Private scandals

Chapter Twenty-three

But someone had hurt Angela.

Someone had killed her.

Deanna continued to scream, high, piercing cries that burned her throat like acid. Even when her vision grayed, Deanna couldn't take her eyes off the horror beside her. And she could smell the blood, hot and coppery and thick.

She had to escape before Angela reached out with that delicate, dead hand and squeezed it around her throat.

With little mewling sounds of panic, she crawled out of the chair, afraid to move too fast, afraid to take her eyes off of what had been Angela Perkins. Every move, every sound was echoed by the monitor while the camera objectively recorded, its round, dark eye staring. Something tugged her back. On a soundless gasping scream, Deanna lifted her hands to fight what she couldn't see, and tangled her fingers in the wires of a lapel mike.

"Oh God. Oh God." She tore herself free, hurling the mike aside and fleeing the set in a blind panic.

She stumbled, caught a horrified glimpse of herself in the wide wall mirror. A hot laugh bubbled in her throat. She looked insane, she thought wildly. And she bit down on her hysteria, afraid it would slide from her throat in a mad chuckle. She nearly fell, tripping over her own feet as she ran down the dark corridor. Someone was breathing down her neck. She could feel it, she knew it, hot, greedy breath whispering behind her.

Sobbing, she hurtled into her dressing room, slammed the door, threw the lock, then stood in the dark with her heart pounding like a rabbit's.

She fumbled for the light, then screamed again when her own reflection jumped at her. A glittery gold garland ringed the mirror. Like a noose, she thought. Like a spangled noose. Boneless with terror, she slid down against the door. Everything was spinning, spinning, and her stomach heaved in response. Clammy with nausea, she crawled to the phone. The sound of her own whimpering iced her skin as she punched the number for emergency.

"Please, please help." Dizzy and sick, she lay on the floor, cradling the receiver. "Her face is gone. I need help. The CBC

Building, Studio B. Please hurry," she said, and let the darkness swallow her.

It was just past one A.m. when Finn arrived home. His first thoughts were for a hot shower and a warm brandy. He expected Deanna home within the hour, after whatever emergency meeting she had. She'd been vague about the details when she'd caught him between shoots, and he hadn't had the time or the inclination to press. They'd both been in the business too long to question midnight meetings.

He sent his driver off and started up the walk, both amused and embarrassed that the dog was setting up a din that would wake the neighbors for blocks.

"Okay, okay, Cronkite. Try for a little dignity." He reached for his keys as he climbed onto the porch, wondering why Deanna had forgotten to leave on the porch light. Little details like that never escaped her. Wedding plans were rattling her brain, he thought, pleased at the idea.

Something crunched under his foot. He glanced down and saw the faint glitter of broken glass. His initial puzzlement turned to fury when he saw the jagged shards of the beveled glass panels beside the door.

Then his mouth went dry. What if her meeting had been canceled? What if she'd come home? He burst through the door in thoughtless fear, shouting her name.

Something crashed at the back of the house, and the dog's frantic barking turned into a desperate howl. Thinking only of Deanna, Finn hit the lights before he sprinted toward the source of the crash.

He found nothing but destruction, a mindless and brutal attack on their possessions. Lamps and tables were overturned, glassware shattered. When he reached the kitchen, his mind was cold as ice. He thought he saw a form running across the lawn. Even as he tore aside the shattered door to give chase, the dog howled again, scratching pitifully against the locked utility room door.

He wanted to give chase. It burned in him to hunt down whoever had done this and throttle him. But the possibility that Deanna was somewhere in the house, hurt, stopped him.

"Okay, Cronkite." He unlocked the door and staggered back as the dog leaped joyously at him. His thick body was shivering. "Scared you, did he? Me too. Let's find Deanna."

He searched every room, growing colder with every moment. The devastation was as total as tornado damage, both the priceless and the trivial capriciously destroyed.

But the worst, the most terrifying, was the message scrawled in Deanna's lipstick on the wall above the bed they shared.

I loved you

I killed for you

I hate you

"Thank God she wasn't here. Thank God." Grimly he picked up the phone and called the police.

"Take it easy." Lieutenant Jenner helped Deanna steady a glass of water.

"I'm all right now." But her teeth chattered on the rim of the glass. "I'm sorry. I know I was incoherent before."

"Understandable." He'd had a good long look at Angela Perkins's body and found Deanna's condition understandable indeed. He didn't blame her for huddling inside the locked room, needing to be gently persuaded to open the door to admit him. "You're going to want to have a doctor take a look at you."

"I'm fine, really."

Shock, he imagined. It was nature's way of closing down the system and offering the illusion of comfort. But her eyes were still glassy, and even though he'd thrown his overcoat over her shoulders, she was shivering.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I found her. I came in and found her." "What were you doing at the studio after midnight?"

"She asked me to meet her. She called — she…" She sipped again. "She called."

"So you arranged to meet her here." "She wanted to — to talk to me. She said she had information about…" Defenses clicked in. "About something I needed to know. I wasn't going to come, then I thought it might be best if we had it out."

"What time did you get here?"

"It was midnight. I looked at my watch in the parking lot." The colored lights in the distance, the haze of Christmas cheer. "It was midnight. I thought maybe she hadn't arrived yet, but she could have had her driver drop her off. So I let myself into the studio. And it was dark, so I thought she wasn't here, and that was good. I wanted to be first. Then, when I started to turn on the lights, something hit me. When I woke up I was on the set, and I couldn't think. The camera was on. Oh, God, the camera was on, and I saw, in the monitor, I saw her." She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back the whimpers.

"Take a minute." Jenner leaned back. "I don't know anything else. I ran in here and locked the door. I called the police, and I passed out."

"Did you see anybody on your way to the studio?" "No. No one. The cleaning crews would have gone by now. There would be a few people in the newsroom, manning the desk overnight, but after the last broadcast, the building clears out."

"You need a card to get into the building, don't you?"

"Yes. They put in a new security system about a year ago."

"Is this your purse, Miss Reynolds?" He held out a generous shoulder bag in smooth black leather.

"Yes, that's mine. I must have dropped it when I — when I came in."

"And this card." He held up a clear plastic bag. Inside was a slim, laminated card with her initials in the corner.

"Yes, that's mine."

He set the bag aside and continued to take notes. "What time did Miss Perkins contact you about this meeting?"

"About five. She called my office." "Your secretary took the call?"

"No, she'd already gone home. I took it myself." Something trembled through the shield of shock. "You think I killed her? You think I did that to her? Why?" She lurched to her feet, swaying like a drunk as the overcoat slid to the floor. "How could I? Why would I? Do you think I lured her here, and murdered her, then taped it all so I could show it to all my loyal viewers in the morning?"

"Calm down, Miss Reynolds." Jenner got cautiously to his feet. She looked as though she might dissolve if he touched her. "No one's accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to get the facts."

"I'll give the facts. Someone killed her. Someone blew her face away and propped her up on the set. Oh God." She pressed a hand to her head. "This can't be real."

"Sit down and catch your breath." Jenner took her by the arm. There was a commotion in the corridor behind him and he turned to the door.

"Goddamn it, I want to see her." Finn shoved his way clear of the cop trying to detain him and burst through the doorway. "Deanna." He sprinted forward as she swayed toward him. "You're all right." He vised his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. "You're all right."

"Finn." She pressed against him, desperate for the feel of his flesh, his warmth, his comfort. "Someone killed Angela. I found her. Finn, I found her."

But he was already drawing her away, appalled by the swelling and matted blood on the back of her head. Relief twisted into a dark, keen thirst for revenge. "Who hurt you?"

"I don't know." She burrowed back into his arms. "I didn't see. They think I did it. Finn, they think I killed her."

Over her trembling shoulder he stared stonily at Jenner. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Miss Reynolds is mistaken. We have no intention of charging her at this time. Nor, in my opinion, in the future."

"Then she's free to go."

Jenner rubbed his chin. "Yes. We'll need her to sign a statement, but we can do it tomorrow. Miss Reynolds, I know you've had a shock, and I apologize for having to put you through the questioning. I advise you to go by the hospital, have someone take a look at you."

"I'll take her. Deanna." Gently

Finn eased her back to the chair. "I want you to wait here a minute. I need to talk to Lieutenant Jenner."

She clung to his hand. "Don't leave." "No, just outside the door. Just for a minute. Detective."

Jenner followed Finn into the corridor, nodding to a uniform to back off. "She's had a rough night, Mr. Riley."

"I'm aware of that. I don't want you to add to it."

"Neither do I. But certain wheels have to turn. I've got a nasty murder, and as far as I can tell, she's the only witness. You wouldn't mind telling me where you were tonight?"

Finn's eyes cooled. "No, I wouldn't. I was taping a segment on the South Side. I'd guess I'd have about a dozen witnesses to place me there until about midnight. My driver took me home, dropped me off just after one. I put in a call to 911 at one-twenty."

"Why?"

"Because my house had been trashed. You want to verify that, contact your superior."

"I don't doubt your word, Mr. Riley." Jenner rubbed his chin again, toying with the timetable. "You said one-twenty?"

"Give or take a minute. Whoever broke in left a message for Deanna on the bedroom wall. You can check with your associates for details. I'm getting Deanna out of here."

"I'll do that." Jenner made another note. "Mr. Riley, I'd take her out another way. I wouldn't want her going through the studio."

"Hey, Arnie!" Another plainclothes cop signaled from the studio end of the corridor. "M.e.'s finished here."

"Tell him to hang on a minute. We'll be in touch, Mr. Riley."

Saying nothing, Finn turned back into the dressing room. He took off his own coat, pushing Deanna's limp arms through the sleeves. He didn't want to waste time looking for hers. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here."

"I want to go home." She leaned heavily against him as he led her out.

"No way. I'm taking you to E.r." "Don't leave me there."

"I'm not leaving you."

He took the long way around, circumventing the studio, choosing the angled stairs that led to the parking lot. Because he knew what to expect before he opened the door, he kissed her brow, held her by the shoulders.

"The place is going to be swarming with reporters and Minicams."

She squeezed her eyes tight, shivered. "I know. It's okay."

"Just hold on tight to me."

"I already am."

When he shoved the door open, the flash of klieg lights blinded her. She shielded her eyes and saw nothing but eager bodies rushing toward her, microphones stabbing out like lances and the wide, demanding eye of the camera.

Questions hurtled at her, making her hunch her shoulders in defense as Finn propelled her through the surging sea of reporters.

She knew most of them, she realized. Liked most of those she knew. Once upon a time they had competed for stories. Once upon a time she would have been among them, pressing forward, scurrying for that one telling picture, that one mumbled comment.

Then flying to the news desk to get the item— she was an item now — on the air minutes, even seconds, before the competition. But she was no longer the observer. She was the observed. How could she tell them how she felt? How could she tell them what she knew? Her mind was like glass, throbbing from some deadly, high-pitched whine. She thought if she couldn't have silence, she would explode and shatter.

"Christ, Dee."

A hand reached for her, hesitating as she cringed away. And she saw Joe, the Minicam on his shoulder, his baseball cap askew.

"I'm sorry," he said, and swore again. "I'm really sorry."

"It's all right. I've been there, remember? It's just the job." She climbed gratefully into Finn's car and closed her eyes. Tuned out.

Jenner turned the studio over to the forensic team. Since he'd already had two men question the occupants of the building, he decided to wait until morning before doing a follow-up there. Instead, he left the CBC Building and drove to Finn Riley's home.

He wasn't surprised, or displeased, when Finn pulled into the driveway behind him.

"How's Miss Reynolds?"

"She's got a concussion," Finn said tersely. "They're keeping her overnight for observation. I had a feeling I'd find you here."

Jenner nodded as they started up the walk. "Chilly night," he said conversationally. "Dispatch showed your call came in at one twenty-three. First unit arrived at one twenty-eight."

"It was a quick response." Though it hadn't seemed quick as he'd spent that endless five minutes looking over the destruction of his home. "Are you handling B and E's, too, Lieutenant?"

"I like to diversify. And the truth is" — he paused just outside the door—"I figure I've got an interest in this. Between the business in Greektown and the investigation on those letters Miss Reynolds has been getting, I figure

I've got an interest. Does that bother you?" Finn studied Jenner in the starlight. The man looked tired, yet completely alert. It was a combination Finn understood perfectly. "No."

"Well then." Jenner sliced through the police tape over the damaged door. "Maybe you'll take me on the grand tour."

Riley was a pretty snappy dresser, Jenner mused as they moved inside. The kind who leaned toward leather jackets and faded jeans. Jenner had tried on a leather jacket once. He'd looked like a cop. He always did.

"Did you mention the trouble here to Miss Reynolds?"

"No."

"Can't blame you. She's had a rough night." He glanced around. The place looked as if it had been bombed. "So have you."

"You could say that. Almost every room was trashed." Finn gestured toward the living area off the main hall. "I didn't take a lot of time going through it."

Jenner grunted. Word was the minute Finn had learned of the trouble at CBC, he'd sprinted out, leaving the destruction behind.

"You must be pretty steamed." That was putting it mildly, Jenner mused. What he saw on Finn's face was cold rage. If he'd run across the perp, he'd have sliced him into little pieces. Though it was unprofessional, Jenner would have given a great deal to see it.

"I can replace the things," Finn said as they started upstairs.

"Yeah." Jenner stepped inside the bedroom, nodded toward the wall. "So our friend's taken to writing on walls." Taking out his pad, Jenner copied the writing style onto a blank page. This was the first time the writer had exposed himself this way. "Makes a statement." One quick scan and he'd taken in the devastation of the room. "Forensics are going to have a hell of a time sorting through this mess." He toed a broken perfume bottle with his foot. "Tiffany," he commented. "A hundred fifty an ounce. My wife, she likes that scent. I bought her the cologne for her birthday. And those sheets. Irish linen. My grandmother had a tablecloth. I used to rub my face over it when I was a kid."

Nearly amused, Finn leaned on the doorjamb and studied Jenner. "Is this how you conduct an investigation, Lieutenant? Or do you moonlight for an insurance company?"

"Always was a sucker for quality." He slipped his pad back in his pocket, just above the snug weight of his weapon. "So, Mr. Riley, I'd have to say we have a connection."

"So, Lieutenant, I'd have to agree with you." "Murder happened by midnight." He scratched the back of his neck. "The drive from CBC to here takes fourteen minutes, at the speed limit. He spends, say, ten minutes setting the stage, turning on the equipment. Another ten to get over here. You get home about twenty after one. Yeah, I'd say that's enough time."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know, Lieutenant. What's next?"

"We'll canvass the neighborhood tomorrow. Somebody might have seen something."

"You haven't had time to interview Dan Gardner."

"No." A ghost of a smile moved Jenner's lips. "My next stop."

"Mine too."

"Mr. Riley, you'd be better off going back to the hospital, watching over your lady. Leave this to me."

"I'll watch out for Deanna," Finn returned. "And I'm going to talk to Gardner. I'm going to use everything and everyone I know to get to the root of this. I can go with you, Lieutenant, or I can go around you."

"That's not friendly, Mr. Riley." "I'm not feeling friendly, Lieutenant Jenner."

"Don't imagine you are, but this is police business."

"So was Greektown."

Jenner's brows lifted as he studied Finn. The man knew which buttons to push, he mused.

"I like you," Jenner said after a moment. "I liked the way you handled yourself in Greektown. Saw you take that hit." He scratched his chin, considered. "You just kept right on reporting."

"That's my job."

"Yeah, and I got mine. I'm willing to bend the rules a bit, Mr. Riley, for a couple reasons. One, I really admire your lady, and two… I figure there's a ten-year-old girl out there who just might owe you her life. I might not have mentioned, I have a granddaughter that age."

"No, you didn't mention it." "Well." Jenner simply nodded again. "You can follow me in your car."

When Deanna surfaced, it was midmorning. Yet it wasn't necessary to orient herself; she remembered everything too clearly. She was in the hospital under observation. She wished she could laugh at the term. She understood that she would remain under all manner of observation for a long time.

She turned her head, mindful of the dull ache swimming inside, and studied Finn. He was dozing in the chair beside the bed, his hand covering hers. Unshaven, exhausted and pale, he was the most comforting sight she could imagine.

Not wanting to disturb him, she shifted slowly. But her slight movement woke him.

"Are you hurting?"

"No." Her voice was weak; she put an effort into strengthening it. "You shouldn't have sat up all night. They'd have found somewhere for you to stretch out."

"I can sleep anywhere. I'm a reporter, remember?" He scrubbed his hands over his face, then stretched out the kinks in his back. "You should try to get some more sleep."

"I want to go home. A mild concussion isn't enough to keep me in the hospital." She sat up, but cautiously, knowing if she so much as sneezed he'd run for a nurse. "No double vision, no memory lapses, no nausea."

"You're pale as wax, Deanna."

"You're not looking so hale and hearty yourself. Want to crawl in here with me?"

"Later." He scooted over to sit on the side of the bed and touched his hand to her cheek. "I love you."

"I know. I don't think I could have gotten through last night without you."

"You don't have to get through anything without me." She smiled, but her eyes strayed from his to the television bracketed to the wall at the foot of the bed. "I don't suppose you've heard the morning news?"

"No." He turned, looked at her intently. "No," he repeated. "We'll deal with it later."

Yes, she thought. Later was better. "It was horrible the way she died. Horrible the way it was all so perfectly staged. I need to think about it, but I can't seem to."

"Then don't. Don't push it, Deanna." He looked over as he heard Fran's voice, lifted high in indignant rage as she argued with the guard outside the door. "I'll tell her you're resting."

"No, please. I want to see her."

Finn had just gone to the door to have a word with the guard when Fran burst in. She bulleted toward the bed and snatched Deanna into her arms. "Oh God, I've been sick ever since I heard. Are you all right? How bad are you hurt?"

"Just a bump on the head." She returned the embrace, squeezing hard. "I was just about to get up and get dressed."

"Are you sure?" Fran drew her back; she might have been examining one of her children for symptoms. "You're so pale. Finn, go get the doctor. I think he should take another look at her."

"No." She took Fran's hands firmly in hers. "They just wanted me overnight for observation. I've been observed. The office? What's going on?"

Something flickered in Fran's eyes, then she shrugged. "Chaos. What else? The cops are taking statements from everyone."

"I should go in, do something."

"No." The protest came quickly, fiercely. "I mean it, Dee. There's nothing you can do, and if you came in at this point, you'd only add to the confusion. As soon as I go back and tell everyone you're okay, it should calm down a little." Her lips trembled before she wrapped her arms around Deanna again. "You really are okay? It must have been horrible for you. Every time I think of what could have happened—"

"I know." Comforted, Deanna cradled her head on Fran's shoulder. "Angela. God, Fran, I still can't believe it. Who could have hated her that much?"

Pick a number, Fran thought. "I don't want you to worry about the show or the office. We ran a re-broadcast today. Cassie's canceling and rescheduling guests we'd booked for the next week."

"That's not necessary."

"I'm the producer, and I say it is." After a last squeeze, Fran pulled back and turned to Finn for support. "Are you going to throw your weight in with me?"

"It doesn't appear to be necessary, but sure. I'm taking her up to the cabin for a while."

"I can't just leave. Jenner's bound to want to talk to me again. And I have to talk to Loren, to my staff."

Finn studied her a moment. There was pain in her eyes as well as the dregs of terror and shock. "Here's the way I see it," he said mildly. "I can spring you out of here later today and take you to the cabin. Or I can arrange for them to keep you in that bed for another couple of days."

"That's absurd." Deanna wanted to be angry, but she was too tired. "Just because we're getting married doesn't mean you can arrange my life."

"It does when you're too stubborn to do what's best for you."

"Well." Fran gave a satisfied nod and kissed Finn's cheek. "Now that I know she's in capable hands, I'm going to go find that doctor. I need to talk to you," she said under her breath, then turned back to Deanna. It was a relief to see the sulky turn of her friend's mouth. "Don't worry about the details," she told her. "The gang and I can handle everything. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Fine. Great." Deanna plopped back on the pillows, wincing when the sudden movement made her head pound. "Just tell everyone I decided to go fishing."

"Good idea." Finn walked to the door to open it for Fran. "I'll see if I can round up someone to put through the release papers. Stay in bed," he ordered, and walked outside. "What is it you don't want her to know?"

"There are cops swarming all over the sixteenth floor." Fran cast one last, worried glance over her shoulder as they walked to the elevators. "Her office has been torn apart, like someone went through it in an insane rage. Chairs hurled around, broken glass. All the lists she'd put together for the wedding and the sketches of the dresses were ripped up. Somebody had written all over the walls in red ink." As Finn watched, her cheeks drained of color so that her freckles stood out in stark relief. "It just said "I love you," again and again and again. I don't want her to see it, Finn."

"She won't. I'm going to take care of her."

"I know that." Fran pressed her fingers to her eyes. "But I'm scared. Whoever killed Angela is so focused on Dee. I don't think he'll ever leave her alone."

Finn's eyes were sharp as a sword. "He won't get near her. There's someone I have to meet. You stay with her until I get back."

After a two-hour catnap, Jenner rapped on the door of Dan Gardner's hotel suite. Beside him Finn was running through a mental list of questions he wanted answered.

"He'd better be in the mood to talk this time." Jenner only shrugged. He didn't mind taking the long route, as long as it ended in the right place. "Hard to talk when you're sedated."

"Conveniently," Finn murmured. "Guy's wife gets snuffed, he's entitled to break down."

"Wouldn't you think he'd want some details before he went under, Lieutenant? The way I see it, the longer he delays talking to you, the longer he has to formulate an alibi. Angela Perkins was a wealthy woman. Care to guess who's the chief beneficiary?"

"Then if he killed her, he'd have been stupid not to have an alibi to begin with. I've got a feeling you're a man used to being in charge of things."

"And?"

"You're going to have to take a backseat here. I've got an instinct about you, Mr. Riley, so I'm letting you tag along–

that way I can pick your brain. But you're going to have to remember who's running this investigation."

"Cops and reporters have a lot in common, Lieutenant. We won't be the first who've used each other."

"Nope." Jenner heard the rattle of the chain. "But that doesn't change the pecking order."

Finn nodded grudgingly as the door opened. Dan Gardner looked like a man who'd been on a wild, two-day bender. His face was gray, his eyes sunken, and his hair stood out in tufts. His black silk robe and pajamas added an elegance that only accented his unkempt appearance, like fresh gilt on a tattered painting.

"Mr. Gardner?"

"Yeah." Dan brought a cigarette to his lips, gulping in smoke like water.

