As the plane got close to San Francisco we were treated to a surprisingly clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city's skyline. I spotted the Embarcadero and the Transamerica Building, and then I just let the scene wash over me. I couldn't wait to see Jam. We'd been close ever since we worked a murder investigation together. The only problem: the two of us lived on different coasts. We liked our respective cities, and our jobs, and hadn't figured out where to go with that yet.

On the other hand, we definitely enjoyed being together, and I could see the joy on Jamilla's face as I spotted her near an exit at busy San Francisco International Airport. She was in front of a North Beach Deli, grinning, clapping her hands over her head, then jumping up and down. She has that kind of spirit and can get away with it.

I smiled and felt better as soon as I saw her. She always has that effect on me. She was wearing a buttery soft leather car coat, light blue T, and black jeans and looked as though she'd come straight from work. But she looked good, really good.

She'd put on lipstick-and perfume, I discovered as I took her into my arms. "Oh yes," I said. "I missed you."

"Then hold me, hug me, kiss me," she said. "How was your boy? How was Alex?"

"He's getting big, smarter, funnier. He's pretty great. I love that little guy. I miss him already, Jamilla."

"I know you do. I know you do, baby. Give me that hug."

I picked Jam up off her feet and spun her around. She's five-nine and solid, and I love holding her in my arms. I noticed a few people watching us, and most were smiling. How could they not?

Then two of the spectators, a man and a woman in dark suits, walked up to us. Now what is this?

The woman held up her badge for me to see: FBI.

Oh no. No. Don't do this to me.