They called Traci back in to lock up the box again and insert it into its proper location. A next-to-worst-case scenario for Glitsky-after the possibility of her escaping again altogether-would be if they could not locate the woman in a day or two of canvassing shopkeepers and neighborhoods and had to assign a full-time person to keep watch in case she went to the bank for some cash.

But he had hopes that it wouldn't come to that. Already this morning, Wessin's task force had gone out into the town and onto the university campus, armed with their photographs. Two officers were going to the post office-they had what they hoped was a current alias, and if she'd ever gotten so much as a gas bill under that name, they could find where she lived. The French accent would stand out, as would the face. All talk of small town aside, though, the population of the greater area during the school year when college was in session was something in the order of a hundred thousand souls. If she were consciously laying low-and her years as a rebel in Algeria had certainly prepared her for that-they could miss her for a very long time, perhaps forever. And that's if she were still here at all.

Although the money argued that she was.

Glitsky and Wessin-by now they were Abe and Matt-were standing on the sidewalk outside the bank. The drizzle had let up along with most of the wind, and though the streets were wet and it was still overcast, patches of blue were showing in the sky above them. "People will be checking back in at the station after lunch, Abe. I could drop you back there now if you'd like. Or you could grab a bite downtown here. It's not San Francisco, but there's a couple of places to eat."

"I'll find 'em. You don't have a Jewish deli, do you?"

"No, but if you want deli, Zia's is pretty damn good Italian. It's on the next block, on the way to where I'm going to talk. You want, I'll show you."

It was a sad but true fact of Glitsky's life that since his heart attack and the never-ending battle with cholesterol, he rarely ate sandwiches anymore, especially freshly sliced mortadella and salami and all those great nitrates with cheese and vinegar and oil on a just-out-of-the-oven sourdough roll. But he was having one now, enjoying it immensely, washing it down with San Pellegrino water, thinking he liked this low-rise, not-quite-yuppified town, even as he wondered where the black people were.

With the improving weather, a steady stream of mostly young people-students, he surmised-passed in front of him where he sat outside on the sidewalk. He saw as many per-capita Asians as there were in San Francisco, and Hispanics, and from the evidence a thriving lesbian community-in fact, ethnicities and minorities of every stripe seemed well represented here, but there was nary a black person. What, he wondered, was that about? More than anything else, he found it odd, out of sync with the world he inhabited.

It was clouding up again as he was finishing his sandwich and his drink, and he went back inside the crowded little deli to discard his bottle and napkins. He looked at his watch. He wasn't due to meet Wessin for another twenty minutes, so he stopped for a moment to look at the display of imported Italian goods around the shelves. Maybe he'd pick up some eggplant caponata for Treya, or roasted red peppers, and surprise her. They hadn't had much romance in their lives since Zachary's birth, and now she was already back at work after the maternity leave. He should really get her something. He never thought to surprise her. He ought to change that. In fact, he should bring her presents more often, he was thinking, let her know how much she was appreciated.

Appreciated? He silently berated himself for the understatement. He way more than appreciated her. In four years, she had become the center of his life. Some days he felt she had given him the gift of feeling again, when it had for so long been dormant.

Maybe some chocolate? A box of Baci, or "little kisses"? Too romantic? What was too romantic? What kind of concept was that?

Carefully replacing the roasted red peppers and the little jar of relish so they wouldn't fall, he went over to the cash register where they kept the boxes of candy and was reaching out to pick one up when the woman behind the counter waved and cheerily called out, "Au revoir, madame."

An answering chirp of "au revoir" came from the doorway and Glitsky whirled to catch a glimpse of female profile as she walked out the door and turned left up the street. The candy forgotten now, his mind completely blank, he stood for a long instant frozen in his steps.

He wasn't completely sure. Whoever she was had become blond now, hair cropped so short that it nearly appeared crew cut. He'd only glimpsed her briefly, and the first impression-after the shock of recognition itself- was her youth. This could not be a thirty-nine-year-old former terrorist and killer. This was an anonymous student, possibly in graduate school, wearing very little if any makeup and sporting maybe a piercing through her eyebrow.

He didn't exactly have to fight his way out of the little shop, but if he didn't want to push people over and cause a scene, he had to be careful. By the time he'd come out onto the sidewalk, she was already at the corner crossing, walking away from him.

His mind racing, he fell in behind her. He had his pager on his belt, but had left his cell phone in his car back at police headquarters-they were only going down to the bank and then back on a quick errand, and he'd had no reason to think he'd need it. He did have his gun, but the sidewalk was, if not packed solid with humanity, at least well traveled-twenty or more people shuffled and strolled and simply walked in the space that separated them.

Reluctant to close too much of the space between them, he overruled his early inclination to try to make an arrest alone in the midst of these people. He knew nothing about her own preparations or readiness in case of trouble. She herself might well be the embodiment of that old cliche-armed and extremely dangerous. He could not risk provoking anything like a hostage situation. He also had no idea how she would react if he tried to place her under arrest by himself. The sight of a black man with a gun in a strange, curiously white-bread town might cause the citizenry to react unpredictably. Even if he flashed a badge, there might be enough craziness to allow a young screaming woman to get away in the startled crowd.

He had to get a plan. He had to get a plan.

Half a block further on, she stopped to look in a shopwindow and it gave him a chance to close the gap. Already he was within the same block, close enough to study her. He had lived with the photographs of her now for six weeks, that face from any number of angles, that face with a wide range of expressions. A car honked on the street behind him and she turned to look, and any doubt melted away.

He had found her!

She wore oversize tan overalls and sandals with no socks. On top, an overlong sweater in a washed-out green hid any intimation of the form beneath. She was any dowdy, even slovenly student, unconcerned about her appearance. Without the casually overheard French good-bye, Glitsky might have stood next to her in the deli-probably had been standing next to her-and he would have missed her entirely.

She brought a hand to her mouth. Biting into some kind of pastry, perhaps a cannoli, from the deli, she leaned over slightly to keep the crumbs from falling on her. Then she began walking again. Glitsky stepped into the doorway of the magazine store where she had slowed down and watched as she crossed over diagonally in the middle of the block. A few raindrops hit the pavement and she looked skyward, threw her pastry into a corner trash can and picked up her pace.