I got my gear together and waved hello to cop friends and goodnight to Richie, leaving him on the phone cooing to Tina. My seven-year old Explorer was waiting for me in the lot on Harriet Street, and when I turned the key, she started right up.

Twenty minutes later, I came through the front door of the roomy apartment I share with my husband, Joe, our six-month-old baby girl, Julie, and Martha, my border collie sidekick and Julie’s best doggy friend.

I called out, “Sergeant Mommy is home,” but there was no clicking of doggy toenails on hardwood, no “Hey, sweetie.”

It was way too quiet. Where was everyone?

I had my hand on the butt of my nine as I went from room to room and back around to the foyer, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing up as I checked reference points: keys missing from the console, baby bottle in the sink, Joe’s slippers by his chair, empty crib—when the front door swung open.

Martha shot through the opening and jumped up on me. My gorgeous and wonderful husband was right behind her, wheeling our child’s stroller into the foyer.

“Hey, Julie,” Joe said, “Look who’s home.”

I threw my arms around his neck, gave him a kiss, picked up my darling girl, and danced her around. I have to say, Julie is the most gorgeous baby on the planet—and I’m not just saying that because she’s ours. She’s got her daddy’s dark hair and both of our blue eyes, and actually, I can’t take her out without people rushing over to her and saying, “Oh, you’re so cute. Do you want to come home with me?”

And Julie will smile and put her arms out for them to take her! It’s kind of a riot—and it kind of scares me, too. I can’t turn my back on Julie for an instant, because she might go with anyone.

“We played a little softball in the park,” Joe told me.

“Oh, right. Good idea.”

“She said she’s going to sleep through the night.”

“Ha-ha. I want that in writing.”

“Why don’t you take off your piece and your shoes and stay awhile,” said my husband, clicking on the evening news. “Soup’s on in ten minutes.”

Love, love, love coming home. Just love it.

CHAPTER 2

I SPENT HALF the night talking to Joe about the belly bombs. And it wasn’t just pillow talk. Joe Molinari was former FBI, also former deputy director of Homeland Security, and now a highly regarded consultant who was content to be Mr. Mom while I fulfilled my calling in Homicide.

Joe had been over the c

ase with me a few dozen times already, and he said, when we were under the covers in the dark, “Sooner or later, the bomber is going to take credit for this.”

I said, “Huh,” and rooted around in the creases of my mind, thinking that for certain bombers, that was true. But not all of them.

I remember that Joe got up for the baby twice. I did it three times, and suddenly it was eight and I was late.

At nine-ish, I parked my car in my favorite spot in the shade of the overpass and went directly to the ME’s Office. The reception area was full of cops and plainclothes guys standing around, wishing for cigarettes and hoping for autopsy reports.

There was a new girl at the front desk who said her name was Tasha. I told her that Claire was expecting me, which was a lie that Claire always backed up.

I found Claire in the autopsy suite, stripping off her gloves as her assistant rolled a corpse out of the room toward the cooler.

She said, “I love how I think about you and you just materialize.”

“You got something?” I asked.

“Yeah. If I hadn’t had my hands full of internal organs, I would’ve texted you.”

Claire unsnapped her gown and hung it on a hook and peeled off her cap. I followed her through to her office, dying every second to know what kind of news she had.

She settled in behind her desk, rolled her chair until she was in just the right place, and said, “I got something from Clapper that he got from the Feds. What the belly bombs consist of.”

“Holy crap. Tell me.”