Still, I was glad for the drive time with Joe’s sharp, former-FBI-agent brain.

I buzzed up the car windows and beat the steering wheel for emphasis as I filled Joe in on the well-planned executions of four — yes, four — notorious drug dealers and told him that Narcotics was now asking Homicide for help.

Joe asked, “And why is Brady sure that Revenge is a cop?”

“The slugs that killed Chaz Smith match to a gun stolen from the property room, and all of the hits were so smoothly executed that the shooter had to know the dealers’ whereabouts. It’s like he had inside knowledge. Maybe it came from inside the Hall.”

I told Joe that all of the executed drug dealers were big-time and that Chaz Smith’s death had been a blow to the top floor of the SFPD.

“Smith’s real identity had been a very well-guarded secret, Joe. He headed up a large undercover operation that can’t be blown. Cops’ lives are on the line.”

Joe said, “Lindsay, this is a nasty case, and dangerous. Did your shooter know Smith was a cop? Maybe he did.”

It was a possibility, maybe a good one. I said, “Hang on,” then hit the departure ramp at fifty and pulled the car up to United Airlines’ curbside-check-in, no-waiting zone.

I shut off the engine, looked at my husband, and said, “Don’t go.”

“And you. Keep your head down. Don’t work more than one shift a day. Get some sleep tonight. Okay?”

We both grinned at the impossible demands, then got out of the car. I gave Joe a full-body hug and sprinkled tears on his neck.

We kissed, then Joe bent down and kissed my baby bump, making me giggle at the looks we got from two commuters and a luggage handler.

“Goofball,” I said, loving that Joe was my goofball.

“Don’t forget to eat. I already miss you.”

I kissed him, waved good-bye, watched him disappear into the terminal. Then I drove to the Hall.