"I'm Detective Jenner." He held up his badge. Dan glanced at it, then spotted

Finn. "Hold it. What's he doing here?" "Research," Finn said.

"I'm not talking to any reporters, especially this one."

"That's funny, coming from someone who woos the press like a lovesick suitor." Finn put a hand on the door before Dan could shut it. "I'll keep it off the record. But I can tell you, you're better off speaking with me when you've got a cop around. I'm in a real bad mood."

"I'm not well."

"I sympathize, Mr. Gardner," Jenner put in before Finn could comment. "You're certainly not obliged to speak in Mr. Riley's presence, but I have a feeling he'll just come back. Why don't we try it this way, and keep this as short as possible? It would be easier on you to do this here than to come to the station."

Dan stared at them both a moment, then with a shrug, he turned around, leaving the door open.

The drapes were still drawn, giving the parlor of the suite a gloomy air. The smell of cigarettes was strong, mixing uneasily with the fragrance from the two huge vases of roses flanking the sofa.

Dan sat between them, blinking when Jenner switched on a lamp.

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you at this time, Mr. Gardner," Jenner began. "But I need your cooperation."

Dan said nothing, only took another greedy drag from the cigarette. Angela's brand, he thought, and felt the smoke sting bitterly in his throat.

"Can you tell us what you know about your wife's activities yesterday?"

"Besides getting murdered?" With a humorless laugh, he roused himself to go to the bar and pour a generous portion of whiskey.

Finn only lifted a brow as Dan drank it down, poured again. It was barely ten A.m.

"It would help," Jenner continued, "if we had a clear sense of her movements throughout the day. Where she went, who she had contact with."

"She got up about ten." Dan came back to the sofa. The whiskey helped, he realized. He felt as though he were gliding an inch above the floor. "She had a massage, had her hair and makeup done, a manicure. All here in the suite." He drank with one hand, smoked with the other, his movements mechanical and strangely rhythmic. "She did a print interview, Chicago Tribune, then went downstairs to the ballroom for the luncheon. She had several other appointments through the day— interviews, meetings. Most of them here in the suite."

He crushed out the cigarette, sat back with the blue haze of smoke hovering over his head like a dirty halo.

"Were you with her?" Finn demanded. Dan shot him one resentful glance, then shrugged. "I was in and out. Mostly out. Angela didn't like distractions when she was dealing with the press. She had a dinner interview with Premiere magazine to hype her next special." In a jerky movement, he reached over to yank another cigarette from the pack on the coffee table. "She told me she didn't know how long it would run, and that she had a later meeting afterward, that I should go out to a blues bar and amuse myself."

"And did you?" Jenner asked.

"I had a steak, a couple of drinks, listened to some piano at the Pump Room."

Jenner noted it down. "Did you have any company?"

"I wasn't in the mood for company. We haven't had a lot of time to relax in the past few months, so I took advantage of it." His bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Are you looking for Angela's schedule, or mine?"

"Both," Jenner said pleasantly. He doodled a bit, a quick sketch of the room, of Dan Gardner's face. "It helps if we have a clear sense of things. When did you last see your wife, Mr. Gardner?"

"Just before seven, when she was getting ready for dinner."

"And did she tell you she planned to meet Deanna Reynolds at CBC later that night?"

"No." He bit the word off. "If she had, I would have discouraged it." He leaned forward now, enough of a showman to know which lines to punch. "He knows it, too," he added, jerking his head toward Finn. "That's why he wants in on the investigation, to try to head it off. It's no secret Deanna Reynolds hated my wife, was envious and driven to destroy her. I have no doubt that she killed Angela, or had her killed."

"That's an interesting theory," Finn mused. "Is that the line you're going to feed through your publicist?"

Jenner cleared his throat. "Did Miss Reynolds make any threats against your wife that you're aware of?"

Dan's eyes cut back to Jenner, bored in. "I told you, she attacked her physically once before. Christ knows she attacked her emotionally dozens of times over the years. She wanted Angela out of the way. Now she is. That should be clear enough. What are you doing about it?"

"We're looking into it," Jenner said mildly. "Mr. Gardner, what time did you return to the hotel last night?"

"Twelve-thirty, one o'clock."

"Did you meet anyone, speak with anyone who could verify that?"

"I resent the implication, Lieutenant. My wife is dead." He stabbed out the cigarette, breaking it in two. "And from what I've been told, there was only one person with her." He stared at Finn, secure that he could say whatever he chose with impunity. "A person who had every reason to hurt her. I don't appreciate being asked to supply an alibi."

"But can you?" Finn countered.

His teeth snapped together. "You're really reaching, aren't you, Riley? Do you really think you can throw the police off Deanna and onto me?"

Finn lifted a brow. "I don't believe you answered the question."

"It's possible one of the night clerks saw me come in. It's also possible that the waitress at the club would remember serving me, and what time I left. What kind of alibi does Deanna Reynolds have?"

Was it rage? Jenner wondered. Or was it fear that simmered in Gardner's voice? "I'm afraid I can't discuss that at this time. Do you have any idea how your wife might have gained access to the CBC Building and Studio B?"

"She worked there for some time," Dan said dryly. "I imagine she walked in. She'd know the way."

"There's a security system that wasn't in operation during the time your wife was based in the building." "Then I'd imagine Deanna let her in. Then she killed her." He shifted forward, resting one hand on the black silk covering his knee. "Imagine what this will do for her ratings, Lieutenant Jenner. He knows." Dan jabbed a finger toward Finn. "How many Nielsen homes will tune in to watch a cold-blooded killer, Riley? She'll murder the competition." He laughed, rubbing a hand over and over his face. "Just like she murdered Angela."

"Whoever killed your wife won't benefit from it." Jenner glanced at Finn, pleased to see he was maintaining an outward calm. Jenner decided he liked the pattern of their work together. Not something as clich@ed as good cop-

bad cop. Just teamwork. "Did Miss Perkins have an appointment book, a calendar?"

"Her secretary kept her calendar, but Angela always carried a small date book in her purse."

"Would you mind if we took a look in her room?"

Dan pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Fuck, do what you want."

"You ought to order up some breakfast, Mr. Gardner," Jenner said as he rose.

"Yeah. I ought to do that."

Jenner took out a card and left it on the coffee table beside the ashtray of smoldering butts. "I'd appreciate it if you'd contact me if you think of anything else. We'll be out of your way in just a few minutes."

The first thing Finn did in the bedroom of the suite was open the drapes. Light spilled relentlessly into the room. The bureau top was crowded with bottles and pots, the expensive toys of a vain woman who could afford the best. A champagne flute with a pale pink outline of lipstick at the rim stood in the center. A floral silk robe flowed gracefully over the arm of a chair, its hem brushing matching ballet-style slippers.

The only evidence that a man shared the room was the suit hung on the valet.

"You didn't mention an appointment book in her purse, Lieutenant."

"There wasn't one." He glanced around the room like a hound sniffing the air. "Cosmetics, hotel key, cigarettes, lighter, a silk hankie, a roll of Certs, an eelskin wallet with ID, credit cards and better than three hundred cash. But no date book."

"Interesting." Finn nodded toward the champagne flute. "I'd say that was hers, wouldn't you, sitting there with her perfumes and skin creams."

"More than likely."

"There's another out in the parlor, over by the wet bar. Lipstick on that, too. Dark, hot-red lipstick."

"Good eye, Mr. Riley. Why don't we see if room service knows who Angela's drinking partner was?"

Carla Mendez had never had much excitement in her life. She'd been the oldest of five children born to a shoe salesman and a waitress and had lived a simple, uninspired life. At thirty-three, she had three children and a husband who was slavishly faithful and usually out of work.

Carla didn't mind her job as a hotel maid. She didn't like it particularly, but she did her job well if mechanically and tucked away tiny bottles of shampoo and skin cream as religiously as she tucked away her tips.

She was a small, sturdy woman, built like a fireplug, with tightly permed black hair and tiny dark eyes that were nearly lost in a network of worry lines. But her eyes were bright now, flitting from cop to reporter.

She didn't like cops. If Jenner had approached her alone, she would have closed up like a clam, on principle. But she couldn't resist Finn Riley. The way his dimples deepened when he smiled at her, the gentlemanly way he'd taken her hand.

And he wanted to interview her.

It was, for Carla, the biggest moment of her life.

Sensing her mood, Jenner hung back and let Finn take the ball.

"What time did you come into Miss Perkins's room to turn down the bed, Mrs. Mendez?"

"Ten o'clock. Usually I'd turn down much earlier, but she told me not to come in, not to disturb her before ten. She had appointments." Primly, she tugged on the hem of her uniform. "I don't like to work so late, but she was very nice." The twenty-dollar tip had been even nicer. "I've seen her on TV, too. But she wasn't stuck-up or anything. She was real polite. Messy, though," she added. "She and her husband used about six bath towels between them every day. And she had cigarette butts in every single ashtray. Dishes everywhere." She glanced around the parlor. "Cleaning up after people gives you insight," she said, and left it at that.

"I'm sure it does." Finn gave her an encouraging smile. "Was Miss Perkins with her husband when you were turning down the bed in their suite?"

"Can't say. Didn't see him. Didn't hear him. But I heard her, and the other one."

"The other one?"

"The other woman. They were scratching at each other like cats." Carla tugged on her hem again, examined her shoes. "Not that I listened. I mind my own business. I've been working in this hotel for seven years. You can't do that if you poke into people's private lives. But when I heard how she'd been murdered — Miss Perkins — I said to Gino, that's my husband, I said to Gino that I'd heard Miss Perkins going at it with this woman in her suite only a couple hours before she was dead. He said I should maybe tell my supervisor, but I thought it might cause trouble."

"So you haven't told anyone about it?" Finn prompted.

"No. And when you came in and said you wanted to talk to me about the people in 2403, I figured you already knew." Her eyes flashed back up. "Maybe you didn't."

"What can you tell us about the woman who was with Miss Perkins, Mrs. Mendez?"

"I didn't see her, but I heard her all right. Heard both of them. The woman said, "I'm sick and tired of playing your games, Angela. And one way or the other they're going to stop." Then Miss Perkins laughed. I knew it was her 'cause like I said, I've seen her on TV. And she laughed the way people do when they're feeling mean. And she said something like, "Oh, you'll keep playing, darling. The stakes…"" Carla screwed up her nose as she concentrated. ""The stakes are too high," she said, "for you to do anything else." They called each other names for a while. Then the other woman said, "I could kill you, Angela. But maybe I'll do something even better than that." Then I heard the door slam, and Miss

Perkins was laughing again. I finished up real quick and went out in the hall."

"You know, Mrs. Mendez, I think you should try my line of work." She preened and tugged on her hem again. "You're very observant," he added.

"It comes natural, I guess. You see a lot of funny things working in a hotel."

"I'm sure you do. I wonder… Did you see the woman who'd left?"

"No. There wasn't anybody out there, but it took me a couple of minutes to finish stacking fresh towels, so she could have gotten on the elevator. That was my last room, so I went home after that. The next morning I heard that Miss Perkins had been killed. At first I thought maybe that woman had come back and killed her right there in my suite. But I found out it didn't happen in the hotel at all. It happened at the TV station where Deanna Reynolds has her show. I like her show better," she added guilelessly. "She has such a nice smile."

Deanna tried to use that smile as Finn hesitated at the front door of the cabin. "I'm fine," she told him. She'd told him that repeatedly since she'd been released from the hospital three days before. "Finn, you're going to pick up a few things at the store; you're not leaving me to defend the fort against marauding hostiles. Besides" — she bent down to scratch the dog's ears—"I have a champion."

"Champion wimp." He cupped Deanna's face in his hands. "Let me worry, okay? It's still a new experience for me to fret." He grinned. "I like fretting over you, Deanna."

"As long as you're not fretting so much you forget to buy me that candy bar."

"Hershey's Big Block, no almonds."

He kissed her, relieved when her lips curved gently, sweetly under his. The day he'd had her to himself at the cabin had dulled the edge of her horror, he knew, but she still slept poorly and jolted at unexpected sounds. "Why don't you take a nap, Kansas?"

"Why don't you go get me that candy bar?" She drew back, her smile securely in place. "Then you can take a nap with me."

"Sounds like a pretty good deal. I won't be long."

No, she thought as she watched him walk to the car. He wouldn't be long. He hated leaving her alone. Though what he expected her to do was beyond her. Collapse in a hysterical heap? she wondered, lifting her hand in a wave as he headed down the lane. Run screaming from the house?

With a sigh, she crouched down again to rub the dog while he whined and scratched at the door. He loved to go for rides, she thought now. But Finn had left him behind, a canine sentry.

Not that she could blame Finn for being overprotective at this point. She'd been alone with a murderer, after all. A murderer who could have taken her life as quickly, as cruelly as he had taken Angela's. Everyone was worried about poor Deanna, she thought. Her parents, Fran. Simon, Jeff, Margaret,

Cassie. Roger and Joe and plenty of others from the newsroom. Even Loren and Barlow had called to express concern, to offer help.

"Take all the time you need," Loren had told her, without a single mention of ratings or expenses. "Don't even think about coming back until you're stronger."

But she wasn't weak, Deanna decided. She was alive.

No one had tried to kill her. Surely everyone must understand that one simple point. Yes, she had been alone with a murderer, but she was alive.

Straightening, she wandered around the cabin, tidying what was already competently neat. She brewed some tea she didn't want, then wandered more with the cup warming her hands. She poked at the cheerfully blazing fire.

She stared out the window. She sat on the couch. She needed, desperately needed, to work.

This wasn't one of their stolen weekends filled to the brim with laughter and lovemaking and arguments over newspaper editorials. There wasn't a newspaper in the house, she thought in frustration. And Finn said there was some trouble with the cable, so television was out as well.

He was doing his best to keep the outside world at bay, she knew. To put her in a protective bubble, where nothing and no one could cause her distress.

And she'd let him, because what had happened in Chicago had seemed too horrible to think about; she'd let Finn push it all to the side for her.

But now she needed to take some action. "We're going back to Chicago," she told the dog, who responded with a thud of his tail on the floor. She turned to the steps, intending to pack, when she heard the sound of a car on the drive. "He couldn't even have gotten to the store yet," she muttered, heading to the door behind the happily barking dog. "Look, Cronkite,

I love him, too, but he hasn't been gone ten minutes." Deanna pushed open the screen, laughing as the dog bulleted through. But when she looked up and saw the car, the laughter died.

She didn't recognize the car, a dull brown sedan with dings in both fenders. But she recognized Jenner and found herself tugging the collar of her flannel shirt around her throat. She should have felt relieved to see him, to know he was trying to solve the case. Instead she felt only a tightening of the nerves that trapped her somewhere between fear and resignation.

Jenner grinned, obviously charmed by Cronkite's yapping and dancing around his legs. He bent down, unerringly finding the spot between Cronkite's ears that sent the dog into spasms of pleasure.

"Hey there, boy. There's a good dog." He chuckled when Cronkite plopped down on his rump and extended a paw to shake. "Know your manners, do you?" With the dog's dusty paw in his hand, he glanced up when Deanna stepped out on the porch. "This is quite a watchdog you've got here, Miss Reynolds."

"I'm afraid that's as fierce as he gets." The brisk December breeze invaded her bones. "You're a long way from Chicago, Lieutenant."

"Nice drive." Leaving his hand extended for the dog to sniff, he glanced around. The snow had melted, and the evergreens were glossily green. The breeze hummed through denuded trees and threatened to pick up and get mean. "Pretty place. Must feel good to get out of the city now and then."

"Yes, it does."

"Miss Reynolds, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have some questions on the Perkins homicide."

"Please, come in. I've just made tea, but I can put on coffee if you'd prefer." How could they talk about murder without a nice, sociable cup? Deanna thought as her stomach turned.

"Tea's fine." Jenner walked toward the door with the dog prancing behind him.

"Sit down." She gestured him inside, toward the great room. "I'll just be a minute."

"Mr. Riley's not with you?" Jenner took a turn around the room, interested in the getaway lives of the rich.

"He went to the store. He'll be back shortly."

Hepplewhite. Jenner noted a side table and ladder-back chair. The rug was Native American. Navajo, he imagined. The glassware was Irish. Waterford.

"You have a good eye, Lieutenant." Her face bland, Deanna carried the tea tray into the room.

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud, and smiled a little. It didn't bother him to be caught snooping. He got paid for it. "I like quality stuff. Even when I can't afford it." He nodded to the vase on the mantel, stuffed with early spring blooms. "Staffordshire?"

"Dresden." Annoyed, Deanna set the tray down with a snap. "I'm sure you didn't drive all the way out here to admire the bric-a-brac. Have you found out who killed Angela?"

"No." Jenner settled himself on the sofa with the dog at his feet. "We're beginning to put things together."

"That's comforting. Sugar, lemon?" She was playing it tough, Jenner thought. "Black, thanks." He might have believed Deanna's act, if it hadn't been for the shadows under her eyes. "With sugar. Lots of it."

His grin apologetic, Jenner began to spoon sugar into the cup Deanna poured for him. "Sweet tooth. Miss Reynolds, I don't want to make you go through your whole statement again—"

"And I appreciate it." Deanna caught herself snapping the words, and sighed. "I want to cooperate, Lieutenant. I just don't see what more I can tell you. I had an appointment with Angela. I kept it. Someone killed her."

"Didn't it strike you as odd that she'd want to meet so late?" Deanna eyed Jenner over the rim of her cup. "Angela was fond of making odd demands."

"And were you fond of going along with them?" "No, I wasn't. I didn't want to meet her at all. It's no secret that we weren't on friendly terms, and I knew we'd quarrel. The fact that we would made me nervous." Deanna set down her cup, curled up her legs. "I don't like confrontations, Lieutenant, but I don't run away from them, as a rule. Angela and I had a history that I'm sure you're aware of."

"You were competitors." Jenner inclined his head a fraction. "You didn't like each other."

"No, we didn't like each other, and it was very personal on both sides. I was ready to have it out with her, and a part of me hoped that we could settle things amicably. Another part was looking forward to yanking out a few handfuls of her hair. I won't deny I wanted her out of my way, but I didn't want her dead." She looked back at Jenner, calmer now, steadier. "Is that why you're here? Am I a suspect?"

Jenner rubbed a hand over his chin. "The victim's husband, Dan Gardner, seems to think you hated her enough to kill her. Or have her killed."

"Have her killed?" Deanna blinked at that and nearly laughed. "So now I hired a convenient hit man, paid him to murder Angela, knock me unconscious and roll tape. Very inventive of me." She sprang up, color washing back into her cheeks. "I don't even know Dan Gardner. It's flattering that he should consider me so clever. And what was my motive? Ratings points? It seems to me I should have arranged it so that I didn't miss the November sweeps."

The bruised, helpless look was gone, Jenner noted. She was fired up, burning on indignation and disgust. "Miss Reynolds, I didn't say we agreed with Mr. Gardner."

She stared for a moment, eyes kindling. "Just wanted a reaction? I hope I satisfied you."

Jenner cocked a brow. "Miss Reynolds, did you visit Miss Perkins at her hotel on the night she was murdered?"

"No." Frustrated, Deanna raked a hand through her hair. "Why should I have? We were meeting at the studio."

"You might have gotten impatient." Jenner knew he was reaching. Deanna's fingerprints hadn't been found in the suite, certainly they weren't on the extra champagne flute.

"Even if I had, Angela told me that she'd be busy until midnight. She had meetings."

"Did she mention with whom?"

"We weren't chatting, Detective, and I had no interest in her personal or her business plans."

"You knew she had enemies?"

"I knew she wasn't particularly well liked. Part of that might have been her personality, and part of it was because she was a woman with a great deal of power. She could be hard and vindictive. She could also be charming and generous."

"I don't imagine you found it charming when she arranged for you to walk in on her and Dr. Pike, in compromising circumstances."

"That's old news."

"But you were in love with him?"

"I was almost in love with him," Deanna corrected. "A very large difference." Oh, what was the point of all this? she wondered, and rubbed at the headache brewing dead center of her forehead. "I won't deny it hurt me, and it infuriated me, and it changed my feelings about both of them irrevocably."

"Dr. Pike tried to continue your relationship."

"He didn't look on the incident in the same way I did. I wasn't interested in continuing anything with him, and I made that clear."

"But he did persist for quite a while." "Yes."

Jenner recognized the emotion behind the clipped response. "And the notes, the ones you've been receiving with some regularity for several years. Did you ever consider that he was sending them?"

"Marshall?" She shook her head. "No. They're not his style."

"What is?"

Deanna's eyes shut. She remembered the photographs, the detective's report. "Perhaps you should ask him."

"We will. Have you been involved with anyone other than Dr. Pike? Anyone who might have been so disturbed by the announcement of your engagement to Mr. Riley that they would break into your office, or Mr. Riley's home?"

"No, there's been — what do you mean, break in?" She gripped the wing of the chair she stood beside.

"It seems logical that whoever sent the notes is also responsible for the destruction of your office and the house you share with Mr. Riley," Jenner began. And, he believed, for Angela's murder.

"When?" Deanna could barely whisper the word. "When did this happen?"

Intrigued, Jenner stopped tapping his pencil on his pad. The rosy glow anger had brought to Deanna's cheeks had drained, leaving her face white as bone. Riley hadn't told her yet, he realized. And the man wasn't going to be pleased to have been scooped. "The night Angela Perkins was shot, Finn Riley's house was broken into."

"No." Still gripping the chair, she shifted, lowered herself before her legs buckled. "Finn didn't — no one told me." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the kick of nerves in her stomach. When she opened them again, they were dark as pitch and burning dry. "But you will. I want to know what happened. Exactly what happened."

There was going to be more than a little tiff when Finn Riley returned, Jenner decided. As he related the facts, he watched her take them in. She winced once, as though the words were darts, then went very still. Her eyes remained level, and curiously blank until he had finished.

She said nothing for a moment, leaning forward to pour more tea. Her hand was steady. Jenner admired her poise and control, particularly since he'd seen the ripple of horror cross her face.

"You think that whoever's been sending the notes, whoever broke into my office and my home, killed Angela."

It was a reporter's voice, Jenner noted. Cool and calm and without inflection. But her eyes weren't blank any longer. They were terrified. For some reason he remembered a report she'd done years before, a woman in the suburbs who'd been shot to death by her husband. Her eyes hadn't been blank then, either.

"It's a theory," he said at length. "It makes more sense for only one person to be involved." "Then why not me?" Her voice broke, and she shook her head impatiently. "Why Angela and not me? If he was so angry, so violently angry with me, why did he kill her and leave me alive?"

"She was in your way," Jenner said briskly, and watched as the full impact struck Deanna like a blow.

