray on my bambino’s rump.

“You don’t mind, do you, darling?” I asked him or her.

Not a problem, Mom.

The national news was wrapping up as I tucked into my fancy steak burger, and then the local headlines came on. First up was the report on the 6:15 shooting at the Potrero Center.

The on-site reporter described the latest drug-dealer execution in fairly accurate and gruesome detail, saying that this victim was the fifth dealer to be murdered in the past five days.

The reporter said, “In an interview with KTVU earlier today, crime analyst Ben Markey said that these killings probably are not gang related but are an indictment of the SFPD. Quoting Mr. Markey, ‘The cops can’t put the bite on drug crime, so a vigilante has stepped in to do the job.’

“Channel Two has learned this evening that the DEA has assembled a task force to investigate this rash of killings. Joseph Molinari, formerly a senior agent with the FBI and more recently deputy to the director of Homeland Security, has been hired to consult. Molinari is now based in San Francisco.

“And so, Tracey, back to you.”

I stared at the TV for quite a long moment, trying to absorb what I’d just heard, especially the part where my husband was on a DEA task force and I didn’t know a thing about it.

I gathered up my tray and myself, got out of the chair, and found my phone. I called Joe, who answered three time zones away at two thirty in the morning.

I scared him half to death.

“What’s wrong, Lindsay?”

“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I said. “I just heard about this task force from Channel Two News.”

“You didn’t get my message?”

“No. No.”

“Well, I left one for you.”

I glanced at the phone, saw the blinking message light; it must’ve come in while I was taking witness statements at the strip mall.

“I’m sorry, Joe. I missed it.”

“I’m coming back tomorrow night. I’m investigating Chaz Smith’s death for the DEA.”

“But why?”

“Because Chaz Smith wasn’t just a narc. He was a federal agent.”

Book Three: Friends and Lovers