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call an attorney.
    “Hello?” I said again when there was no response.
    I heard a click, then froze as I listened to the voice repeat the same phrase in the earpiece: “I’m going to kill the bride. . . . I’m going to kill the bride. . . . I’m going to kill the bride. . . .”
    The phone clicked off, leaving a dial tone buzzing in my ear.
    I stared at my cell phone in disbelief.
    The voice on the other end of the line had been my own.

Chapter 7

    PARTY PLANNING TIP #7:
    To get your party started, prepare some guaranteed conversation prompts, such as “Susan is expecting!” or “Bruce has come out of the closet!”
    I’ve been to the San Francisco Hall of Justice—referred to as 850 Bryant—more times than would look good on a résumé. Mostly to retrieve my mother, who’s been held briefly for various 5150 (official police code for “crazy person”) infractions, such as freeing kennel “detainees” at the animal shelter and picketing to “save the pigeons” in Union Square. A couple of the watch commanders know me by sight.
    Located in the Tenderloin, across the street from a number of bail bonds shops and a place called the Stud Bar, the block-long building reminds me of the cellblock on Alcatraz, only with fresher paint. The jail portion is curved with lots of smoky windows, but the rest of the building is typical for city structures—pink beige walls, screened windows, and a couple of armed security checkpoints, a result of September 11th. I scanned the sign—WARNING. SUBJECT TO SEARCH. NO SCISSORS, KEYS, WATCHES—to see if I’d forgotten anything and pulled a pair of scissors out of my purse. Dropping them into the contraband container, I placed my purse on the belt and walked through the metal detector. The WC checked my photo ID, issued me a temporary sticker-badge, and directed me to the fifth floor where homicide officers hung out.
    I thought about one of my mom’s party rules as I entered the elevator car and practiced a few opening lines to help break the ice with Detective Melvin. Naturally I chose quotes from an appropriate film—and my favorite— The Maltese Falcon .
    “I haven’t lived a good life. I’ve been bad, worse than you could know. . . .”
    Nah. I was no Brigid O’Shaughnessy.
    “I have a terrible confession to make. That story I told you yesterday was just a story. . . .”
    Trouble was, I didn’t have anything to confess. At least, not that I knew of.
    “Haven’t you got anything better to do than to keep asking a lot of fool questions—”
    My lip was still curled, Bogey style, when the doors opened on the fourth floor. Two officers read my IBS T-shirt and took a step back, allowing me a wide berth as I left the elevator. I wanted to tell them that not only do I not have irritable bowel syndrome, but that it’s not contagious, but I bit my tongue and just smiled.
    After we exchanged places in the elevator, I turned and asked, “Detective Luke Melvin’s office?”
    The cop with his hands clasped over his crotch said, “Five oh two.” The other one stifled a laugh.
    Spinning around with all the dignity I could muster, I moved down the hall, found the office marked 502 HOMICIDE, and knocked. No answer. I let myself in. A kid who looked right out of police academy greeted me, asked my business in cop-speak, then had me sit down in an indestructible orange chair against a far wall of the small waiting room. Moments later Detective Melvin appeared from behind a closed door. I stood up.
    At five ten, I’m tall, but he was taller—at least six four. Imposing, to say the least, even without the classic uniform. He gestured for me to follow him. In an effort to be his equal, at least in stature, I stretched my neck, straightened my shoulders, and stood up straight before heading into his inner sanctum.
    Passing several offices, he led me to one at the back. He closed the door behind me and moved around his desk to take a seat. I took a moment to scan the office. The