"He killed her for me? Oh Jesus, he did it for me."

"We can't be sure of that." Jenner began, but Deanna was already shoving out of her chair.

"Finn. Good God, he could come after Finn. He broke into the house. If Finn had been there, he would have…" She pressed a hand to her stomach. "You have to do something."

"Miss Reynolds—"

But she heard the sound of tires on gravel. She whirled, racing the dog to the door, shouting for him.

Finn was already cursing the other car in the drive when he heard her call his name. His annoyance at the intrusion faded as he saw her sprint out of the house. She leaped trembling into his arms, choking back sobs.

Finn gathered her close, his eyes hot and lethal as they skimmed over her shoulder to where Jenner stood on the porch. "What the hell have you done?"

"I'm sorry." It was the best Finn could think of to say as he faced Deanna across the living room. Jenner had left them alone. After, Finn thought bitterly, he'd dropped his bomb.

"What for? Because I found out from Jenner? Or because you didn't trust me enough to tell me in the first place?"

"That it happened at all," he said carefully. "And it wasn't a matter of trust, Deanna. You're barely out of the hospital."

"And you didn't want to upset my delicate mental balance. That's why the television is conveniently on the blink. That's why you wanted to go to the store alone, and didn't bring back the paper. We wouldn't want poor little Deanna to hear any news that might upset her."

"Close enough." He plunged his hands into his pockets. "I thought you needed some time."

"You thought. Well, you thought wrong." She spun around, headed for the stairs. "You had no right to keep this from me."

"I did keep it from you. Damn it, if we're going to fight, at least do it face to face." He stopped her on the landing, grabbing her arm, turning her around.

"I can fight when I'm packing." She shook him off and stalked into the bedroom.

"You want to go back, fine. We'll go back after we've settled this."

She dragged an overnight case out of the closet. "We don't have to go anywhere. I'm going." She tossed the case onto the bed, threw open the lid. "Alone." In quick, jerky moves, she plucked bottles and jars from the dresser. "I'm going hack to my apartment. I can get whatever I've left at your house later."

"No," he said, very calmly, "you're not." She heaved a perfume bottle toward the open case. It bounced merrily on the bed.

"That's exactly what I'm doing." With her eyes on his, she pried his fingers loose. "You lied to me, Finn. If Jenner hadn't come out here for some follow-up questions, I wouldn't have known about the break-in, or that you'd interviewed Dan Gardner and that hotel maid. I wouldn't have known anything."

"No, and you might have gotten a few nights' sleep."

"You lied," she repeated, refusing to see past that. "And don't tell me keeping the truth from me is different than lying. It's the same. I won't continue in a relationship that isn't honest."

"You want honest. That's fine." He turned, shut the door with a quiet click. A final click. "I'll do anything and everything in my power to protect you. That's a fact." Eyes steady, he walked back to her. "You're not walking out on me, Deanna. That's a fact. And you're not using some bullshit about rights and trust as your escape hatch. If you want out, then at least be honest."

"All right." She shifted so that he couldn't see the way her hands shook as she packed. "I made a mistake when I agreed to marry you, and I've had time to think it through. I need to concentrate on my career, on my own life. I can't do that if I'm trying to make a marriage work, if I'm starting a family. I talked myself into thinking I could do it all, but I was wrong." The diamonds on her finger winked mockingly at her. She couldn't quite bring herself to take the ring off. Not yet. "I don't want to marry you, Finn, and it's not fair to either of us to continue this way. My priority right now is my work, and getting it back on track."

"Look at me, Deanna. I said look at me." With his hands firm on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. The sensation of panic faded into steely confidence. "You're lying."

"I know you don't want to believe—" "Jesus Christ, Deanna, don't you know that I can see it in your face. You could never lie worth a damn. Why are you doing this?"

"I don't want to hurt you any more than necessary, Finn." She held herself rigid in his arms, stared over his shoulder. "Let me go."

"Not a chance in hell."

"I don't want you." Her voice cracked. "I don't want this. Is that clear enough?"

"No." He jerked her forward, covered her mouth with his. She trembled immediately, her body shuddering against his, her lips heating. "But that is."

"It's not the answer." But her body yearned for his, for the warmth, the strength.

"You want me to apologize again?" Gently now, he stroked a hand over her hair. "Fine. I'm sorry, and I'd do exactly the same thing. If you want to call it lying to you, then I'd lie. I'd do whatever I had to do to keep you safe."

"I don't want to be protected." She broke away, curled her hands into impotent fists. "I don't need to be protected. Can't you see? Don't you understand? He used me to kill her. He used me. He isn't going to hurt me; I don't need to be protected. But God knows who else he might hurt because of me."

"Me," he said quietly, furiously. "That's what this is all about. You think he might try for me. The best way to prevent that is to dump me, right? To make sure everyone knows you've broken it off."

Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. "I'm not going to argue with you, Finn."

"You're absolutely right about that." He picked up her case and upended the contents. "Don't ever try that with me again. Don't ever use my feelings on me like that again." "He'll try to kill you," she said dully. "I know he will."

"So you lied, to try to protect me." When she opened her mouth, shut it again, he smiled. "Quid pro quo, Deanna. We'll call it even. So you don't want to be protected — neither do I. What do you want?"

She lifted her fisted hands to her cheeks, then let them fall. "I want you to stop watching me as though I were going to fall apart."

"Done. What else?"

"I want you to swear you won't keep anything from me, no matter how much you think it'll upset me."

"Deal, and same goes."

She nodded slowly, watching him. "You're still angry."

"Yeah, I'm still angry. It's a residual effect when the woman I love cuts me in half."

"You still want me."

"God, yes, I still want you."

"You haven't made love with me since this happened. Whenever I'd turn to you, you'd soothe and you'd cuddle, but you haven't touched me."

"No, I haven't." He felt the blood begin to swim in his veins. "I wanted to give you time."

"I don't want time!" she shouted at him, felt the first sweet snap of release. "I'm not fragile or weak or delicate. I want you to stop looking at me as though I were, as though I'd crumble. I'm alive. I want to feel alive. Make me feel alive."

He reached out, brushed his knuckle down her cheek. "You should have asked for something more difficult."

He kissed her. She could feel the sparks of fury he was struggling to bank, taste the hot frustration, the searing need.

"Don't," she murmured. "Don't be gentle. Not now."

He wanted to be. But she was pulling him down on the bed, her hands already frantic as they tugged at his clothes. He couldn't be gentle, couldn't tap the well of tenderness when her mouth was driving him beyond caution into madness.

Her body vibrated against his as she arched and strained and writhed. More was all she could think. More of him. More of that simmering violence she had watched him fight to chain for days. She wanted him to release it now, inside her.

She could hear her own heart drum heavily in her ears, feel each separate pulse throb. Her muffled cry was one of triumph as he ripped her shirt aside, seeking flesh.

The wind kicked against the windows, rattling glass. It hooted down the chimney, struggling to puff smoke into the room. But the fire blazed in the hearth and burned brighter with the threat of the storm.

On the bed they rolled like thunder.

His mouth was on her, ravenous, teeth scraping skin already damp with passion. His breath was hot and quick, his hands bruising in their hurry to possess. She reared up to meet him, her head falling back, her moan long and feral.

Faster. Faster. The desperation peaked as he yanked at her jeans, his hungry mouth racing down her shuddering torso toward the violent heat. Her hands dived into his hair, pressed him closer, closer. Her nails scraped unfelt down his back as the first orgasm pummeled her.

"Now." She nearly wept it, dragging him up, frantic for him to fill her. Her hands clutched at his hips, her legs wrapped around his waist. "Now," she said again, then cried out when he drove himself into her.

"M." He yanked her body up, plunged deeper, thrusting hard, still harder while the ferocity of pleasure racked through him. His body felt like an engine, tireless, primed to run. He mated it with hers, steel cased in velvet, pumping faster each time he felt her muscles contract like a moist fist around him.

When she arched, straining, he pulled her to him until they were torso to torso. Her teeth sank into his shoulder even as her body moved like wet silk against his. Again she went rigid, her body stiffening, then breaking into shudders. Her eyes sprang open, staring glazed into his while she went limp.

"I can't."

He shoved her back, grasping her hands and dragging them over her head. "I can."

He devoured her, letting the animal take over, ripping each new response from her with impatient teeth, enticing new fires with tongue and lips.

His breath was burning in his throat, his blood pounding in his head, in his loins. The final wave of sensation swamped him, flooded through his system like light — white and blinding. He thought she cried out again, just his name, as he emptied himself into her.

Chapter Twenty-four

Marshall Pike's office looked like an elegant living room. But no one lived there. It reminded Finn of an ambitious model home, decorated for prospective buyers who would never slouch on the brocade sofa or wrestle on the Aubusson rug. There would certainly never be a careless ring left by a careless glass set on the Chippendale coffee table. No child would ever play hide-and-seek behind the formal silk draperies or cuddle up to read in one of the deep-cushioned chairs.

Even Marshall's desk seemed more of a prop than a usable fixture. The oak was highly polished, the brass fittings gleamed. The desk set of burgundy leather fit seamlessly into the color scheme of wines and ferns. The ficus tree by the window wasn't plastic, but it was so perfect, its leaves so radically dust-free, it might as well have been.

Finn had lived with easy wealth all of his life, and the material trappings it could buy, but he found Marshall Pike's pristine office, with its low hum of an air filter discreetly sucking impurities, soulless.

"I would, naturally, be happy to cooperate with the police." Piously, Marshall tugged the sleeves of his jacket over the monogrammed cuffs of his crisp white shirt. "As I explained to you, they haven't found it necessary to question me. Why would they? I have nothing to say to the press."

"As I explained to you, I'm not here as a member of the press. You're not obligated to talk to me, Pike, but if you don't…" Finn spread his hands. Jenner was going to be pissed, he thought, that he hadn't cleared this interview with the police. But this particular contact was personal. "Some of my associates might appreciate having their memory jogged about a certain incident between you and Angela. One that slipped through the cracks a couple of years ago?"

"I can't imagine that something so trivial would be of interest to anyone." "It's amazing, isn't it, what grabs the viewer's attention? And what, if presented with a certain angle, will intrigue the police."

The man was reaching, of course, Marshall assured himself. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to connect him with Angela but a momentary lapse of judgment. And yet… a word to the wrong person could result in publicity his practice couldn't afford.

A few questions, he decided, a few answers wouldn't matter. He was, after all, an expert at communication. If he couldn't handle an overexposed reporter, he didn't deserve the degrees hanging prominently on the wall behind him.

More, he would enjoy outwitting the man Deanna had chosen over him.

"My last appointment for the day canceled." He shook his head as if in pity for the unhappy couple who wouldn't benefit from his skills. "I don't have another engagement until seven. I can spare you a few moments."

"That's all I'll need. When did you hear about Angela's death?"

"On the news, the morning after the murder. I was shocked. I understand that Deanna was with her in the studio. As you know, Deanna and I had a relationship. Naturally, I'm concerned about her."

"I'm sure that will help her sleep easy at night."

"I have tried to contact her, to offer my support."

"She doesn't need it." "Territorial, Mr. Riley?" Marshall asked with a curve of the lips.

"Absolutely, Dr. Pike," Finn answered.

"In my profession, it's essential to be fair-minded." He continued to smile. "Deanna meant a great deal to me at one time."

With some interviews you prodded, with others you planted. In Marshall's case, Finn noted that the shorter the question, the more expansive the answer.

"Did she?"

"A great deal of time has passed. And Deanna is engaged to you. Regardless, I would still offer whatever support or help I could to someone I was fond of, particularly under such shocking circumstances." "And Angela Perkins?" Finn leaned back in his chair. However relaxed his pose, he was alert, watching every flick of Marshall's eye. "Were you fond of her?"

"No," he said shortly. "I was not." "Yet it was your affair with Miss Perkins which ended your relationship with Deanna."

"There was no affair." Marshall linked his hands on the desktop. "There was a momentary lapse of control and common sense. I came to understand rather quickly that Angela had orchestrated the entire incident for her own reasons."

"Which were?"

"In my opinion? To manipulate Deanna and to cause her distress. She was successful." His smile was thin and humorless. "Although Deanna did not accept the position Angela had offered her in New York, she did sever ties with me."

"You resent that?"

"I resent, Mr. Riley, that Deanna refused to see the incident for what it was. Less than nothing. A mere physical reaction to deliberate stimuli. There was no emotion involved, none at all."

"Some people are more emotional about sex than others." Finn smiled wider, deliberately baiting him. "Deanna's very emotional."

"Indeed," he said, and left it at that. When Finn remained silent, annoyance pushed him on. "I don't understand how my unfortunate misstep could be related to the investigation."

"I didn't say it was," Finn said pleasantly. "But, just to clear up that matter, why don't you tell me where you were on the night of the murder? Between the hours of eleven and two?"

"I was home."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone." Confident now, Marshall relaxed. His eyes were mild. "I'm sure you'd agree, if I'd been planning on murder I would have had the simple intelligence to provide myself with an alibi. However, I had dinner, alone, spent a few hours working on case studies, then went to bed."

"Did you speak with anyone? Receive any phone calls?"

"I let the service take my calls. I don't like to be interrupted when I'm working — barring emergencies." He smiled cockily. "Do you advise me to contact my lawyer, Mr. Riley?"

"If you think you need one." If he was lying, Finn mused, he was cool about it. "When was the last time you saw Angela?"

For the first time in the interview there was a flash of genuine pleasure in Marshall's eyes. "I haven't seen Angela since she made the move to New York. That would be over two years ago."

"Have you had any contact with her since that time?" "Why would I? We did not have a love affair, as I explained."

"You didn't have one with Deanna, either," Finn commented, and had the satisfaction of wiping the smile from Marshall's face. "But you've continued to contact her."

"Not for nearly a year. She is not forgiving." "But you have sent notes. Made calls."

"No, I haven't. Not until I heard about this. She hasn't returned my calls, so I must assume she neither wants nor needs my help." Assured he'd been more than reasonable, he tapped his cuff again, rose. "As I said, I do have an appointment at seven, and I need to go home and change for the evening. I must say, this was an interesting interlude. Be sure to give Deanna my best."

"I don't think so." Finn rose as well, but made no move to leave. "I've got another question. You can call this one from reporter to psychologist."

Marshall's lips jerked into a sneer. "How could I refuse?"

"It's about obsession." Finn let the word hang a moment, watching for any sign: an avoidance of eye contact, a tic, a change in tone. "If a man, or a woman, was fixed on someone, long-term, say, two or three years, and he had fantasies but he couldn't bring himself to approach this person, face to face, and in these fantasies he felt he'd been betrayed, what would he be feeling? Love? Or hate?"

"A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such little information. I can say that love and hate are as intricately entwined as the poets claim. Either one can take control, and either one, depending on circumstances, can be dangerous. Obsessions are rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me, are you planning a show on the topic?" "Could be." Finn reached for his coat. "As a layman, I wonder if someone who was dealing with that kind of obsession might be able to hide it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the mask slip." He studied Marshall's face now. "The old John Smith who mows down half a dozen people in a K Mart. The neighbors say what a nice, quiet guy he was."

"It happens, doesn't it? Most people are very clever at allowing others to see only what they wish to be seen. And most people only see what they choose in any case. If the human race were simpler, both of us would be looking for other means of employment."

"You have a point. Thanks for your time." As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman's face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.

Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.

It wouldn't hurt to take a run by the hotel and see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area on the night of Angela's death.

In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk. He waited, and waited until he heard the faint rumble of the elevator. And he waited again until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp palm over his face.

He heard Finn's voice relay the information he already knew: Deanna wasn't there. Marshall slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.

Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn

Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had to see her. And he had to see her now.

"You shouldn't have come back yet." Jeff stood in Deanna's office, his pleasant, homely face set in stubborn lines of worry. The smell of paint was still fresh.

They both knew why the walls had been painted, the rug replaced. There were long, jagged scratch marks marring the surface of Deanna's desk. The police had unsealed the room only forty-eight hours before and there hadn't been time to repair or replace everything.

"I was hoping you'd be glad to see me." "I am glad to see you, but not here." Since it was just past eight in the morning, they were alone. Jeff felt obligated to convince her to give herself more time. When the rest of the staff arrived, he had no doubt they would add their weight. But now it was up to him to watch out for her. "You've been through a nightmare, Dee, and it hasn't even been a week."

Yes it had, she thought. One week tonight. But she didn't correct him. "Jeff, I've already been through this with Finn—"

"He shouldn't have let you come in."

Her hackles rose, but she bit back the first furious retort. Perhaps her nerves were still raw, she decided, if she was ready to snarl at poor Jeff. "Finn doesn't let me anything.

If it makes you feel better, he agrees with you completely about my taking more time. I don't." She eased a hip down on the wide sill of the plate-glass window. Behind her, wet snow fell in thick, listless sheets. "I need to work, Jeff. Angela's death was horrible, but hiding my head under the covers isn't going to make it, or my part in it, go away. And I need my pals." She held out a hand. "I really do."

She heard him sigh, but he crossed to her and took her hand. "We wanted to be there for you, Dee. All of us."

"I know you did." She squeezed his hand, urging him down on the sill with her. "I guess this hasn't been easy on anyone. Did you have to talk to the police?"

"Yeah." He grimaced, shoving at his glasses. "That Detective Jenner. "Where were you on the night in question?"'" Jeff demanded in such a perfect mimic of Jenner that Deanna laughed. "We all got the treatment. Simon was sweating bullets. You know how he is under pressure. Wringing his hands, gulping audibly. He got so worked up that Fran made him lie down, then tore into the cop for harassment."

"Sorry I missed it." She leaned her head against Jeff's shoulder, content to be back with friends. "What else did I miss?" She could feel his body tense and she squeezed his hand in reassurance. "I'd feel better if I knew, Jeff. I've only gotten some sketchy details about how the office was torn up. I miss our Christmas tree." Her smile was brief and sad. "Silly, isn't it? When you think of everything that was destroyed in here, I miss that stupid tree."

"I'll get you another one. Just as ugly." "Impossible." But she let it go. "Tell me."

He hesitated a moment. "The office was pretty messed up, Dee. But it was mostly cosmetic damage. Once the cops let us in, Loren had it cleaned out, repainted, recarpeted. He was royally pissed. Not at you," he said quickly. "It was the whole deal, you know. The fact that somebody got in and… did what they did."

"I'll call him."

"Deanna… I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I'm so damn sorry you had to go through all that. I wish I could say I'm sorry about Angela, but I'm not."

"Jeff—"

"I'm not," he repeated, and tightened his grip on her hand. "She wanted to hurt you. She did everything she could to ruin your career. Using Lew, making up lies, dragging that whole business with that creep football player into the public. I can't be sorry she won't be around to try something else." He let out a long breath. "I guess that makes me pretty cold."

"No, it doesn't. Angela didn't inspire great love and devotion."

"You do."

She lifted her head and turned to smile at him, when a sound in the doorway made them both jump.

"Oh, God." Cassie stood, a paperweight in one hand, a brass sculpture in the other. "I thought someone had broken in again." She pressed the hefty glass paperweight to her heart.

On watery legs, Deanna managed the two steps to a chair. "I came in early," she said, trying desperately to sound calm and in control. "I thought I might start catching up."

"I guess that makes three of us." With her eyes on Deanna, Cassie set the sculpture and paperweight aside.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"No." Deanna closed her eyes for a moment. "But I need to be here."

Perhaps her nerves were raw and her temper short, but by midmorning Deanna found some comfort in the basic office routine. Bookings had to be rearranged and rescheduled, others fell through completely due to the time lapse. New story ideas were devised and discussed. Once word spread that Deanna was back in harness, the phones began to shrill. People from the newsroom popped upstairs, out of both genuine concern and pure curiosity.

"Benny's hoping you'll do an interview," Roger told her. "An exclusive for old times' sake."

Deanna passed him half the sandwich she was nibbling at her now overburdened desk. "Benny thinks a lot of old times' sake."

"It's news, Dee. And pretty hot when you consider it happened right here at CBC and involved two major stars."

A major star, she thought. What was the difference between a major star and a minor one? She knew what Loren would have said: A minor star sought airtime. A major star sold it.

"Give me some time, will you?" She rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. "Tell him I'm thinking about it."

"Sure." His gaze wandered from hers to his own hands. "I'd appreciate it, if you decide to do it, if you let me do the interview." His eyes cut back to her, then away again. "I could use the boost. There are rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom again."

"There are always rumors of cutbacks in the newsroom." She resented the favor he was asking, and wished she didn't. "All right, Roger, for old times' sake. Just give me a couple of days."

"You're a peach, Dee." And he felt like sludge. "I'd better get down. I've got some bumpers to tape." He rose, leaving the sandwich untouched. "It's good to have you back. You know if you need a friendly ear, I've got two."

"Off the record?"

He had the grace to flush. "Sure. Off the record."

She held up both hands as if to gesture the words back. "Sorry. I'm touchy,

I guess. I'll have Cassie set up an interview in a day or two, all right?"

"Whenever you're ready." He walked to the door. "This really sucks," he murmured as he shut the door behind him.

"You bet." Deanna leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, letting herself hear only the impersonal murmur of the television across the room. Angela was dead, she thought, and that made her a hotter news item than she had ever been when she was alive.

The really horrid bottom line, Deanna knew, was that she was now hot news as well. And hot news made for hot ratings. Since the murder, Deanna's Hour — reruns of Deanna's Hour, she corrected — had spurted up in points, pummeling the competition. No game show or daytime drama could hope to withstand the mighty weight of murder and scandal.

Angela had given her greatest rival the success she'd hoped to take away. She'd only had to die to do it.

"Deanna?"

Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes sprang open. On the other side of her desk, Simon jumped as violently as she. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I guess you didn't hear me knock."

"That's okay." Disgusted with her reaction, she chuckled weakly. "My nerves don't seem to be as strong as I thought. You look exhausted."

He tried to smile, but couldn't bring it off. "Having trouble sleeping." He tumbled out a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit."

"Me too." Embarrassed, he moved his shoulders. "I know you said you wanted to start taping on Monday."

"That's right. Is there a problem?" "It's just that…" He trailed off, puffing hard on the cigarette. "I thought, under the circumstances — but maybe it doesn't matter to you. It just seemed to me…"

Deanna wondered if she grabbed onto his tongue and pulled, if the words would spill out. "What?"

"The set," he blurted out, and passed a nervous hand over his thinning hair. "I thought you might want to change the set. The chairs… you know."

"Oh God." She pressed a fist to her mouth as the vision of Angela, sitting cozily, sitting dead in the spacious white chair, flashed into her mind. "Oh God, I haven't thought."

