MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE I didn't sleep, tossing the whole night because this SOB - who was always the first to dash away when one of his buddies had the urge to go golfing, and pretended to be this fawning, adoring husband in public - was hurting one of the sharpest girls in the city, someone I loved.
Whatever it was, the thought of Steve gnawed at me for most of the next morning, until I could no longer sit there, fielding calls, pretending to keep my mind on the case.
I grabbed my purse. "If Tracchio's looking for me, tell him I'll be back in an hour."
Ten minutes later I pulled my car in front of 160 Beale, one of those glass skyscrapers off of lower Market filled with accountants and law partners, where Steve's office was.
All the way up to the thirty-second floor I was steaming, nearly hyperventilating. I pushed through the doors of Northstar Partnerships; a pretty receptionist behind a desk
smiled at me.
"Steve Bernhardt," I said, dropping my shield in her face.
I didn't wait for her to call, but headed straight into the corner office I'd once visited with Jill. Steve was rocking back in his chair, in a lime green Lacoste shirt and khakis, on the phone. Without so much as breaking his tone, he winked and pointed me into a chair. I got your wink, pal.
I waited through the remainder of some business conver-sation, my anger growing as he peppered his call with over-used tech clich俿 like "Sounds like you're trying to boil the ocean on that one, buddy."
Finally he signed off and spun around in his chair. "Lind-say," he said, eyeing me, as though he wasn't sure what was going on.
"Cut the crap, Steve, you know why I'm here."
"No, I don't." He shook his head, then sort of shifted his expression. "Is everything all right with Jill?"
"You know, I'm doing my best not to lunge across this desk and cram that phone right down your throat. Jill told us, Steve. We know."