"I'm sorry, Deanna." For lack of something better he patted her shoulder. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm an idiot."

"No. No. Thank God you did. I don't think I could have handled…" She imagined herself striding out on the set, then freezing in shock and horror. Would she have run screaming, as she had done before? "Oh, Simon. Oh, sweet Jesus."

"Dee." Helplessly he patted her shoulder again. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I think you just saved my sanity. Put the set decorator on it, Simon, please? Have him change everything. The color scheme, the chairs, tables, the plants. Everything. Tell him—"

Simon had already taken out a notebook to scribble down her instructions. The simple, habitual gesture somehow cheered Deanna.

"Thanks, Simon."

"I'm the detail man, remember?" He tapped out the half-smoked cigarette. "Don't worry about it. We'll have a whole new look."

"But keep it comfortable. And why don't you knock off early? Go get yourself a massage."

"I'd rather work."

"I know what you mean."

"I didn't know it would affect me like this." He tucked the pad away. "I worked with her for years. I can't say I liked her much, but I knew her. I stood right here, in this spot, when she was sitting there." He glanced up again, meeting Deanna's eyes. "Now, she's dead. I can't stop thinking about it."

"Neither can I."

"Whoever did it was in here, too." Warily, he scanned the room, as if he expected someone to lunge out of a corner wielding a gun. "Jesus, I'm sorry. All I'm doing is scaring the shit out of both of us. I guess it's eating on me because her memorial service is tonight."

"Tonight? In New York?"

"No, here. I guess she wanted to be buried in Chicago, where she got her big break. There's not going to be a viewing or anything, because…" He remembered why and swallowed hard. "Well, there's just going to be a service at the funeral parlor. I think I should go."

"Give the details to Cassie, will you? I think I should go, too."

"This isn't just stupid," Finn said with barely controlled fury. "It's insane."

Deanna watched the windshield wipers sweep at the ugly, icy sleet. The snow that had fallen throughout the day had turned to oily gray slop against the curbs. The sleet that replaced it battered down, cold and mean.

It was a good night for a funeral. Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. "I told you that you didn't have to come with me."

"Yeah, right." He spotted the crowd of reporters huddled outside the funeral parlor and drove straight down the block. "Goddamn press."

She nearly smiled at that, felt a giddy urge to laugh out loud. But she was afraid it would sound hysterical. "I won't mention anything about pots and kettles."

"I'm going to park down the block," he said between his teeth. "We'll see if we can find a side or a back entrance."

"I'm sorry," she repeated when he'd parked. "Sorry to have dragged you out to this tonight." She had a headache she didn't dare mention. And a raw sick feeling in her stomach that promised to worsen.

"I don't recall being dragged."

"I knew you wouldn't let me come alone. So it amounts to the same thing. I can't even explain to myself why I feel I have to do this. But I have to do it."

Suddenly, she twisted toward him, gripping his hand hard. "Whoever killed her could be in there. I keep wondering if I'll know him. If I look him in the face, if I'll know. I'm terrified I will."

"But you still want to go inside."

"I have to."

The sleet helped, she thought. Not only was it cold, but it demanded the use of long, disguising coats and shielding umbrellas. They walked in silence, against the wind. She caught sight of the CBC van before Finn ducked around the side of the building. He hustled her inside, drenching them both as he snapped the umbrella closed.

"I hate goddamned funerals." Surprised, she studied his face as she tugged off her gloves, shed her coat. She could see it now. More than annoyance with her for insisting on attending, more than concern or even fear, there was dread in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"I haven't been to one since… in years. What's the point? Dead's dead. Flowers and organ music don't change it."

"It's supposed to comfort the living." "Not so I've noticed."

"We won't stay long." She took his hand, surprised that it would be he rather than she who needed comfort.

He seemed to shudder, once. "Let's get it over with."

They walked out of the alcove. They could already hear the murmur of voices, the muted notes of a dirge. Not organ music, he realized, horribly relieved, but piano and cello in somber duet. The air smelled of lemon oil, perfume, flowers. He would have sworn he smelled whiskey as well, sharp as a blade cutting through the overly sweetened air.

The thick carpet was a riot of deep red roses and muffled their footsteps as they walked down a wide hall. On both sides heavy oak doors were discreetly shut. At the end they were flung open. Cigarette smoke added to the miasma of scent.

When he felt her tremble, Finn tucked his arm more firmly around her waist. "We can turn around and leave, Deanna. There's no shame in it."

She only shook her head. Then she saw the first video camera. The press, it seemed, wasn't merely huddled outside. Several had been allowed in, complete with camera crews, microphones and lights. Cables were strewn over the garden of carpet in the main viewing room.

In silence, they slipped inside.

The cathedral ceiling with its painted mural of cherubim and seraphim tossed the murmuring voices and chinking glasses everywhere.

The room was crowded with people. As Deanna looked from face to face, she wondered if she would see grief or fear or simply resignation. Would Angela feel she was being mourned properly? And would her killer be here, to observe?

No one wept, Finn noted. He did see shock and sober eyes. Voices were muted respectfully. And the cameras recorded it all. Would they, he wondered, inadvertently record one face, one that couldn't quite hide the knowledge, and the triumph? He kept Deanna close to his side, knowing that the murderer could be in the room, watching.

There was a photograph of Angela in a gold frame. The flattering publicity shot sat atop a gleaming mahogany coffin.

It reminded Finn, much too vividly, of what lay inside the discreetly closed lid. Feeling Deanna shudder beside him, he instinctively drew her closer.

"Let's get the hell out of here." "No."

"Kansas—" But when he looked at her he saw more than the shock and fear. He saw what was missing on so many of the other faces that crowded the room: grief.

"Whatever her motives," Deanna said quietly, "she helped me once. And whoever did this to her used me." Her voice broke. "I can't forget that."

Neither could he. That was what terrified him. "It would be better if Dan Gardner doesn't spot either one of us."

Deanna nodded, spotting him at the front of the room, accepting condolences. "He's using her too, even though she's dead. It's horrible."

"He'll ride her press for a while. She'd have understood that."

"I suppose."

"An interesting scene, isn't it?" Loren commented when he joined them. He gave Deanna a hard, searching look, then nodded. "You're looking well."

"No I'm not." Grateful for the lie, she kissed his cheek. "I didn't think you'd come."

"I could say the same." He warmed her chilled hands between his. "It seemed necessary somehow, but I'm already regretting it." His expression changed to one of disgust as he looked over his shoulder at Dan Gardner. "Rumor is he plans to air clips from this viewing along with the special Angela taped for next May. And he's demanding another five thousand a minute from sponsors. The son of a bitch will get it, too."

"Bad taste often costs more than good," Deanna murmured. "There must be five hundred people in here."

"Easily. A handful are even sorry she's dead."

"Oh, Loren." Deanna's stomach clenched like a fist.

"I hate to admit I'm one of them." Then he sighed and shrugged off the mood. "She'd have gotten an ego boost out of that piece of news." To clear the emotion from his voice, Loren coughed gently into his hand. "You know, I can't decide if Angela deserved Dan Gardner or not. It's a tough call."

"I'm sure she didn't deserve you." The tears burning in her eyes made Deanna feel like a hypocrite since they weren't for Angela. "We're not staying, Loren. Why don't you come with us?"

"No, I'm going to see this through. But I think you should avoid any publicity here tonight. Slip out quietly."

When they were back in the alcove, Deanna turned into Finn's arms. "I had no idea he still loved her."

"I don't think he did, either." He tipped her face up until their eyes were level. "Are you all right?"

"Actually, I'm better." She turned her head until her cheek rested on his shoulder. Most of the fear had ebbed, she realized. That jittering panic she'd nearly grown accustomed to feeling in her stomach had quieted. "I'm glad we came."

"Excuse me." Kate Lowell's sultry voice had Deanna turning her head. She stood in the doorway, sleek and somber in black silk, her hair waves of flame over her shoulders. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"You haven't," Deanna responded. "We were just leaving."

"So am I." She glanced over her shoulder toward the sounds of voices and music. "It's not my kind of party." She smiled slightly. "She was a bitch," Kate said. "And I hated her guts. But I'm not sure even

Angela deserved to be used quite so blatantly." She sighed once, moving her shoulders as if to shrug it all away. "I'd like a drink. And I need to talk to you." She looked at Finn and frowned. "I suppose it'll have to be both of you, and it hardly matters at this point." She watched Finn's brow rise, and smiled again, with more feeling. "Really gracious, aren't I? Listen, why don't you find us a bar? I'll buy us all a drink and tell you a little story you might find interesting."

Chapter Twenty-five

"To Hollywood," Kate said as she raised her glass of scotch. "Land of illusions."

Puzzled, Deanna nursed her wine while Finn stuck with coffee.

It wasn't the sort of bar where one would expect to find one of Hollywood's major stars. The piano player was glumly noodling out the blues so that the notes rose sluggishly on air thick with smoke. Their corner was dim, as Kate had requested. On the table scarred with nicks their drinks rested near a chipped amber glass ashtray.

"You came a long way for the funeral of someone you didn't like." Deanna watched Kate's elegant nails tap the table in time with the piano.

"I was in town. But if I hadn't been, I'd have made the trip. For the pleasure of making sure she was dead." Kate sipped her scotch again, then set the glass aside. "I don't imagine you cared for her any more than I did, but this might be rougher on you, since you found her." Kate's eyes softened as she stared into Deanna's. "As the story goes, it wasn't a pretty sight."

"No, it wasn't."

"I wish it had been me," Kate said under her breath. "You're a softer touch, always were. Even after everything she did, and tried to do, to you. I know a lot more about that than you might imagine," she added when Deanna studied her. "Things that didn't make it into the press. Angela liked to brag. She hated you." She inclined the glass toward Finn. "Because you didn't come to heel when she snapped her fingers. And she wanted you for exactly the same reason. She figured Deanna was in her way, from all manner of angles. She'd have done anything to remove you."

"This isn't news." Noting that Kate's glass was dry, Finn signaled for another. The lady, he concluded, was stalling.

"No, it's just my little prelude." She stretched back, but the sinuous gesture was all nerves. "I don't suppose you'd be surprised to know that Angela went to some trouble and expense to dig up that business from your past, Deanna. The date rape. It backfired, of course." Her lips curved into a lovely smile. "Some of her projects did. That's what she called them. Not blackmail." She sulked a moment, fingers tapping, tapping, tapping. "Rob Winters was one of her projects. So was Marshall Pike." She didn't glance at the waitress, but nudged the glass aside even as it was set in front of her. "There are plenty more. Names that would astonish you. She used a P.i. named Beeker. He's in Chicago. Angela kept him very busy documenting data for her projects. It cost me five thousand dollars to shoehorn his name out of Angela's secretary. But then, everybody has a price. I had mine," she added quietly.

"You're saying Angela blackmailed people?" Deanna leaned forward. "She traded secrets for money?"

"Occasionally. She preferred trading secrets for favors. Her terms again." Absently, she reached into the plastic bowl of mixed nuts. ""Do me a little favor, darling, and I'll keep this tidbit of information all to myself." "Your wife has a drug problem, Senator. Don't worry, I won't breathe a word if you just do me a favor." What multi-Grammy winner was a victim of incest? What popular television star has ties to the KKK? Ask Angela. She made it her business to know what skeleton was in what closet. And if she was confident she had her hooks in you deeply enough, she might tell you what closet. It was a way of flexing her power. She was confident she had her hooks in me."

"And now she's dead."

Kate acknowledged Finn's comment with a nod. "Funny, now that she's no longer a threat to me, I feel compelled to do what she always threatened to do. I'm going public. Actually, I'd decided to do so on the very night she was murdered. The police might find that convenient, don't you think? Like a bad script. I saw her that night." She read the horror in Deanna's eyes. "Not at the studio. At her hotel. We argued. Since there was a maid in the next room, I imagine the police already know about it."

She lifted a brow at Finn. "Yes, I can see at least you knew about it. Well then. I'm going to go in and make a statement before they come to me. I believe I even threatened to kill her." Kate closed her eyes. "There's that bad script again. I didn't kill her, but you'll have to decide whether to believe me when I'm finished."

"Why are you telling us?" Deanna demanded. "Why don't you go directly to the police?"

"I'm an actress. I like the chance to choose my audience. You were always a good one, Dee." She reached out then in a quick, fleeting gesture of friendship. "And, in any case, I think you're entitled to know the whole story. Didn't you ever wonder why I backed out of coming on your show? Why I've never been available to appear on it?"

"Yes. But I think you've answered that. Angela was blackmailing you. And the favor was for you to boycott my program."

"That was one of them. I was in a precarious and fascinating position a couple of years ago, when you approached me. I had two whopping box-office successes. And the critics loved me. The wholesomely sexy girl-next-door. Don't believe that hype about stars not reading their reviews. I pored over mine. Every word," she said with a long, dreamy smile. "I could probably still quote a few of the best ones. All I ever wanted was to be an actor. A star," she corrected with an easy shrug. "And that's what they called me. The first movie star of the new generation. A throwback to Bacall and Bergman and Davis. And it didn't take me years. One supporting role in a film that took off like a rocket, and an Academy nomination. Then I costarred with Rob and we burned up the screen, we broke hearts. The next movie, my name was over the title. My image was locked in. A woman who charms with a smile." She laughed at that, drank again. "The good girl, the heroine, the woman you'd like your son to bring home for dinner. That's the image. That's what Hollywood wants from me, that's what the public expects. And that's what I've delivered. They've given me plenty of credit for talent, but the image is every bit as important."

Her eyes slitted. "Do you think the top producers and directors, the players, the men who decide what project flies and what project gets buried would flood my agent with offers if they knew their perfect heroine, the woman who won an Oscar for playing the desperately devoted mother, had gotten pregnant at seventeen, and had given up the child without a second thought?"

She laughed when Deanna's mouth opened. But it wasn't a merry sound. "Doesn't fit, does it? Even in these enlightened times, how many of those ticket buyers would shell out seven bucks to watch me play the long-suffering or feisty heroine?"

"I don't…" Deanna stopped, waiting for her thoughts to settle. "I don't see why it should matter. You made a choice, one I'm sure was anything but easy for you. And you were a child yourself."

Amused, Kate glanced at Finn. "Is she really that naive?"

"About some things." He was, despite his pride in being a sharp judge of character, doing some rapid mental shuffling. "I can see why an announcement like that would have shaken things up. You'd have taken some knocks in the press. But you'd have pulled out of it."

"Maybe. I was afraid. Angela knew that. And I was ashamed. She knew that, too. She was very sympathetic at first. "How hard it must have been on you, dear. A young girl, with her whole life in flux because of one tiny mistake. How difficult it must have been for you to do what you thought was best for the child.""

Annoyed with herself, Kate flicked a tear away. "And you see, since it had been difficult, even horrible, and because she was sympathetic, I broke down. Then she had me. She reminded me that it wouldn't do for certain Hollywood brass to discover that I'd made this tiny mistake. Oh, she understood, she sympathized completely. But would they? Would the ticket-buying public who'd crowned me their valiant princess understand?"

"Kate, you were seventeen."

Very slowly, Kate lifted her gaze to Deanna's. "I was old enough to make a child, old enough to give her away. Old enough to pay for it. I hope I'm strong enough now to face the consequences." She frowned at her glass. If she didn't survive, if she crashed and burned, it would kill her. Angela had known that. "A few years ago, I wasn't. It's as simple as that. I don't think I could have survived the hate mail then, or the tabloids, or the bad jokes." She smiled again, but Deanna saw her pain. "I can't say I'm looking forward to it now. But the simple fact is, the cops are bound to track me down. Sooner or later they'll dig up Beeker and all of Angela's nasty files. I'm going to choose my own time and place for my public announcement. I'd like to do it on your show."

Deanna blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said I'd like to do it on your show." "Why?"

"Two reasons. First, for me it would be the ultimate payback to Angela. You don't like that one," she murmured, seeing the disapproval in Deanna's eyes. "You'll like this better. I trust you. You've got class, and compassion. This isn't going to be easy for me, and I'm going to need both. I'm scared." She set her drink down. "I hate that reason, but I might as well admit it. I lost the child through my ambition," she said quietly. "That's gone," she said fiercely. "I don't want to lose what I've got, Deanna. What I've worked for. Angela's just as dangerous to me dead as she was alive. At least I can pick my time and place this way. I've got a lot of respect for you. I always have. I'm going to have to talk about my private life, my personal griefs. I'd like to start off talking with someone I respect."

"We'll juggle the schedule," Deanna said simply. "And do it Monday morning."

Kate closed her eyes a moment, gathered what resources she had left. "Thanks."

The sleet had stopped by the time they arrived home, leaving the air chill and damp and gloomy. Clouds hovered, thick and black. There was a light on in one of the front windows, streaming gold through the glass in cozy welcome. The dog began to bark the moment Finn slipped the key into the lock.

It should have been a homecoming. But there was the ever-present smell of paint reminding them their home had been violated. Drop cloths were spread in the hallway, and the dog's barking echoed emptily. So many of the rooms had been cleared out of broken crockery, damaged furniture. It was like being greeted by a mortally ill friend.

"We can still go to a hotel."

Deanna shook her head. "No, that's only another way of hiding. I can't help feeling responsible for this."

"Then work on it."

She recognized the impatience in his voice. She stooped to pet the dog as Finn peeled off his coat. "They were your things, Finn."

"Things." He shoved his coat on the hall rack. In the mirrored surface he saw her head bent over the dog's. "Just things, Deanna. Insured, replaceable."

She stayed where she was but lifted her head. Her eyes were wide and weary. "I love you so much. I hate knowing he was here, that he touched anything that was yours."

He crouched beside her, causing the dog to roll belly up in anticipation. But Finn took Deanna by the shoulders, his eyes suddenly fierce. "You are the only thing I have that's irreplaceable. The first time I met you, the first time, I knew that nothing that had happened to me before, or that would happen after, would mean as much. Can you understand that?" His hand moved roughly into her hair. "It's overwhelming what I feel for you. It's terrifying. And it's everything."

"Yes." She brought her hands to his face, guided his mouth to hers. "I can understand that." Emotions welled up, pouring into the kiss so that her lips were urgent and edgy. Even as Finn tugged at her coat, the dog wriggled between them, whining.

"We're embarrassing Cronkite," he murmured, drawing Deanna to her feet.

"We should find him a wife."

"You just want to go to the pound again and liberate another mutt."

"Now that you mention it…" But her smile faded quickly. "Finn, I have to talk to you about something."

"Sounds serious." "Can we go upstairs?"

She wanted the bedroom, since it was almost fully restored. He'd seen that the work there had been completed first. The things that hadn't been destroyed had been placed there. Above the bed, where she knew a desperate message had been scrawled, the paint was fresh and clean. He'd hung the painting there — the one he had bought out from under her in the gallery so long ago.

Awakenings. All those vivid splashes of color. That energy and verve. He'd known she'd needed it there, a reminder of life. And so the room had become a haven.

"Are you upset about Kate?"

"Yes." She kept her hand in his as they climbed the stairs. "But this is about something else." She walked into the bedroom, moved to the fireplace, the window, then back. "I love you, Finn."

The tone put him on guard. "We've established that."

"Loving you doesn't mean I have the right to intrude in every area of your life."

Curious, he tilted his head. He could read her like a book. She was worried. "Which areas do you consider off limits?"

"You're annoyed." Baffled, she tossed up her hands. "I can never quite understand how easily I can set you off, especially when I'm trying to be reasonable."

"I hate it when you think you're being reasonable. Just spill it, Deanna."

"Fine. What did Angela have on you?" His expression altered subtly, from impatience to utter confusion. "Huh?"

"Don't do that." She ripped off her coat and tossed it aside. In her tasteful black suit and damp shoes, she paced the room. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so. I'll agree that anything you've done in the past isn't necessarily connected to our relationship."

"Slow down, and stop stalking around the room. What do you think I've done?"

"I don't know." Her voice sounded shrill to herself. "I don't know," she said more calmly. "And if you think I don't need to know, I'll try to accept it. But once the police question this Beeker character, your secret is bound to come out anyway."

"Hold on." He held up both hands as she unbuttoned her suit jacket. "If

I'm reading this correctly — and stop me anytime if I veer off — you think that Angela was blackmailing me. Have I got that part?"

Marching to the closet, she yanked out a padded hanger. "I said I wouldn't intrude if you didn't want me to. I was being reasonable."

"You certainly were." He came over, clamped his hands on her shoulders and steered her rigid body to a chair. "Now sit down. And tell me why you think I was being blackmailed."

"I went to meet Angela that night because she said she knew something about you. Something that could hurt you."

He sat himself then, on the edge of the bed, as a new kind of fury ate at him. "She lured you to the studio by threatening me?"

"Not directly. Not exactly." She dragged a hand through her hair. "There was nothing she could tell me that would change my feelings for you. I wanted to make sure she understood that. That she left us both alone."

"Deanna, why didn't you come to me?" She winced from the simple, rational question. "Because I wanted to handle her myself," she shot back. "Because I don't need you or anyone running interference for me."

"Isn't that precisely what you misguidedly tried to do for me?"

That shut her up, but again, only for a moment. It was, she knew, master interviewer against master interviewer. And it was a competition she didn't mean to lose. "You're evading the issue. What would she have told me, Finn?"

"I don't have a clue. I'm not gay; I don't use drugs; I've never stolen anything. Except a couple of comic books when I was twelve — and nobody could prove it."

"I don't think this is funny."

"She wasn't blackmailing me, Deanna.

I had an affair with her, but that was no secret. She wasn't the first woman I'd been involved with, but there haven't been any deviant sexual encounters I'd want to hide. I don't have any ties to organized crime, never embezzled. I'm not hiding any illegitimate children. I never killed anyone."

He broke off abruptly, and the impatient amusement drained out of his face. "Oh Jesus." He brought both hands to his face, pressing the heels to his eyes.

"Jesus Christ."

"I'm sorry." Competition forgotten, she sprang up to go to him. "Finn, I'm sorry, I should never have brought it up."

"Could she have done that?" he said to himself. "Could even she have done that? And for what?" He let his hands drop, and his eyes were haunted. "For what?"

"Done what?" Deanna asked quietly, her arms still around him.

Finn drew back, just a little, as if what was working inside him might damage her. "My best friend in college. Pete Whitney. We got hooked on the same girl. We got drunk one night, really plowed, and tried to beat the crap out of each other. Did a pretty good job. Made sure it was off campus. Then we decided, hell, she wasn't worth it, and we drank some more."

His voice was cool, detached. His newscaster's voice. "That's the last time I've been drunk. Pete used to joke that it was the Irish in me. That I could drink or fight or talk my way out of anything." He remembered the way he'd been then — angry, rebellious, belligerent. Determined to be absolutely nothing like his chilly and civilized parents. "I'm not much of a drinker anymore, and I've figured out that words are generally a better weapon than fists. He gave me this." Finn tugged the Celtic cross out from under his shirt, closed his hand around it. "He was my closest friend, the closest thing to family I ever had."

Was, Deanna thought, and ached for him. "We forgot about the girl. She wasn't as important to either of us as we were to each other. We killed off another bottle. My eye was swollen up like a rotten tomato, so I tossed him the keys, climbed into the passenger seat, passed out. We were twenty, and we were stupid. The idea of getting into a car filthy drunk didn't mean anything to us. When you're twenty, you're going to live forever. But Pete didn't.

"I woke up when I heard him scream. That's it. I heard him scream and the next thing I remember is waking up with all these lights and all these people and feeling as if I'd been run over by a truck. He'd taken a turn too fast, hit a utility pole. We'd both been thrown from the car. I had a concussion, a broken collarbone, broken arm, lots of cuts and bruises. Pete was dead."

"Oh, Finn." She wrapped her arms around him again, held on.

"It was my car, so they figured I'd been driving. They were going to charge me with vehicular manslaughter. My father came down, but by the time he got there they'd already found several witnesses who had seen Pete take the wheel. He wasn't any more or any less dead, of course. It didn't change that, or the fact that I'd been drunk and stupid, criminally careless."

He tightened his fingers around the silver cross. "I wasn't hiding it, Deanna. It's just not something I like to remember. Funny, I thought about Pete tonight, when we walked into Angela's funeral. I haven't been to one since Pete's. His mother always blamed me. I could see her point."

"You weren't driving, Finn."

"Does it really matter?" He looked at her then, though he already knew the answer. "I could have been. My father gave the Whitneys a settlement, and that was pretty much the end of it. I wasn't charged with anything. I wasn't held responsible."

He turned his face into Deanna's hair. "But I was. I was just as responsible as Pete. The only difference is I'm alive and he's not."

"The difference is, you were given a second chance and he wasn't." She closed her hand over his, so that they both held the cross. "I'm so sorry, Finn."

So was he. He'd spent his adult life making himself into the man he was, as much for Pete as for himself. He wore the cross every day as a talisman, yes, and as a reminder.

"Angela could have dug up the facts easily enough," Finn said. "She could even have made it appear that the Riley money and power influenced the outcome. But she would have blackmailed you, not me. She'd have known if she'd come to me, I'd have told her to take out an ad."

"I want to tell the police."

He eased her back on the bed so that they were curled together, wrapped close. "We'll tell them a lot of things. Tomorrow." Gently, he tipped her face toward his. "Would you have protected me, Deanna?" She started to deny it, but caught the gleam in his eye. She knew he'd recognize a lie. "Yes. So?"

"So, thanks."

She smiled as she lifted her mouth toward his.

Not so far away someone was weeping. The tears were hot and bitter, scalding the throat, the eyes, the skin. Photographs of Deanna looked on, smiling benignly at the sobbing form. Three candles tossed the only light, their flames, straight and true, highlighting the pictures, the single earring, the lock of hair bound in gold thread. All of the treasures on the altar of frustrated desire.

There were stacks of videotapes, but the television screen was silent and dark tonight.

Angela was dead, but still that wasn't enough. Love, deep, dark and demented, had triggered the gun, but it wasn't enough. There had to be more.

The candleglow shot the shadow of a form hunched into a ball, racked with despair. Deanna would see, had to see that she was loved, cherished, adored.

There was a way to prove it.

Finn would have preferred to handle the interview alone. Jenner would have preferred to do the same. Since neither of them could manage to shake the other loose, they drove to Beeker's office together.

"Might as well make the best of it," Jenner said. "I'm doing you a favor, Mr. Riley, letting you tag along."

That statement earned Jenner a frigid stare. "I don't tag along, Lieutenant. And let me remind you that you wouldn't know about Kate Lowell or Beeker if we hadn't come to you with the information."

Jenner grinned and rubbed his chin, which he'd nicked shaving. "And I get the feeling you wouldn't have come to me if Miss Reynolds hadn't insisted."

"She feels easier knowing the police are on top of things."

"And how does she feel about your being involved in the investigation?" Silence. "Doesn't know," Jenner concluded. "As a man married thirty-two years last July, let me mention that you're skating on thin ice." "She's terrified. And she's going to continue to be terrified until you have Angela's killer under wraps."

"Can't argue with that. Now, this Kate Lowell business. Being a reporter, you might not agree, but I think she's entitled to her privacy."

"It's tough to argue for privacy when you make your living in the public eye. I believe in the right to know, Lieutenant. But I don't believe in blackmail, or in poking telescopic lenses into someone's bedroom window."

"Got your dander up." Pleased, Jenner scooted through a yellow light. "Me, I feel sorry for her. She was a kid, probably scared."

"You're a soft touch, Lieutenant." "Like hell. You can't be a cop and be a soft touch." But he was, damn it. And since it embarrassed the hell out of him, he took the aggressive route. "She still could've killed Angela Perkins."

Finn waited as Jenner doubled-parked, then flipped the officer-on-duty sign over on the dash. "Entertain me."

"She argues with Angela at the hotel. She's fed up with Angela, enraged at being made to suffer for something that happened when she was still wet behind the ears."

"There's that soft touch again. Keep going," Finn prompted as he climbed out of the car.

"She's tired of Angela holding it over her head and threatens her. She hears the maid in the bedroom so she leaves. But she follows Angela to CBC, confronts her in the studio, murders her. Then Deanna comes in, and she gets creative. She's been in films for years. She knows how to set up a camera."

"Yes." There was a quick, nippy breeze that smelled of the lake. Finn drew it in, the easy freshness of it as they crossed the street. "Then she decides to disguise her motive by going public with exactly what she killed Angela over. Better the world knows she's an unwed mother than a murderer."

"It doesn't play," Jenner concluded. "Not for me. If Beeker has half the dirt Kate thinks, we'll have a dozen more scenarios by dinnertime." They walked into the office building, Jenner flashing his badge at the security guard in the lobby. Upstairs, Jenner scanned the wide corridor. The oil paintings were originals and very good. The carpet was thick. Tall, leafy plants were tucked into niches every few feet.

The doors of Beeker Investigations were glass and whispered open into an airy reception area complete with a tidy miniature spruce for the holiday season.

A trim, thirtyish brunette piloted a circular reception desk fashioned from glass blocks. "May I help you?"

"Beeker." Jenner offered the receptionist his ID for inspection.

"Mr. Beeker is in conference, Lieutenant. Will one of his associates be able to help you?"

"Beeker," he said again. "We'll wait, but I'd buzz him if I were you."

"Very well." Her friendly smile chilled a few degrees. "May I ask what this is in reference to?"

"Murder."

"Nice touch," Finn murmured when they wandered over to the deep-cushioned chairs in the waiting area. "Real Joe Friday stuff." He took another look around. "Very elegant surroundings, for a P.i."

"A couple of clients like Angela Perkins means this guy nets in a month what I do in a year."

"Lieutenant Jenner?" The receptionist, obviously miffed, stood in the center of the room. "Mr. Beeker will see you now." She guided them through another set of glass doors, past several offices. She knocked lightly on the door at the end of the hall, and opened it.

Clarence Beeker was like his office, trim, subtly elegant and serviceable. He stood, a man of average height and slim build, behind his Belker desk. The hand he extended was fine-boned.

His hair was graying dashingly at the temples, and he had a finely drawn face that was more handsome with the lines and crevices etched by time. His body was obviously trim beneath his Savile Row suit.

"Might I see some identification?" His voice was smooth, like cool cream over rich coffee.

Jenner was disappointed. He'd expected Beeker to be sleazy.

He examined the shield after slipping on silver-framed reading glasses. "I recognize you, Mr. Riley. I often watch your show on Tuesday nights. Since you've brought a reporter along, Detective Jenner, I assume this is an unofficial visit."

"It's official enough," Jenner corrected. "Mr. Riley's here as a special liaison of the mayor's." Not by a flicker did Jenner or Finn react to the glib lie.

"I'm honored. Please sit. Tell me what I can do for you."

"I'm investigating Angela Perkins's murder," Jenner began. "She was a client of yours."

"She was." Beeker settled behind his desk. "I was shocked and distressed to read about her death."

"We have information leading us to believe that the deceased was blackmailing a number of people."

"Blackmail." Beeker's graying brows rose. "It seems a very unattractive term to be connected to a very attractive woman."

"It's also an attractive motive for murder," Finn put in. "You investigated people for Miss Perkins."

"I handled a number of cases for Miss Perkins over our ten-year association. Given the nature of her profession, it was advantageous for her to be privy to details, backgrounds, the personal habits of those she would interview."

"Her interest, and her use of those personal habits, might have led to her death."

"Mr. Riley, I investigated and reported for Miss Perkins. I'm sure you understand both those functions. I had no more control over her use of the information I provided than you do over the public's use of the information you provide to them."

"And no responsibility."

"None," Beeker agreed pleasantly. "We provide a service. Beeker Investigations has an excellent reputation because we are skilled, discreet and dependable. We abide by the law, Detective, and a code of ethics. Whether or not our clients do so is their business, not ours."

"One of your clients got her face shot off," Jenner said shortly. "We'd like to see copies of the reports you wrote for Miss Perkins."

"I'm afraid, as much as I prefer to cooperate with the police, that would be impossible. Unless you have a warrant," he said pleasantly.

"You don't have a client to protect, Mr. Beeker." Jenner leaned forward. "What's left of her is in a coffin."

"I'm aware of that. However, I do have a client. Mr. Gardner has this company under retainer. As the deceased's husband and beneficiary, I am morally bound to accede to his wishes."

"Which are?"

"To investigate his wife's murder. To be frank, gentlemen, he's dissatisfied with the police investigation to date. And as he was my client during his wife's life, and continues to be after her death, I can't ethically turn over my files without the proper warrant. I'm sure you understand my position."

"And you'll understand mine," Finn said pleasantly. "Liaison or not, I am a reporter. As such, I have an obligation to inform the public. It would be interesting to inform the public of the kind of work you did for Angela. I wonder how many of your other clients would appreciate that connection."

Beeker had stiffened. "Threats, Mr. Riley, aren't appreciated."

"I'm sure they're not. But that doesn't make them any less viable." Finn glanced at his watch. "I think I have enough time to squeeze in a quick feature on the evening news. We'd be able to do an in-depth version tomorrow."

Jaw clenched, Beeker lifted his phone, buzzed his secretary. "I'll need copies of Angela Perkins's files. All of them." He cradled the phone again, linked his fingers. "It will take a little time."

"We've got plenty," Jenner assured him. "While we're waiting, why don't you tell us where you were on the night Angela Perkins was shot?"

"I'd be happy to. I was at home, with my wife and my mother. As I recall, we played three-handed bridge until about midnight."

"Then you won't object to us questioning your wife and your mother?"

"Of course not." Though he wasn't pleased at being out-maneuvered, Beeker was a practical man. "Perhaps I can offer you gentlemen coffee while we wait for the files?"

Chapter Twenty-six

Marshall Pike had been waiting in his car in the CBC parking lot for more than an hour when Deanna finally walked out. He felt the quick, unbidden tightening of his muscles in response at the sight of her: part anger, part lust. For the past two years, he had been forced to content himself with images of her on the TV screen. Seeing her now in the gloom of dusk, short-skirted, her legs flashing as she hurried toward a dark sedan, exceeded his memories.

"Deanna," he called to her, climbing quickly out of his own car.

She stopped, glanced toward him, peering through the rapidly deepening night. The quick, friendly smile of greeting faded. "Marshall, what do you want?"

"You never returned any of my calls." He cursed himself for sounding petulant. He wanted to appear strong, dynamic.

"I wasn't interested in speaking with you." "You're going to speak with me." He clamped his hand over her arm. His gesture made Deanna's driver spring out of the car.

"Call off your dog, Deanna. Surely you can spare five minutes?"

"It's all right, Tim." But she removed Marshall's hand before turning to her driver. "I won't keep you waiting long."

"No problem, Miss Reynolds." He gave Marshall a measured look, then tipped his cap. "No problem at all."

"If we could be private." Marshall gestured across the lot. "Your guard will be able to see you, Deanna. I'm sure he'll leap to your rescue should I try to manhandle you."

"I think I can handle you alone." She crossed the lot with him, hoping the meeting would be brief. The wind was bitterly cold and she didn't relish speaking with him. "Since I can't think of anything we'd have to discuss on a personal level, I assume you wanted to talk to me about Angela."

"It would have been difficult for you. Finding her."

"Yes, it was."

"I could help you." "Professionally?" Her brow quirked. The wind, and anger, brought color to her cheeks, a snap to her eyes. "No thanks. Tell me what you want."

For the moment, he stared at her. She was still perfect. Fresh, seductive. All luminous eyes and moist lips. "Have dinner with me," he said at last. "The French place you always liked so much."

"Marshall, please." There was no anger in her voice, only pity. It scraped like rusty blades over his ego.

"Oh yes, I seem to have forgotten to congratulate you on your engagement to our dashing correspondent."

"Thank you. Is that all?"

"I want the file." At her blank look he tightened his grip. "Don't pretend you don't understand. I know Angela gave you a copy of her investigator's report on me. She told me. She gloated over it. I didn't ask for it before because I'd hoped that you'd come to realize what I could offer you. Now, under the circumstances, I need it."

"I don't have it."

Rage darkened his face. "You're lying. She gave it to you."

"Yes, she did." Her arm was throbbing now, but she refused to struggle. "Do you really think I would have kept it all this time? I destroyed it ages ago."

He gripped both her arms now, nearly lifting her off her feet. "I don't believe you."

"I don't give a damn what you believe. I don't have it." More furious than frightened, she struggled against him. "Can't you understand I didn't care enough to keep it? You weren't important enough."

"Bitch." Too incensed to think clearly, he dragged her toward his car. "You won't hold that file over my head." He grunted, his wing tips skittering on the pavement as he was yanked from behind. He went down painfully, bruising his hip and his dignity.

"No, Tim, don't." Though she was shaking, Deanna grabbed her driver's arm before he could haul Marshall to his feet and knock him down all over again.

Tim adjusted his bulky coat, seeing Marshall was quelled. "You okay, Miss Reynolds?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Hey!" A baseball cap shielding his eyes, a camera on his shoulder, Joe raced across the lot. "Dee? You okay?"

"Yes." She pressed a hand to her temple as Marshall got to his feet. Perfect, she thought. Pictures at ten. "Yes, I'm okay."

"I was just pulling into the lot when I saw this guy hassling you." Joe's eyes narrowed. "The shrink, right?" He slapped a hand on Marshall's chest before Marshall could step toward his car. "Hold on, pal. Dee, you want me to call the cops, or should Tim and I just show this creep what happens to men who push women around?"

"Just let him go."

"Sure?"

She looked into Marshall's eyes. There was something dead in them now, but she couldn't find any pity. "Yes. Let him go."

"The lady's giving you a break," Joe muttered. "If I catch you bothering her again, I won't be so nice."

Silently, Marshall got into his car. He locked the doors, fastened his seat belt, before driving out of the lot.

"Are you sure he didn't hurt you, Miss Reynolds?"

"No, he didn't. Thank you, Tim." "No problem." Tim sauntered proudly back to the car.

"I wish you'd let me punch him." Joe gave a regretful sigh before looking back at Deanna. "Spooked you, huh?" He glanced at the camera on his shoulder, grimaced. "I got so pissed I didn't get any tape of it."

That, at least, was something. "I guess there's no point in my asking you not to mention this in the newsroom."

He grinned as he walked her to her car. "No point at all. News is news."

She didn't want to tell Finn, but they'd made a deal. No holding back. She'd hoped Finn would have to work late, but as luck would have it, he opened the door and greeted her with a long, sloppy kiss.

"Hiya." "Hi yourself." She rocked back on her heels and gave Cronkite the caress he was whining for.

"We had a change in schedule, so I got home a little early." The change in schedule had been canceling all of his appointments and spending his afternoon with Jenner reading through Beeker's files. "Made dinner."

Cooperating, Deanna sniffed the air. "Smells great."

"New recipe." With one brow cocked, he tipped a finger under her chin. "What?"

"What, what?"

"You're upset."

She scowled and pushed his hand away. "Damn it, Finn, that's irritating. Don't you know a woman likes to think she has some mystery?" Still hoping to stall, she peeled out of her coat and hung it on the hall rack.

"What happened, Kansas?"

"We'll talk about it later. I'm starving." He merely shifted and blocked her path. "Spill it."

She could argue, but since an argument was precisely what she was hoping to avoid, what was the point?

"Will you promise to hear me out and not overreact?"

"Sure." He smiled at her as he swung an arm around her shoulders and led her to the steps. They sat together near the bottom landing, with the dog happily at their feet. "Is it about Angela?"

"Not directly." She blew out a long breath. "It was Marshall. He sort of ambushed me in the parking lot."

"Ambushed?"

His icy tone alerted her. But when she looked up at Finn, his eyes seemed calm enough. Curious, a little annoyed, but calm. "Just a figure of speech. He was upset. You know I haven't returned his calls." When Finn said nothing, she let the rest tumble out. "He was just angry and upset, that's all. About that. And about the files Angela had sent to me. I told you about them. Marshall has it in his head that I kept them. Of course, with the investigation going on he's worried. Naturally."

"Naturally," Finn said pleasantly. He'd hear about the rest anyway, Deanna reminded herself. From Joe, or someone else in the newsroom. That would be worse. "We had a little scuffle."

There was a dangerous light in Finn's eyes. "Did he put his hands on you?"

Deanna shrugged, hoping to lighten the mood. "In a manner of speaking. It was really just one of those push-shove sort of things. But Tim was there," she added quickly. "And Joe. So it was nothing. It was really nothing."

"He put his hands on you," Finn repeated. "And he threatened you?"

"I don't know that I'd call it a threat. It was just — Finn!" He was already up, removing his coat from the rack. "Finn, damn it, you said you'd be reasonable."

He shot her one look, one stunningly frigid look that had her heart stopping. "I lied."

Her knees were knocking together, but she was on his heels as he strode out of the house. The cold and the look in Finn's eye had her teeth chattering as she struggled into her coat. "Stop this now. Right now! What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go explain to Pike why he should keep his hands off my woman."

"Your woman?" That tore it. She bounded ahead of him, slapping both hands onto his chest. "Don't you pull that macho bullshit on me, Finn Riley. I'm not going to…"

Her voice slid back down her throat when he propped his hands under her elbows and lifted her off the ground. His eyes were blazing.

"You are my woman, Deanna. That's not an insult, that's a fact. Anybody who manhandles you, anybody who threatens you has to deal with me. That's another fact. Got a problem with it?"

"No. Yes." Her feet hit the ground with a thump and she ground her teeth. "I don't know." How was she supposed to think when all she could see were those furious, deadly eyes boring into her. "Let's go back inside and talk this through reasonably."

"We'll talk when I get back."

She raced to the car after him. "I'm going with you." There was still a chance, a slim one, that she could talk him down.

"Go inside, Deanna."

"I'm going with you." She opened the door, climbed in and slammed it shut. He wasn't the only one who could slice flesh with a look. "If my man's going to go make a fool of himself, I'm going to be there. Got a problem with that?"

Finn slammed the door and turned the key. "Hell no."

The best Deanna could hope for now was that Marshall wouldn't be home.

The wind had picked up and held a fresh threat of snow. It raced through Finn's hair, sent it flying around his face as he stalked up to Marshall's door. He had only one thing on his mind and, like a skilled reporter, easily blocked out all distractions: Deanna's mumbled curses, the occasional swish of tires on the street, the numbing chill in the air.

"He's not worth it," Deanna said for the hundredth time. "He's just not worth your making a scene."

"I have no intention of making a scene. I'm going to talk to him, and he's going to listen. And then, unless I'm very much mistaken, you'll never see or hear from him again."

He had been wanting a confrontation since the day Deanna had rushed out of the CBC Building in tears, and into his arms. Finn could already feel the grim satisfaction of pleasure postponed.

Deanna saw his eyes slit like a predator's as the door opened. Her stomach clenched and she had one wild thought: to jump between them.

But Finn didn't lunge, as she'd been half terrified he would. He simply strolled across the threshold and into the foyer.

"I don't believe I invited you in." Marshall ran a finger over the black tie of his tuxedo. "And I'm afraid I'm on my way out."

"We'll make this as quick as possible, since I don't believe Deanna's comfortable being here."

"Deanna's always welcome in my home," Marshall said stiffly. "You are not."

"What you don't seem to understand is that we're a team. When you threaten her, you threaten me. I don't react well to threats, Dr. Pike."

"My conversation with Deanna was personal." "Wrong again." Finn stepped closer. The feral gleam in his eyes had Marshall stepping back. "If you come near her again, if you ever put your hands on her again, I'll bury you, in every way you can imagine."

"There are laws to protect a man against a physical attack in his own home."

"I have better ways of dealing with you. Angela's file on you made very interesting reading, Pike."

Marshall's eyes slid to Deanna. "She doesn't have the file. She destroyed it."

"No, Deanna doesn't have it. But you don't know what I have, do you?"

Marshall's attention snapped back to Finn. "You have no right—"

"I've got the First Amendment. Steer clear, Pike, way clear. Or I'll break you in half with it."

"You bastard." Fear of exposure propelled Marshall forward. He swung out, more in panic than design. Finn easily avoided the blow and followed it by one punishing fist to the midsection.

It was over in seconds. Deanna had done no more than squeak in response. Marshall had done no more than moan. And Finn, she realized as she gaped, had made no sound at all.

Then he crouched down, impossibly graceful and smooth. "Listen carefully. Don't ever come near Deanna again. Don't call, don't write, don't send a telegram. Are you getting this?" He was satisfied when Marshall blinked. "That should conclude our little interview." He stepped back to where Deanna still stood, openmouthed, on the stoop. Quietly, he shut the door. "Let's go."

Her legs were jelly. She had to lock her knees to keep from swaying. "Good God, Finn. Good God."

"We're going to have to reheat dinner," he said as he guided her to the car.

"You just — I mean you—" She didn't know what she meant. "We can't just leave him there."

"Of course we can. He doesn't need paramedics, Deanna. I only wrinkled his tux and bruised his ego."

"You hit him." Once she was seated, strapped in, she pressed both hands to her mouth.

His black mood had passed. He felt almost sunny as he drove fast through the windswept night. "Not exactly my style, but since he swung first, it worked for me."

She turned her head away. She couldn't explain, couldn't believe what she was feeling. The way he'd sliced Marshall with words. Sharp and cold as a sword. Then he'd shifted his body aside, graceful as a dancer. She hadn't seen the blow coming any more than Marshall had. He'd moved so fast, so stunningly. She pressed a hand to her stomach and bit back a little moan.

"Pull over," she said in a muffled voice. "Right now."

He did, terrified she was about to be sick, disgusted because he hadn't reined in his temper long enough to make her stay home. "Take it easy, Deanna. I'm sorry you had to see that, but—"

Whatever else he'd intended to say was lost as she lunged at him. In one fluid move, she tore off her seat belt and whipped toward him. Her mouth was hot and wet and hungry. Through his shock, and instant arousal, he felt the violent thud of her heart.

And her hands. Jesus. Her hands.

Cars sped by them. He could only groan as she dived deeper into his mouth, her tongue greedy, her teeth vicious.

Both of them were panting for air when she leaned back.

"Well," he managed, but his mind was wiped as clean as glass. "Well."

"I'm not proud of it." She flopped back in her seat, face flushed, eyes bright. "I don't approve of intimidation or fighting. I absolutely don't. Oh God." With a half laugh, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was vibrating like an overheated engine. Intellect, she discovered, could be completely overpowered by glands. "I'm going to explode. Drive fast, will you?"

"Yeah." His aching hand trembled a bit as he turned the key again. Then, as he punched the accelerator, he started to grin. The grin became a hard, deep-throated laugh. "Deanna, I'm crazy about you."

She had to curl her fingers into fists to keep herself from tearing at his clothes. "We're both crazy," she decided. "Drive faster."

Marshall comforted himself as best he could, pampering his bruised stomach muscles, taking a painkiller. Shame and fury had driven him out of the house. He opted for a drink first, then two, before keeping his date at the opera.

He hadn't thought he'd enjoy the music, or the company. But both had soothed him. He was a civilized man, he reminded himself. A respected man. He would not be intimidated by some grandstanding reporter like Finn Riley. He would simply bide his time, calmly.

Enchanted by the diva's final aria, he still felt peaceful when he pulled in to his driveway, even though his stomach ached dully. Another dose of painkiller would take the edge off, he knew. Fury and frustration had been eased by Mozart's music. Humming lightly, Marshall set the security on his car. If Deanna had the file, and he could no longer be sure, he would convince her to return it to him. But he'd wait until Riley was away on assignment.

They would talk, he promised himself, and finally set the past behind them. As Angela was behind them.

His eyes gleamed as he reached for his keys. He thought he sensed a movement to his left. He had time to turn, time to understand. He didn't have time to scream.

Finn was watching Deanna sleep when the phone rang. They'd started on each other in the foyer, worked their way up the steps. Halfway up they'd decided, tactically, that they'd made it far enough.

It made him grin to remember how she'd torn at his clothes. Attacked him, he thought smugly. Of course, he'd been a willing victim, but she'd shown surprising energy, and amazing resilience. He almost thought it a shame he hadn't dealt so satisfactorily with Pike before.

He dismissed all thoughts of Pike as he settled back, pleasantly aroused when Deanna curled her body against his.

He wouldn't wake her, though it was very tempting to do so. He was too relieved that she no longer tossed and turned or awakened quaking as she had for several nights after Angela's murder. Instead, he simply enjoyed the way her body fit to his.

He swore when the phone rang and she woke. "Take it easy." Like Deanna, he expected to hear nothing but breathing when he lifted the receiver.

"Finn? It's Joe."

"Joe." He saw the tension dissolve from Deanna's shoulders. "I guess it would be pointless to mention it's after one A.m."

"Got a tip for you, pal. I was whiling away some time with Leno and monitoring my police scanner. We had us a murder over at Lincoln Park."

"I'm not on the crime beat."

"I checked it out, Finn. Figured you'd want to know right away, instead of catching it on the early news. It was Pike. You know, the shrink who hassled Dee today. Somebody did him."

Finn's gaze cut to Deanna's. "How?" "The same way as Angela. In the face. My police connection wouldn't give me much. But he bought it right on his own doorstep. A neighbor reported hearing gunshots around midnight. A black-

and-white checked it out and found him. I'm calling from the cop shop. We've got a unit on it. Story'll break top of the hour on Sunrise."

"Thanks."

"I figured Dee would take it better from you."

"Yeah. Keep me posted?"

"You bet."

He hung up, dispirited. "Something's wrong." She could see it in his face, in the way the air had seemed to thicken around him. "Just tell me straight out, Finn."

"Okay." He covered her hands with his. "Marshall Pike's been murdered."

Her hands jerked once, then went still. "How?" "He was shot."

She already knew, but had to ask. "The same as Angela? It was the same as Angela, wasn't it?"

"It looks that way."

She made a strangled sound in her throat, but eased back when he reached for her. "I'm all right. We need to tell the police about what happened after work today. It has to be connected."

"It's possible."

"Don't circle around it," she snapped out, and pushed off the bed. "Marshall harassed me today, and we went over there. Hours later, he's shot. We can't pretend that one had nothing to do with the other."

"And if it is connected, what can you do?" "Whatever I can." She dragged a sweater over her head, snatched trousers from the closet. "Even though I didn't pull the trigger, I am the cause, and there has to be something I can do."

She didn't resist when he put his arms around her, but clung to him, pressing her face to his shoulder.

"I have to do something, Finn. I can't bear it otherwise."

"We'll go see Jenner." He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her. "We'll figure something out."

"Okay." She finished dressing in silence. She was sure he wouldn't feel guilty about facing down Marshall only hours before, because he would see what he had done as pure and simple justice. And perhaps he was right.

Is that what whoever had leveled a gun at Marshall's face had thought as well?

The idea sickened her. "I'll wait downstairs," she said as he pulled out his boots.

She saw the envelope before she reached the bottom landing. It lay crisp and white against the glossy floor of the foyer, inches inside the door. There was a quick pain, a twist in the gut like a fist punching muscle. Then she went numb, crossing the polished wood, bending down.

She opened the envelope as Finn came down behind her.

"Goddamn it." He took it from her limp fingers, and read.

He'll never hurt you again.

When they left the house, someone was watching, a heart bursting with love and need and terrible grief. Killing for her had been nothing. It had been done before, and needed to be done again.

Perhaps she would see, at last.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Jeff stood in the control booth overlooking the studio, biting his lip in agitation. Deanna was about to film her first show since Angela's death.

"Camera Three, on Dee." He barked out orders. "Take Two, zoom out. Wider on One, pan. Give me Dee tight, Three, music in. Great, great applause.

Start the playback tape."

He applauded himself, as did the others in the booth. From their perch overlooking the stage they could see the audience surge to its feet and cheer.

"Ride it," Jeff ordered. Oh yeah, he thought, sharing the triumph. She's back. "Ride the applause."

Down below Deanna stood on the new set with its jewel tones and banks of cheery holly bushes and let the waves of applause wash over her. It was, she knew, a show of support, a welcoming home. When her eyes filled she didn't bother to blink back the tears. She didn't think about it.

"Thanks." She let out a long, unsteady breath. "It's really good to be back. I…" She trailed off while she scanned the crowd. There were familiar faces dotted among the strangers. Faces from the newsroom, from production. Pleasure glowed on her face. "It's really good to see you. Before we get rolling, I'd like to thank you all for your letters and phone calls over the past week. Your support has helped me, and everyone involved with the show, through a difficult time."

And that, she thought, was all the space she could give, would give, to the past.

"Now I'd like to bring out a woman who's given us all so many hours of entertainment. She's incandescent. Luminous. With a talent as golden as her eyes. According to Newsweek, Kate Lowell can "ignite the screen with a sweep of the eyelash, by the flash of her signature smile." She's proven both her popular and her critical appeal by holding the number-one box-office position for two straight years, and by winning an Oscar for her portrayal of the heroic, unforgettable Tess in Deception. Ladies and gentlemen, Kate Lowell."

Again, the applause erupted. Kate swept into it, looking confident and fresh and every bit the star. But when Deanna took her hand, she found it cold and trembling. Deliberately Deanna wrapped her in an embrace.

"Don't do anything you're not ready to do," she murmured in Kate's ear. "I'm not going to push you into any revelations."

Kate hesitated a moment. "Oh God,

I'm glad you're here, Dee. Let's sit down, okay? My knees are shaking."

It wasn't an easy show, from any angle. Deanna was able to guide the first ten minutes through juicy Hollywood chitchat, keeping the audience amused to the point where she assumed Kate had changed her mind about the announcement.

"I like playing women of strength, and character." In a fluid movement that rustled silk, Kate crossed her long, million-dollar legs. "And there do seem to be more scripts being written for strong women, women who are not just bystanders but who have beliefs and standards they're willing to fight for. I'm grateful for the chance to play those women, because I didn't always fight for what I wanted."

"So you feel as though you're able to do that now, through your work?"

"I relate to many of the characters I've played. Tess in particular. Because she was a woman who sacrificed everything, risked everything for the sake of her child. In an odd sort of way, I mirrored Tess. Mirror images are opposites. And

I sacrificed my child, my chance with my child, when I gave it up for adoption ten years ago."

"Damn." In the control booth, Jeff's eyes popped wide. The audience had dropped into stunned silence. "Damn," he said again. "Camera Two, tight on Kate. Man, oh man."

But even as he worriedly bit his lip again, he focused on Deanna's face. She'd known, he realized, and let out a long, calming breath. She'd known…

"An unplanned pregnancy at any time, under any circumstances, is frightening." Deanna wanted her audience to remember that. "How old were you?"

"I was seventeen. I had, as you know, Dee, a supportive family, a good home. I'd just begun my modeling career, and I thought the world was at my feet. Then I discovered I was pregnant."

"The father? Do you want to talk about him?" "Was a nice, sweet boy who was every bit as terrified as I. He was my first." She smiled a little now, remembering him. "I was his. We were dazzled by each other, by what we felt for each other. When I told him, we just sat there, numb. We were in LA, and we'd gone to the beach. We sat there and watched the surf. He offered to marry me." "Some people might feel that would have been the answer. You didn't?"

"Not for me, or the boy, or the child." Kate continued, using all of her skill to keep her voice level. "Do you remember the way we used to talk about what we wanted to do when we grew up?"

"Yes. I do." Deanna linked her fingers with Kate's. "You never had any doubts."

"I'd always wanted to be an actress. I'd made some progress modeling, and I was going to conquer Hollywood come hell or high water. Then I was pregnant."

"Did you consider abortion? Discuss the option with the father, with your family?"

"Yes, I did. As difficult as it was, Dee, I remember how supportive my parents were. I'd hurt them, disappointed them. I didn't realize how much until I was older and had some perspective. But they never wavered. I can't explain to you why I decided the way I did. It was a purely emotional decision, but I think my parents' unflagging support helped me make it. I decided to have the baby and give it away. And I didn't know, not until it came time to do just that, how hard it would be."

"Do you know who adopted the baby?" "No." Kate dashed a tear away. "No,

I didn't want to know. I'd made a deal. I had chosen to give the child to people who would love and care for it. And it wasn't my baby any longer, but theirs. She would be ten years old now, nearly eleven." Eyes swimming, she looked toward the camera. "I hope she's happy. I hope she doesn't hate me."

"Thousands of women face what you faced. Each choice they make is theirs to make, however difficult it is. I think one of the reasons you play admirable, accessible women so well is that you've been through the hardest test a woman can face."

"When I played Tess, I wondered how everything would have worked out if I'd chosen differently. I'll never know."

"Do you regret your choice?"

"A part of me always will regret I couldn't be a mother to that child. But I think I've finally realized, after all these years, that it really was the right one. For everybody."

"We'll be back in a moment," Deanna said to the camera, then turned to Kate. "Are you all right?"

"Barely. I didn't think it would be so hard." She took two deep breaths, but kept her eyes on Deanna rather than look out at the audience. "The questions are going to come fast and furious. And God, the press tomorrow."

"You'll get through it."

"Yes, I will. Dee." She leaned forward and gripped Deanna's hand. "It meant a lot to me, to be able to do this here, with you. It seemed, for a minute or two, as if I were just talking to you. The way we used to."

"Then maybe this time you'll keep in touch." "Yeah, I will. You know, I realized while I was talking why I hated Angela so much. I thought it was because she was using me. But it was because she was using my baby. It helps knowing that."

"Hell of a show." Fran fisted her hands on her hips as Deanna walked into the dressing room. "You knew. I could tell you knew. Why the hell didn't you tell me? Me, your producer and your best friend."

"Because I wasn't sure she'd go through with it." The strain of the past hour had Deanna's shoulders aching. Rolling them in slow circles, she went directly to the lighted mirror to change makeup. Fran was miffed. She understood that, expected it. Just as she understood and expected it would wear off quickly. "And I didn't feel it was right to talk about it until she did. Give me a gauge on audience reaction, Fran."

"After the shock waves died off? I'd say about sixty-five percent were in her corner, maybe ten percent never got past the stunned stage, and the remaining twenty-five were ticked off that their princess stumbled."

"That's about how I figured it. Not bad." Deanna slathered her face with moisturizer. "She'll be all right." She lifted a brow at Fran's reflection. "Where do you stand?"

After a moment of stilted silence, Fran exhaled hard, fluttering her choppy bangs. "In her corner, one hundred percent. It must have been hell for her, poor kid. God, Dee, what made her decide to go public that way?"

"It all has to do with Angela," Deanna began, and told her.

"Blackmail." Too intrigued now for even mild annoyance, Fran let out a low whistle. "I knew she was a bitch, but I never thought she'd sunk that low. I guess the list of suspects just expanded by several dozen." Her eyes widened. "You don't think Kate—"

"No, I don't." Not that she hadn't considered it, thoroughly, Deanna thought, logically, and she hoped objectively. "Even if I thought she killed Angela, which I don't, she doesn't have any reason to have killed Marshall. She didn't even know him."

"I guess not. I wish the cops would figure it out and lock this lunatic up. It worries me sick that you're still getting those notes." Now that all was forgiven, she moved over, automatically massaging Deanna's stiff shoulders. "At least I can rest easier knowing Finn won't be going out of town until this is over."

"How do you know that?"

"Because—" Fran caught herself, looked quickly at her watch. "Gosh, what am I doing sitting around here talking? I've got a hundred things—"

"Fran." Deanna stood and stepped in front of her. "How do you know that Finn's not going out of town until this is over? The last I heard he was scheduled to go to Rome right after Christmas."

"I, ah, I must have gotten mixed up." "Like hell."

"Damn it, Dee, don't get that warrior look on your face."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me, okay?" She tossed up her hands in disgust. "And I was supposed to keep my big mouth shut about the fact that he's canceled the Rome shoot and anything else that takes him out of Chicago."

"I see." Deanna lowered her eyes, brushed a speck of lint from her teal silk skirt.

"No, you don't see because you've got your blinders on. Do you really expect the man to fly gleefully across the Atlantic while this is going on? For Christ's sake, he loves you."

"I'm aware of that." But her spine was rigid. "I have things to do myself," she said, and stormed out.

"Good going, Myers." Muttering oaths, Fran snatched up the dressing room phone and called up to Finn's office. If she'd inadvertently started a war, the least she could do was tell him to be fully armed.

In his office above the newsroom, Finn replaced the receiver and sent a scowl at Barlow James. "You're about to get some reinforcements. Deanna's on her way up."

"Fine." Pleased, Barlow settled back in his chair, stretched his burly arms. "We'll get all this settled once and for all."

"It is settled, Barlow. I'm not traveling more than an hour away from home until the police make an arrest."

"Finn, I understand your concerns for Deanna. I have them as well. But you're short-sheeting the show. You're overreacting."

"Really?" Finn's voice was cool, deceptively so. "And I thought I was taking two murders and the harassment of the woman I love so well."

Sarcasm didn't deflate Barlow. "My point is that she can obtain round-the-clock protection. Professionals. God knows a woman in her financial position can afford the very best. Not to slight your manhood, Finn, but you're a reporter, not a bodyguard. And," he continued before Finn could respond, "as skilled a reporter as you are, you are not a detective. Let the police do their job and you do yours. You have a responsibility to the show, to the people who work with you. To the network, to the sponsors. You have a contract, Finn. You're legally bound to travel whenever and wherever news is breaking. You agreed to those terms. Hell, you demanded them."

"Sue me," Finn invited, eyes gleaming in anticipation of a bout. He glanced up as the door slammed open.

She stood there in her snazzy silk suit, eyes flashing, chin angled. Each stride a challenge, she marched to his desk, slapped her palms on the surface.

"I won't have it."

He didn't bother to pretend he didn't understand. "You don't have any say in this, Deanna. It's my choice."

"You weren't even going to tell me. You were just going to make some lame excuse about why the trip was canceled. You'd have lied to me."

He'd have killed for her, he thought, and shrugged. "Now that's not necessary." He leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers. Though he was wearing a sweater and jeans, he looked every inch the star. "How did the show go this morning?"

"Stop it. Just stop it." She whirled, jabbing a finger at Barlow. "You can order him to go, can't you?"

"I thought I could." He lifted his hands, let them fall. "I came from New York hoping to make him see reason. I should have known better." With a sigh, he rose. "I'll be in the newsroom for the next hour or so. If you fare any better than I did, let me know."

Finn waited until the door clicked shut. The sound was as definitive as that of the bell in a boxing ring. "You won't, Deanna, so you might as well accept it."

"I want you to go," she said, spacing each word carefully. "I don't want our lives to be interfered with. It's important to me."

"You're important to me."

"Then do this for me."

He picked up a pencil, ran it through his fingers once, twice, then snapped it neatly in two. "No."

"Your career could be on the line." He tilted his head as if considering it. And damn him, his dimples winked at her. "I don't think so."

He was, she thought, as sturdy, as unshakable and as unmovable as granite. "They could cancel your show."

"Throw out the baby with the bathwater?" Though he wasn't feeling particularly calm, he levered back, propped his feet on the desk. "I've known network execs to do dumber things, so let's say they decide to cancel a highly rated, profitable and award-winning show because I'm not going on the road for a while." He stared up at her, his eyes darkly amused. "I guess you'd have to support me while I'm unemployed. I might get to like it and retire completely. Take up gardening or golf. No, I know. I'll be your business manager. You'd be the star — you know, like a country-

western singer."

"This isn't a joke, Finn."

"It isn't a tragedy, either." His phone rang. Finn picked up the receiver, said, "Later," and hung up again. "I'm sticking, Deanna. I can't keep up with the investigation if I'm off in Europe."

"Why do you need to keep up with it?" Her eyes narrowed. "Is that what you've been doing? Why there was a rerun last Tuesday night? All those calls from Jenner. You're not working on In Depth, you're working with him."

"He doesn't have a problem with it. Why should you?"

She spun away. "I hate this. I hate that our private and professional lives are becoming mixed and unbalanced. I hate being scared this way. Jumping every time there's a noise in the hall, or bracing whenever the elevator door opens."

"That's my point. That's exactly how I feel. Come here." He held out a hand, gripping hers when she walked around the desk. With his eyes on hers, he drew her into his lap. "I'm scared, Deanna, right down to the bone."

Her lips parted in surprise. "You never said so."

"Maybe I should have. Male pride's a twitchy business. The fact is, I need to be here, I need to be involved, to know what's happening. It's the only way I've got to fight back the fear."

"Just promise me you won't take any chances, any risks."

"He's not going after me, Deanna."

"I want to be sure of that." She closed her eyes. But she wasn't sure.

After Deanna left, Finn went down to the video vault. An idea had been niggling at him since Marshall's murder, the notion that he'd forgotten something. Or overlooked it.

All Barlow's talk about responsibili- ties, loyalties, had triggered a memory. Finn skimmed through the black forest of video cases until he found February 1992.

He slipped the cassette into the machine, fast-forwarding through news reports, local, world, weather, sports. He wasn't sure of the precise date, or how much coverage there had been. But he was certain Lew Mcationeil's previous Chicago connection would have warranted at least one full report on his murder.

He got more than he'd hoped for.

Finn slowed the tape to normal, eyes narrowing as he focused in on the CBC reporter standing on the snowy sidewalk.

"Violence struck in the early morning hours in this affluent New York neighborhood. Lewis Mcationeil, senior producer of the popular talk show Angela's, was gunned down outside his home in Brooklyn Heights this morning. According to a police source, Mcationeil, a Chicago native, was apparently leaving for work when he was shot at close range. Mcationeil's wife was in the house…" The camera did its slow pan. "She was awakened shortly after seven A.m. by the sound of a gunshot."

Finn listened to the rest of the report, eyes fixed. Grimly, he zipped through another week of news, gathering snippets on the Mcationeil murder investigation.

He tucked his notes away and headed into the newsroom. He found Joe as the cameraman was heading out on assignment.

"Question."

"Make it a quick one. I'm on the clock." "February ninety-two. Lew Mcationeil's murder. That was your camerawork on the New York stand-up, wasn't it?"

"What can I say?" Joe polished his nails on his sweatshirt. "My art is distinctive."

"Right. Where was he shot?"

"As I recall, right outside his house." As he thought back, Joe reached into his hip pocket for a Baby Ruth. "Yeah, they said it looked like he was cleaning off his car."

"No, I mean anatomically. Chest, gut, head? None of the reports I reviewed said."

"Oh." Joe frowned, shutting his eyes as if to bring the scene back to mind. "They'd cleaned up pretty good by the time we got there. Never saw the stiff." He opened his eyes. "Did you know Lew?"

"Some."

"Yeah, me too. Tough." He bit off a hefty section of chocolate. "Why the interest?"

"Something I'm working on. Didn't your reporter ask the cops for details?"

"Who was that — Clemente, right? Didn't last around here very long. Sloppy, you know? I can't say if he did or not. Look, I've got to split." He headed for the stairs, then rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. "Yeah, yeah." He headed up the steps backward, watching Finn. "Seems to me I heard one of the other reporters talking. He said Lew caught the bullet in the face. Nasty, huh?"

"Yeah." A grim satisfaction swam through Finn's blood. "Very nasty."

Jenner munched a midmorning danish, washing down the cherry filling with sweetened coffee. As he ate and sipped, he studied the grisly photos tacked to the corkboard. The conference room was quiet now, but he'd left the blinds open on the glass door that separated it from the bull pen of the precinct.

Angela Perkins. Marshall Pike. He stared at what had been done to them. If he stared long enough, he knew he could go into a kind of trance — a state of mind that left the brain clear for ideas, for possibilities.

He was just annoyed enough at Finn for emotion to interfere with intellect. The man should have told him the details of his conversation with Pike. However slight it had been, it had been police business. The idea of Finn interviewing Pike alone burned Jenner more bitterly than the station house coffee.

He remembered their last meeting, in the early hours of the morning that Pike had been murdered.

"We're clear that the shooter knows Miss Reynolds." Jenner ticked the fact off on a finger. "Was aware of her relationship, or at least her argument, with Pike." He held up a second finger. "He or she knows Deanna's address, knew Pike's and had enough knowledge of the studio to set up the camera after killing Angela Perkins."

"Agreed."

"The notes have shown up under Deanna's door, on her desk, in her car, in the apartment she still keeps in Old Town." Jenner had lifted a brow, hoping that Finn would offer some explanation for that interesting fact. But he hadn't. Finn knew how to keep information to himself. It was one of the things Jenner admired about him. "It has to be someone who works at CBC," Jenner concluded.

"Agreed. In theory." Finn smiled when Jenner let out a huff of breath. "It could be someone who worked there. It's possible it's a fan of Deanna's who's been in the studio. A regular audience member. Lots of people have enough rudimentary knowledge of television to work a camera for a still shot." "I think that's stretching it."

"So let's stretch it. He sees her every day on TV."

"Could be a woman."

Finn let that cook a moment, then shook his head. "A remote possibility. Let's shuffle that aside for a minute and try out this theory: It's a man, a lonely, frustrated man. He lives alone, but every day Deanna slips through the television screen right into his living room. She's sitting right there with him, talking to him, smiling at him. He's not lonely when she's there. And he wants her there all the time. He doesn't do well with women. He's a little afraid of them. He's a good planner, probably holds down a decent job, a responsible one, because he knows how to think things through. He's thorough, meticulous."

Impressed, Jenner pursed his lips. "Sounds like you've done your homework."

"I have. Because I'm in love with Deanna I think I understand him. Thing is, he's got this temper, this rage. He didn't kill in a rage. I think he did that coolly." And that was what chilled Finn's blood. "But he trashes my house, Deanna's office. He writes his feelings of betrayal on the wall. All but splatters them there. How did she betray him? What changed from the time she got the first note to Angela's murder?"

"She hooked up with you?"

"She'd been involved with me for two years." Finn leaned forward. "We got engaged, Jenner. The official announcement had barely hit the streets when we had Angela's murder and the break-ins."

"So he killed Angela because he was ticked at Deanna Reynolds?"

"He killed Angela, and Pike, because he loves Deanna Reynolds. What better way to show his devotion than to remove people who upset or annoy her? He trashed her things, taking special care with the wedding-gown sketches, the newspaper reports of the engagement, photographs of Deanna and me. He was enraged because she'd announced, publicly, that she preferred another man to him. That she was willing to take vows to prove it."

Nodding slowly, Jenner doodled on a sheet of paper. "Maybe you didn't get your psychiatrist's degree at Sears.

Why hasn't he gone after you?" Instinctively, Finn reached up to run his fingers over his sleeve. Beneath it was a scar from a bullet. A bullet that hadn't come from the sniper or the SWAT team. But he couldn't be sure. "Because I haven't done anything to hurt Deanna. Marshall did, on the day he was killed, and a couple of years ago, when he fell into Angela's trap."

"I should have talked to him." Jenner tapped a fist lightly on his files. "He could have known something, seen something. It's possible he'd received threats."

"I doubt that. He was the type who'd have come running to the cops. Or he would have told me when I talked with him."

"You were too busy beating him up." "I didn't beat him up." Finn folded his arms across his chest. "He swung, I swung. Once. In any case, I meant he would have told me when I talked to him at his office a few days ago."

Jenner stopped doodling. "You went to see him about Angela Perkins's murder?"

"It was a theory."

"One you didn't feel necessary to share?" "It was personal."

"Nothing's personal on this, nothing." Jenner edged forward, eyes narrowed. "I've let you in on this investigation because I think you're a smart man, and I sympathize with your position. But you cross me and you're out."

"I'll do what I have to do, Lieutenant, with or without you."

"Reporters aren't the only ones who can harass. Keep that in mind." Jenner closed his file, rose. "Now I have work to do."

No, Jenner thought now, sympathy and admiration aside, he wasn't about to let Finn go off on his own. He might be wearing blinders to the fact that his life was in danger, but Jenner knew better.

He rose to refill his coffee cup, and glanced through the glass door. "Speak of the devil," he murmured. Jenner pulled open the door. "Looking for me?" he asked Finn, and waved away the uniform who was blocking Finn's path. "It's all right, officer. I'll see Mr. Riley." He nodded briefly at Finn. "You've got five minutes."

"It's going to take a little longer." Finn studied the police photos on the board dispassionately. There were snapshots of both victims taken prior to and after death. Side by side, they were like before-and-after shots gone desperately wrong. "You're going to need to put one more set up there."

Twenty minutes later, Jenner completed his conversation with the detective in Brooklyn Heights. "They're faxing us the file," he told Finn. "Okay, Mr. Riley, who knew that Mcationeil was passing information on to Angela?"

"Deanna's staff. I'd be certain of that. I'd also give odds that it would have leaked downstairs." There was an excitement brewing in him now. The kind he recognized as energy from a puzzle nearly solved. "There's always been a lot of interaction between Deanna's people and the newsroom. Are we on the same wavelength here? Three people are dead because they threatened Deanna in some way."

"I can't comment about that, Mr. Riley." Finn shoved back from the table. "Damn it, I'm not here as a reporter. I'm not looking for a scoop, the latest tidbit from an unnamed police source. You want to frisk me for a mike?"

"I don't think you're after a story, Mr. Riley," Jenner said calmly. "If I'd ever thought that, you never would have gotten your foot in the door. But maybe I think you're too used to doing things your own way, to running your own show to handle the delicate matter of cooperation."

Finn slammed his hands down on the table. "If you think you're going to brush me off, you're wrong. You're right about the harassment, Lieutenant. One phone call and I can have a dozen cameras dogging your every move. I can put so much pressure on you that you won't be able to sneeze without someone sticking a mike up your nose. Before you catch your next breath Chicago will be buzzing about a serial killer. The commissioner and the mayor will love that, won't they?" He waited half a beat. "You use me, or I'll use you. It's your choice."

Jenner folded his arms on the table, leaned forward against them. "I don't like threats." "Neither do I. But I'll do a lot more than threaten if you try to block me out now." He looked at the victims on the board. "He could lose it." He spoke quietly now, carefully. "He could lose it anytime and try to put her up there. You're pissed because I did some tracking on my own, fine. Be pissed. But use me. Or by God I'll use you."

Objectively, Jenner buried his irritation, calculating how much damage would be done by a media war. Too much, he mused. It was always too much.

"Let's do this, Mr. Riley. Let's say we theorize that Mcationeil was the first victim of three — and we'll want to keep that under our hat."

"I told you I'm not interested in a story." "Just laying down the ground rules. We'll theorize that, and that only a limited number of people had the knowledge that would lead to motive for his murder." He gestured to a chair, waiting for Finn to sit again. "Tell me about those people. Start with Loren Bach." In the spirit of compromise, Jenner opened the file on Loren that Angela had commissioned from Beeker.

Cassie walked into Deanna's office, then let out a long, long sigh. Deanna stood on a stool in the center of the room, the seamstress at her feet. Yards of shimmering white silk billowed.

"It's gorgeous."

"It's barely started." But Deanna was almost sighing herself as she brushed a hand over the sweeping skirt neatly pinned to the lacy bodice. Irish lace, she mused. For Finn. "But you're right."

"I've got to get my camera." Inspired, Cassie bolted for the door. "Don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You must be still," the seamstress complained over a mouthful of pins. Her voice was raspy, as if she'd already swallowed more than her share.

Deanna used all her willpower not to shift from foot to foot. "I am being still."

"You're vibrating like a spring." "Sorry." Deanna took a long, steadying breath. "I guess I'm nervous."

"The bride-to-be," Cassie recited as she walked back in with a Palmcorder blocking her face. "Deanna Reynolds, the reigning queen of daytime TV, has chosen an elegant gown of…"

"Italian silk," the seamstress prompted. "With touches of Irish lace and a sea of freshwater pearls."

"Exquisite," Cassie said soberly. "And tell us, Miss Reynolds—" with an expert's touch, she zoomed in on Deanna's face—"how do you feel on this exciting occasion?"

"Terrified." She crossed her eyes. If the fitting took five minutes over the allotted hour, she'd be making up time all week. "And partially insane. Other than that I'm enjoying every minute of it."

"If you'll just stand perfectly still, I'll do a little circle around so that our viewers can get the full effect." Cassie sidestepped, panned back. "This'll go in my growing library of life behind Deanna's Hour."

Deanna felt her smile stiffen. "Do you have a lot of tape?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Simon pulling what's left of his hair out. Margaret tossing spitballs. You racing for the elevator."

Beneath the sparkling bodice, Deanna's heart thudded thickly. "I guess I've never paid much attention. So many cameras around. You always keep that at hand, don't you?"

"You never know what historical, or humiliating, moment you might capture."

Someone had captured her, Deanna remembered, while she'd slept at her desk. Coming to work, going from, shopping, playing with Fran's baby in the park.

They'd captured her unconscious in the studio beside Angela's body.

Cassie, who was in and out of the office dozens of times a day. Cassie, who knew every detail of Deanna's schedule. Cassie, who had dated one of the studio camera operators.

"Turn it off, Cassie."

"One more second."

"Turn it off." Her voice sharpened, and Deanna set her teeth to steady it.

"Sorry." Obviously baffled, Cassie lowered the camera. "I guess I got carried away."

"It's all right. I'm just edgy." Deanna managed to smile again. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It was insane even to speculate that Cassie would be capable of murder.

"It's your first day back." Cassie touched her hand and Deanna had to force herself not to jerk away. "God knows it was a madhouse around here after the show with all those calls coming in about Kate Lowell. Why don't you give yourself a break after you've finished the fitting, and go home? I can reschedule the rest of the afternoon's business."

"I think that's a good idea." She spoke slowly over the erratic thud of her heart. "I've got a lot of things to deal with at home."

Cassie's mouth thinned. "I didn't mean you should jump out of one madhouse into another. You're not going to get any work done there, with all those painters and carpenters slogging away. I think—" She saw that Deanna's eyes had focused behind her and turned. "Jeff." Her mouth softened at the admiration on his face. "She looks fabulous, doesn't she?"

"Yeah. Really." He glanced at the camera Cassie held. "You got pictures?"

"Sure. Capture the moment. Listen, unless it's a crisis, hold it off, will you? This is a momentous occasion. Dee's going home early."

"Oh, good idea. Finn called, Deanna. He said to tell you he had a meeting and he'd see you at home. He thought he might get there by four."

"Well, that's lucky. Maybe I'll beat him there."

"Not if you don't hold still," the seamstress muttered.

But it was barely three-thirty when Deanna slipped into her shoes and grabbed her briefcase. "Cassie, can you call Tim?"

"Already done. He should be waiting downstairs." "Thanks." She stopped by the desk, feeling ashamed and foolish about her earlier thoughts. "I'm sorry about before, Cassie. The camera business."

"Don't worry about it." Cassie zipped open one of the daily letters that heaped on her desk. "I know I'm a nuisance." She chuckled. "I like being a nuisance with it. See you tomorrow."

"Okay. Don't stay late."

More at ease, Deanna walked to the elevator, checking her watch as she punched the Down button. With any luck, she could surprise Finn by arriving first. It wouldn't take much effort, she knew, to persuade him to fix some blackened chicken and pasta. She was in the mood for something spicy to cap off her first day back in harness.

She could deal with a mountain of paperwork and phone calls there. Then, if she scheduled a break, she could slink into something designed to drive Finn crazy.

They'd have dinner late. Very late, she decided, and swung out of the elevator.

Maybe she'd wrap a few last-minute Christmas gifts, or talk Finn into baking some cookies. She could run a couple of the new segment ideas by him.

The flash of sunlight had her reaching automatically for her tinted glasses. Slipping them on, she climbed into the back of the waiting limo.

"Hi, Tim." She closed her eyes and stretched. The limo was beautifully warm.

"Hi, Miss Reynolds."

"Turned out to be a beautiful day." Out of habit, she reached for the bottle of chilled juice that was always stocked for her. She looked up idly at the back of her driver. Despite the car's warmth, he was huddled inside his coat, his cap tipped low.

"Sure did."

Sipping the juice, she flipped open her briefcase. She set the file neatly labeled "Wedding Plans" aside and reached for the daily correspondence Cassie had culled for her to read. She'd always considered the drive to and from the office part of the workday. In this case, she had to make up the time she'd taken with the fitting, and for knocking off early.

But by the third letter, the words were blurring. There was no excuse for being so tired so early in the day. Annoyed, she slid her fingers under her glasses to rub her eyes clear. But they blurred all the more, as if she'd swabbed them with oil. Her head spun once, sickly, and her arm fell heavily to the seat beside her.

So tired, she thought. So hot. As if in slow motion, she tried to shrug out of her coat. The papers fluttered to the floor, and the effort of reaching for them only increased the dizziness.

"Tim." She leaned forward, pressed a hand against the back of the front seat. He didn't answer, but the word had sounded dim and far away to her own ears. As she struggled to focus on him the half-

empty bottle of juice slipped from her numbed fingers.

"Something's wrong," she tried to tell him as she slid bonelessly to the plushly carpeted floor of the car. "Something's very wrong."

But he didn't answer. She imagined herself falling through the floor of the limo and into a dark, bottomless pit.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Deanna dreamed she was swimming up through red-tinted clouds, slowly, sluggishly pulling herself toward the surface, where a faint, white light glowed through the misty layers. She moaned as she struggled. Not from pain but nausea that rolled up, burning in her throat.

In defense, she kept her eyes closed, taking long, deep breaths and willing the sickness back. Drops of clammy sweat pearled on her skin so that her thin silk blouse clung nastily to her arms and back.

When the worst had passed, she opened her eyes cautiously.

She had been in the car, she remembered. Tim had been driving her home and she'd become ill. But she wasn't home now. Hospital? she wondered dully when she let her eyes cautiously open. The room was softly lit with delicate violets trailing up the wallpaper. A white ceiling fan gently stirred the air with a whispering sound of blades. A glossy mahogany bureau held a collection of pretty, colored bottles and pots. A magnificent poinsettia and a miniature blue spruce decorated with silver bells added seasonal flair.

Hospital? she thought again. Groggily, she tried to sit up. Her head spun again, hideously, shooting that fist of nausea back into her stomach. Her vision doubled. When she tried to bring her hand to her face, it felt weighted down. For a moment she could only lie still, fighting back the sickness. She saw that the room was a box, a closed, windowless box. Like a coffin.

A spear of panic sliced through the shock. She reared up, shouting, stumbling drunkenly from the bed. Staggering to a wall, she ran her fingers over the delicate floral wallpaper in a dizzy search for an opening. Trapped. She wheeled around, eyes wide. Trapped.

She saw then what was on the wall over the bed. It was enough to crush the bubbling hysteria. A huge photograph smiled sassily down at her. For several stunned moments Deanna stared at Deanna. Slowly, with the sound of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears, she scanned the rest of the room.

No, there were no doors, no windows, just flowers, bowers of them, wall to wall. But there were other photographs. Dozens of pictures of her were lined on the side walls. Candid shots, magazine covers, press photos stood cheek by jowl against the dainty wallpaper.

"Oh God. Oh God." She heard the whimpering panic in her own voice and bit down fiercely on her lip.

Looking away from her own images, her eyes glassy with shock, she stared at the refectory table, its snowy white runner stiff with starch as a backdrop for silver candle holders, glossy white tapers. Dozens of little treasures had been arranged there: an earring she'd lost months before, a tube of lipstick, a silk scarf Simon had given her one Christmas, a glove of supple red leather — one of a pair that had disappeared the winter before.

There was more. She eased closer, straining against the tidal wave of fear as she studied the collection. A memo she'd handwritten to Jeff, a lock of ebony hair wrapped in gold cord, other photographs of her, always of her, in elegant and ornate frames. The shoes she'd been wearing in the limo were there as well, along with her jacket, neatly folded.

The place was like a shrine, she realized with a shudder. The sound in her throat was feral and frightened. There was a television in the corner, a shelf of leather-bound albums. And most terrifying, cameras bracketed the upper corners of the room. The pinpoints of their red lights beamed like tiny eyes.

She stumbled back, fear soaring like a slickly coated bird. Her gaze sliced from one camera to the other.

"You're watching me." She fought back the terror in her voice. "I know you are. You can't keep me here. They'll look. You know they'll find me. They're probably looking already."

She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but saw that her watch was gone. How long? she wondered frantically. It might have been minutes, or days, since she'd passed out in the car.

The car. Her breath began to hitch. "Tim." She pressed her lips together until the ache snapped through the need to weep. "Tim, you have to let me go. I'll try to help you. I promise that. I'll do whatever I can. Please, come in here, talk to me."

As though only her invitation had been required, a section of the wall slid open. In reflex, Deanna surged forward, only to bite back a moan of despair as her head spun in sickening circles from the drug. Still, she straightened her shoulders and hoped that she hid the worst of her fear.

"Tim," she began, then only stared in confusion.

"Welcome home, Deanna."

His face flushed with shy pleasure, Jeff stepped into the room. He carried a silver tray on which rode a wineglass, a china plate of herbed pasta and a single red rosebud.

"I hope you like the room." In his unhurried and efficient way, he set the tray on the bureau. "It took a long time for me to get it just right. I didn't want you to be just comfortable. I wanted you to be happy. I know there's no view." He turned toward her, eyes too bright though apology quavered in his voice. "But it's safer this way. No one will bother us when we're in here."

"Jeff." Calm, she ordered herself. She had to stay calm. "You can't keep me here."

"Yes I can. I've planned it all carefully. I've had years to work it out. Why don't you sit down, Dee? You're probably feeling a little groggy, and I want you to be comfortable while you eat."

He stepped forward, and though she braced, he didn't touch her.

"Later," he continued, "after you understand everything, you'll feel a lot better. You just need time." He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek, but drew it away again as if he didn't want to frighten her. "Please try to relax. You never let yourself relax. I know you might be a little afraid right now, but it's going to be all right. If you fight me, I'll have to…" Because he couldn't bear to say the words, he slipped a hypo out of his pocket. "I don't want to." Her instant recoil had him pushing the needle out of sight again. "Really, I don't. And you wouldn't be able to get away."

Smiling again, he moved a table and chair closer to the bed. "You need to eat," he said pleasantly. "You always worried me when it came to taking care of yourself. All those hurried or skipped meals. But I'll take good care of you. Sit down, Deanna."

She could refuse, she thought. She could scream and rant and threaten. And for what? She'd known Jeff, or thought she'd known him, for years. He could be stubborn, she reminded herself. But she'd always been able to reason with him.

"I am hungry," she told him, and hoped her stomach wouldn't rebel. "You'll talk to me while I eat? Explain things to me?" She gave him her best interviewer's smile.

"Yes." The smile burned across his face like a fever. "I thought you might be angry at first."

"I'm not angry. I'm afraid."

"I'd never hurt you." He took one of her limp hands in his and squeezed lightly. "I won't let anyone hurt you. I know you might be thinking about getting past me, Deanna. Getting through the panel. But you can't. I'm really very strong, and you're still weak from the drug. No matter what you do, you'll still be locked in. Sit down."

As if in a dream, she did as he told her. She wanted to run, but even as the thought communicated from brain to body, her legs folded. How could she run when she could barely stand? The drug was still in charge of her system. It was precisely the kind of detail he would have thought of. Precisely the kind of detail that had made him such an invaluable part of her team.

"It's wrong to keep me here, Jeff."

"No, it's not." He set the tray on the table in front of her. "I've thought about it for a long, long time. And this is for the best. For you. I'm always thinking of you. Later on, we can travel together. I've been looking into villas in the south of France. I think you'd like it there." He touched her then, just a brushing caress on her shoulder. Beneath her blouse her skin crawled. "I love you so much."

"Why didn't you ever tell me? You could have talked to me about the way you felt."

"I couldn't. At first I thought it was just because I was shy, but then I realized that it was all like a plan. A life plan. Yours and mine."

Anxious to explain, he pulled up another chair. As he leaned forward, his glasses slid down his nose. While her vision blurred, then cleared, she watched him shove them up again — an old habit, once an endearing one, that now chilled her blood.

"There were things you needed to do, experiences — and men — you had to get out of your system before we could be together. I understood that, Dee. I never blamed you for Finn. It hurt me." Resting his hands on his knees, he let out a sigh. "But I didn't blame you. And I couldn't blame him." His face brightened again. "How could I when I knew how perfect you were? The first time I saw you on TV, I couldn't get my breath. It scared me a little. You were looking right at me, into me. I'll never forget it. You see, I was so lonely before. An only child. I grew up in this house. You're not eating, Deanna. I wish you would."

Obediently, she picked up her fork. He wanted to talk. Seemed eager to. The best way to escape, she calculated, was to understand. "You told me you grew up in Iowa."

"That's where my mother took me later. My mother was wild." The apology crept back into his voice. "She would never listen to anyone, never obey the rules. So naturally, Uncle

Matthew had to punish her. He was older, you see. He was head of the family. He'd keep her in this room, trying to make her see that there were proper ways to do things, and improper ways." His face changed as he spoke, tightening around the mouth and eyes, growing somehow older, sterner. "But my mother never learned, no matter how hard my uncle tried to teach her. She ran away and got pregnant. When I was six, they took her away. She had a breakdown, and I came to live with Uncle Matthew. There was no one else to take me in, you see. And it was his family duty."

Deanna choked down a bite of pasta. It stuck like paste in her throat, but she was afraid to try the wine. He could have drugged it, she thought, like the bottle of juice. "I'm sorry, Jeff, about your mother."

"It's okay." He shrugged it off like a snake shedding skin. His face smoothed out again like a sheet stroked with careful hands. "She didn't love me. No one's ever loved me but Uncle Matthew. And you. It's just wine, Dee. Your favorite kind." Grinning at the joke, he picked up the glass and sipped to show her. "I didn't put anything in it. I didn't have to, because you're here now. With me."

Drugged or not, she avoided the wine, unsure how it would mix with the drugs in her system. "What happened to your mother?"

"She had dementia. She died. Is your dinner all right? I know pasta's your favorite."

"It's fine." Deanna slipped another bite through her stiff lips. "How old were you when she died?"

"I don't know. Doesn't matter, I was happy here, with my uncle." It made him nervous to talk about his mother, so he didn't. "He was a great man. Strong and good. He hardly ever had to punish me, because I was good, too. I wasn't a trial to him, like my mother was. We took care of each other." He spoke quickly now, fresh excitement blooming. "He was proud of me. I studied hard and I didn't hang out with other kids. I didn't need them. I mean, all they wanted to do was ride in fast cars and listen to loud music and fight with their parents. I had respect. And I never forgot things like cleaning my room or brushing my teeth. Uncle Matthew always told me I didn't need anybody but family. And he was the only family I had. Then, when he died, there was you. So I knew it was right."

"Jeff." Deanna used all her skills to keep the conversation flowing, to steer it in the direction she wanted. "Do you think your uncle would approve of what you're doing now?"

"Oh, absolutely." He beamed, his face sunny and innocent and terrifying. "He talks to me all the time, up here." He tapped his head, winked. "He told me to be patient, to wait until the time was right. You know when I first started sending you letters?"

"Yes, I remember."

"I dreamed about Uncle Matthew for the first time then. Only it wasn't like a dream. It was so real. He told me I had to court you, the way a gentleman would. That I had to be patient. He always said that good things take time. He told me that I would have to wait, and that I had to look out for you. Men are supposed to cherish their women, to protect them. People have forgotten that. No one seems to cherish anyone anymore."

"Is that why you killed Angela, Jeff?

To protect me?"

"I planned that for months." He leaned back again, rested one bent leg across his knee. Conversations with Deanna had always been a high point of his life. And this, he thought, was the very best. "You didn't know that I let her think I was taking Lew's place."

"Lew's? Lew Mcationeil's?"

"After I killed him—"

"Lew." Her fork rattled against the china when it slipped through her fingers. "You killed Lew."

"He betrayed you. I had to punish him. And he used Simon. Until I started to work with you, I never really had friends. Simon's my friend. I was going to kill him, too, but I realized he'd been used. It wasn't really his fault, was it?"

"No." She said it quickly, punctuating the word by laying her hand over Jeff's. "No, Jeff, it wasn't Simon's fault. I care very much about Simon. I wouldn't want you to hurt him."

"That's what I thought." He grinned, a child praised by an indulgent adult. "You see, I know you so well, Deanna. I know everything about you. Your family, your friends. Your favorite foods and colors. Where you like to shop. I know everything you're thinking. It's as though I were right inside your head. Or you're inside mine," he added slowly. "Sometimes I'd think you were inside mine. I knew you wanted Angela to go away. And I knew you'd never hurt her yourself. You're too gentle, too kind." He turned his hand over to squeeze hers. "So I did it for you. I arranged to meet her in the parking lot at CBC. She sent her driver away, just like I'd told her to. I let her in, took her down to the studio. I'd told her that I had copied papers from the office. Story ideas, guests, plans for remotes. She was going to buy them from me. Only she didn't tell me you were coming." Incredibly, his bottom lip poked out in a pout. "She lied to me about that."

"You killed her. And you turned the cameras on."

"I was angry with you." His mouth quivered, his eyes lowered. Deanna gripped her fork again with some idea of using it as a weapon. The effects of the drug were wearing off, and she felt stronger. She thought she could thank fear for that. But his eyes lifted to hers and the searing light in them had her fingers going numb.

"I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to hurt you. I nearly wanted to kill you. You were going to marry him, Dee. I could understand your sleeping with him. Weak flesh. Uncle Matthew explained all about how sex can pervert, and how weak people can be. Even you." The hand that covered hers tightened, tightened, until bone rubbed bone. "So I understood, and I was patient, because I always knew you'd come to me. But you couldn't marry him, you couldn't take vows. I knew it was you when you opened the door. I always know when it's you. I hit you. I wanted to hit you again, but I couldn't. So I carried you to the chair, and I put Angela in the other one and turned on the camera. I wanted you to see what I'd done for you. I'd already been upstairs, in your office." He compressed his lips, sighed and gently released her throbbing hand. "It was wrong of me to wreck your office. I shouldn't have gone to Finn's house, either. I'm sorry."

He said it as though he'd neglected to keep a luncheon appointment.

"Jeff, have you ever told anyone about your feelings?"

"Just my uncle, when we talk in my head. He was sure you'd understand soon, and come home with me. And after I heard what that creep did to you in the parking lot, I knew it was nearly time."

"Marshall?"

"He tried to hurt you. Joe told me how he'd acted, so I waited for him. I killed him the same way I'd killed the others. It was symbolic, Deanna. My vision destroyed their vision. It's almost holy, don't you think?"

"It's not holy to kill, Jeff."

"You're too forgiving." His eyes scanned her face, adoringly. "If you forgive people who've hurt you, they'll only hurt you again. You have to protect what's yours."

He remembered the dog that had come into their yard time after time, digging up Uncle Matthew's flowers, spoiling the grass. He'd cried when his uncle had poisoned the dog. Cried until Uncle Matthew had explained to him why it was right and honorable to defend your own against any intruder. With that in mind, he got up and went to the bureau. He opened the top drawer and took out a list.

"I've planned it," he told her. "You and I always make lists and plan things out. We're not the type who run off without thinking, are we?" Beaming again, he offered the list to her.

LEW MCNEIL

ANGELA PERKINS

MARSHALL PIKE

DAN GARDNER

JAMIE THOMAS

FINN RILEY?

"Finn," was all she could say. "He's not for sure. I put him down in case he hurt you. I nearly did it once before. Nearly. But at the last minute I realized I was only going to kill him because I was jealous. It was like Uncle Matthew was there, and he jerked the rifle at the last minute. I was really glad I didn't kill him when I saw how upset you were that he'd been shot."

"In Greektown," Deanna said through trembling lips. "That day in Greektown. You shot him?"

"It was a mistake. I'm really sorry." "Oh God." Horrified, she cringed back. "Oh my God."

"It was a mistake." His voice was sulky, dangerously so. Jeff looked away from her. "I said I was sorry. I won't do anything to him unless he hurts you."

"He hasn't. He won't."

"Then I won't have to do anything about him." Her palm dampened against the paper, and her heart began to beat heavily in her throat. "Promise me you won't, Jeff. It's important to me that Finn's safe. He's been very good to me."

"I'm better for you."

There was a child's petulance on his face now. Deanna exploited the moment. "Promise me, Jeff, or I'll be very unhappy. You don't want that, do you?"

"No." He struggled between her needs and his own. "I guess it doesn't matter now.

Not now that you're here."

"You have to promise." She clamped her teeth together to keep the desperation from her voice. Reason, she told herself. Calm reason. "I know you wouldn't break your word to me."

"All right. If it makes you happy." To show his sincerity, he took out a pen and scratched Finn's name off the list. "See?"

"Thank you. And Dan Gardner—"

"No." His voice sharp, he folded the page. "He's already hurt you, Dee. He's said terrible things about you; he helped Angela try to ruin you. He has to be punished."

"But he doesn't matter, Jeff. He's nothing." Calm, she reminded herself. Calm but firm. Adult to child. "And Jamie Thomas, that was years and years ago. I don't care about them."

"I do. I care. I'd have killed him first, right away, but he was in Europe. Hiding out," he said scornfully. "It's not easy to get a weapon through customs, so I was patient." Now he beamed. "He's back now, you know. He's in New Hampshire. I'll be going there soon."

The drug was no longer making her ill, but the nausea rolled greasily in her stomach. "I don't care about him. About any of them, Jeff. I don't want you to hurt them for me."

He turned his face away, sulking. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"I want—"

"You have to think about what I want, too." He shoved the list back in the drawer, slammed it hard enough to rattle bottles. "I'm only thinking of you."

"Yes, I know. I know you are. But if you go to New York to kill Gardner, or New Hampshire for Jamie, I'll be all alone here. I don't want to be locked up alone, Jeff."

"Don't worry." His tone gentled. "I've got plenty of time, and I'll be very careful. I'm so glad you're here."

"Would you let me go outside please? I need some air."

"I can't. Not yet. It isn't part of the plan." He sat again, leaning forward. "You need three months."

Horror drained her blood. "You can't keep me locked up like this for three months."

"It's all right. You'll have everything you need. Books, TV, company. I'll rent movies for you, cook your meals. I've bought clothes for you." He sprang up to slide open another panel. "See? I spent weeks choosing just the right things." He gestured inside to the closet full of slacks and dresses and jackets. "And there's shirts and sweaters, nightclothes and underthings in the bureau. Over here…" He pushed open another hidden door. "The bathroom."

He flushed, stared at his shoes. "There aren't any cameras in there. I swear. I wouldn't spy on you in the bathroom. I stocked your favorite bath oils and soaps, your cosmetics. You'll have everything you need."

Everything you need. Everything you need. The words spun around and around in her head. She couldn't keep the hitch out of her voice. "I don't want to be locked up."

"I'm sorry. That's the only thing I can't give you right now. Soon, when you've really come to understand, it'll be different. But anything else you want, I'll get for you. Whenever I have to leave, you'll be all right here. The room's secure, soundproofed. Even if someone came into the house, they wouldn't find you. Outside the door is a bookcase. It's really cool. I designed it myself. No one would ever guess there was a room in here, so you'll be safe and sound whenever I'm gone. And when I'm busy around the house, I can watch you." He pointed toward the cameras. "So if you need me, I'll know."

"They'll come and find me, Jeff. Sooner or later. They won't understand. You have to let me go."

"No, I have to keep you. Do you want to watch TV?" He crossed over, picked up the remote from the nightstand. "We have full cable."

Fighting back a hysterical laugh, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. "No, no, not now."

"You can watch whenever you want. And the shelf is full of videos. Movies, and tapes I've taken of you. And the scrapbooks." He bustled around the room, an energetic host anxious to entertain. "I've kept them for you. Everything that's ever been written up on you is in here. Or there's the stereo. I have all your favorite music. There's a little refrigerator in the bathroom that I stocked with drinks and snacks."

"Jeff." She could reel that bubble of panic swelling. Her hands shook as she stood. "You've gone to a lot of trouble. I understand that. And I understand that you've done what you thought you had to do. But this is wrong. You're keeping me prisoner."

"No, no, no." He came to her quickly, grabbing her hands when she jerked back. "You're like the princess in the fairy tale, and I'm protecting you. I'm cherishing you. It's like you're under a spell, Dee. One day you'll wake up and I'll be here. And we'll be happy."

"I'm not under a spell." She yanked away, fury simmering under fear like an exotic stew. "And I'm not a goddamn princess. I'm a human being, with the right to make my own choices. You can't lock me up and expect me to be grateful because I've got bathroom privileges."

"I knew you'd be angry at first." Disappointment sighed through his voice as he reached down for her dinner dishes. "But you'll calm down."

"The hell I will." She leaped at him, striking out with her free hand. The first blow glanced off his cheekbone. China shattered on the floor and flew like bullets. Snarling, she scrambled after a shard.

She screamed, fighting like a madwoman as he wrestled her to the floor. He was strong, so much stronger than he looked with those long, gangly arms. He made no sound, no sound at all, simply clamped a hand painfully on her wrist until her fingers opened to release the makeshift weapon.

He dragged her to the bed, stoically suffering her flailing feet and fists. When she was pressed under him, his erection hard against her thigh, her terror doubled.

There were worse things than being locked in. "No!" She tried to buck him off, her fingers fisting and unfisting while he clamped her hands over her head.

"I want you, Deanna. God, I want you." His fumbling kiss dampened her jaw. The sensation of her body writhing beneath his had a red haze of need cloaking his vision. Her heart was chugging like a piston against his, and her skin was soft as water, hot as fire. "Please, please." He was almost weeping as his mouth covered hers. "Just let me touch you."

"No." Sickened, she turned her head. Control. She grasped onto her only hope. "You'd be no better than Jamie. You're hurting me, Jeff. You have to stop hurting me."

Tears tracked down his cheeks when he lifted his head. "I'm sorry. Deanna, I'm so sorry. It's just that I've waited so long. We won't make love until you're ready. I swear it. Don't be afraid of me."

"I am afraid." He wouldn't rape her, she realized, and was almost ashamed that she was willing to settle for that. "You have me locked up. You've told me no one can find me. What if something happened to you? I could die here."

"Nothing's going to happen. I've planned everything, every detail. I love you, Deanna, and I know under it all, you love me too. You've shown me in hundreds of ways. The way you smile at me. The way you touch me, or laugh. The way you'll catch my eye across the room. You made me your director. I can't begin to explain what that meant to me. You trusted me to guide you. You believed in me. In us."

"It's not love. I don't love you." "You're just not ready yet. Now you need to rest." He braceleted her wrists in one hand, fought the hypo free with the other.

"No. Don't." She twisted, wrenched, begged. "Please don't. I can't go anywhere. You've said I can't get away."

"You need to rest," he said quietly, and slid the needle under her skin. "I'll watch out for you, Deanna."

Her head lolled back, and his tears fell to mix with hers. He waited, miserably, until her struggles to fight off the drug ceased. When her body went limp, he clamped down on the urge to stroke his hands over it.

Not until she's ready, he reminded himself, content to brush the dampness from her cheeks. Gently, he shifted her onto the pillows and placed a chaste kiss on her brow.

His princess, he thought, studying her as she slept. He'd built her an ivory tower. They'd live there together. Forever.

"Isn't she perfect, Uncle Matthew? Isn't she beautiful? You'd have loved her too. You'd have known she was the one, the only one."

He sighed. Uncle Matthew wasn't speaking to him. He'd been wrong to allow sex to twist his plans. He'd have to be punished. Bread and water only for two days. That's what his uncle would have done. Meekly he crouched down to clean up the broken dishes. He tidied the room, turned the lights down. With one last, longing glance at Deanna, he slipped out of the room, shutting the panel silently.

"I think it would be best if you'd take Miss Reynolds home." Jenner rode up in the elevator with Finn. He still resented Finn's earlier pressuring but he covered it with quiet dignity. "I'd prefer that she was out of the office when we re-interrogate her staff."

"The minute she finds out that's what you intend to do, she won't budge." Pleased that matters seemed to be moving forward, Finn leaned against the wall. "I'll do what I can to convince her to stay out of the way, but that's the best I can offer. Deanna's fiercely loyal. She won't want to accept that one of her own people is involved."

"She may have to." Jenner headed out of the car the moment the doors opened. "If she kicks up too much of a fuss, we can take her people in to the station. She'll like that less."

"You can try. You don't know her the way I do, Lieutenant. Cassie," he said as he walked into the reception area. "She in?"

"No." Baffled, she stopped gathering the stacks of mail she'd intended to post on the way home. "What are you doing here?"

"Cassie Drew?" Jenner inclined his head. "We'd like to ask you some more questions. I wonder if you could get the rest of Miss Reynolds's staff together?"

"I–I don't know who's still in the building. Finn?"

"Why don't you buzz everyone," he suggested. "And find Deanna for me, will you?" He wanted to get her out, and quickly. Some instinct told him to hurry. He intended to heed it. "Tell her I'm in the mood to cook."

"She's gone home. She left right after you called."

"I called?" He felt uneasy. "Did

Deanna tell you I called?"

"No, you left a message about a meeting, and getting home early. It came in during her fitting, and she left as soon as she was done." Finn shoved open the door to Deanna's office, took one quick scan. "Did you take the message?"

"No, I was in with her when it came in. Jeff took it."

His eyes were like blue ice when he turned back. "Did he say he spoke to me?"

"Yes — I guess. Is something wrong?" Fear began to gnaw through confusion. Cassie's gaze darted from Jenner to Finn and back again. "Is something wrong with Deanna?"

Rather than answer, Finn grabbed the phone and punched in his home number. Two rings later, he heard the answering machine click on. With his teeth set, he waited through the message. "Deanna? Pick up if you're there. Pick up the phone, damn it."

"She'd have to be home by now. She left more than an hour ago. Finn, what's going on?"

"What did Jeff tell her?"

"That you'd called, just as I said." "Why didn't you answer the phone?"

"I—" Frightened, and not knowing why, she put a hand on the desk to keep her balance. "I didn't hear the phone. I didn't hear it."

"Where's Jeff?"

"I don't know. He—"

But Finn was already racing down the hall. He burst into one room, found Simon in consultation with Margaret. "Hey, Finn. Don't bother to knock."

"Where's Jeff?"

"He wasn't feeling well. He went home." Simon was rising from the desk as he spoke. "What's the problem?"

"Finn." Though her hands were stiff with cold, Cassie tugged on Finn's sleeve. "I called for Tim myself. I talked to him. He met her downstairs."

"Get him on the line. Now."

"Mr. Riley." Jenner spoke calmly as Cassie rushed off to obey. "I've got a black-and-white on its way to your house right now. Odds are Miss Reynolds wasn't answering the phone. That's all."

"What the hell's going on?" Simon demanded. "What's happened now?"

"Tim doesn't answer his page." Cassie stood in the hallway, a hand at her throat. "I got his machine on his home phone." "Give me the address," Jenner said briskly.

Chapter Twenty-nine

"Mr. Riley, I know you're upset, but you're going to have to let me handle this."

Jenner stood on the sidewalk in front of Jeff's suburban home, aware he was only temporarily blocking Finn from storming the door.

"She's in there. I know it."

"Not to belittle your instincts, but we can't know that. We only know that Jeff Hyatt delivered a message. We're going to check everything out," Jenner reminded him. "The same way we checked out the driver, Tim O'Malley."

"Who wasn't home," Finn ground out, staring at the windows behind Jenner. "And the company car wasn't in the lot. And no one's seen O'Malley since sometime in the afternoon." His gaze, icy still, cut like a blade back to Jenner. "So where the hell is he? Where the hell is Deanna?"

"That's what we're going to try to find out. I'm not going to waste my time telling you to get back in your car and go home, but I am telling you to let me handle this with Hyatt."

"So handle it."

His voice might have been cold, his eyes frosty, but Jenner recognized a powder keg ready to explode. The melodious sound of church bells rang out when Jenner pressed the doorbell. Beneath his feet was a mat with the word WELCOME woven in black. In the center of the door was a glossy Christmas wreath topped by a bright red bow. Colored lights had been neatly strung around the frame. Jeff Hyatt appeared ready for the holidays.

He'd known they would come, and he was ready. Clad comfortably in a tattered sweater and baggy sweats, Jeff descended the stairs. He'd watched them arrive from his bedroom window. He smiled to himself as he paused before the door. This, he knew, was the next step toward freeing Deanna. Toward binding her.

He pulled open the door. "Hey, Finn." Confusion clouded his eyes as he looked at his visitors. "What's up?"

"Where is she?" Finn spaced each word precisely. Yes, there was a powder keg inside him, and only the knowledge that it could explode over Deanna kept it tapped. "I want to know where she is."

"Hey." His grin tilted inffconfusion. Jeff stared blankly at Finn, then at Jenner. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"Mr. Hyatt." Jenner stepped neatly between the two men. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Okay." Jeff rubbed his fingertips against his temple. "No problem. Do you want to come in?"

"Thank you. Mr. Hyatt," Jenner began, "did you relay a message to Miss Reynolds at approximately three o'clock this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Why?" Wincing, Jeff continued to massage his temple. "Jesus. Can we sit down? I've got this monster headache." He turned into the living area. The furnishings were straight out of a catalogue. Matching tables, matching chairs, twin lamps, a soulless, practical suite favored by uninspired bachelors or newlyweds on a strict budget. Only Jeff sat.

"You told her I called?"

"Sure I did." Jeff's smile was cautious. His eyes were wary. "Your assistant said to tell Dee you had this meeting and were planning on getting home early."

"You didn't talk to Mr. Riley?" Jenner demanded.

"No. I thought it was kind of weird that the call came through my office, but when I went to tell Dee, I saw that she and Cassie were all involved. Dee was getting her wedding dress fitted. She looked incredible."

"Why did you leave the office early?" "This headache. I haven't been able to ditch it all day. It makes it hard to concentrate. Listen." He stood again, obviously impatient and bewildered. "What's this all about? Is it some kind of crime to deliver a phone message?"

"What time did you leave the office?" "Right after I talked to Dee. I came home — well, I went to the store first, picked up some more heavy-duty aspirin. I thought if I laid down awhile…" His voice trailed off. "Something's happened to Dee." As if his legs wouldn't support him, he lowered slowly to the couch again. "Oh my God. Is she hurt?"

"She hasn't been seen since she left the office," Jenner told him.

"Oh God. Jesus. Have you talked to Tim? Didn't he drive her home?"

"We're unable to locate Mr. O'Malley."

On a shaking breath, Jeff rubbed his hands over his face. "It wasn't a message from your assistant, was it, Finn? I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't paying attention." His jaw quivered when he dropped his hands again. His eyes were dark with an emotion disguising itself as fear. "All I could think about was getting home and going to bed. I just said, sure, I'll tell her. And I did."

"I don't believe you." Finn didn't move a muscle, but the words cracked toward Jeff like a slap. "You're a meticulous man, Jeff. That's how Deanna describes you." And the minutes were ticking away. "Why would you, with everything that's been going on, pass along a half-baked message like that?"

"It was supposed to be from you," Jeff shot back. The way Finn studied him, as if he could see all the secrets swimming in his brain, put Jeff on edge. "Why wouldn't I pass it along?"

"Then you won't mind if we go through the house." Finn turned to Jenner. "Through every inch of it."

"You think I—" Jeff snapped his mouth shut, pushed himself from the couch. "Go ahead," he said to both men. "Search it. Go through every room. I want you to."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hyatt. It would be best if you came with us while we do."

"Fine." Jeff stood for a moment, staring at Finn. "I know how you feel about her, and I guess I can't really blame you for this."

They went through every room, searching through closets, cupboards, through the garage, where Jeff's undistinguished sedan was parked. It took less than twenty minutes.

Finn noted the tidy, practical furnishings, the well-pressed, practical clothes. As a director for a number-one show, he'd be well compensated financially. And Finn could see that he sure as hell wasn't spending any money on himself.

Just what, he wondered, was Jeff Hyatt saving his pennies for? "I wish she was here." Jeff felt a quick, gleeful surge as they walked past the bookcase. "At least she'd be safe. I want to help. I want to do something. We can start with the press. We can get national coverage. By morning we'll have everyone in the country looking for her. Everybody knows her face." He looked beseechingly at Finn. "Someone will see her. He can't keep her locked in a tower somewhere."

"Wherever he has her" — Finn never took his eyes off Jeff's—"I'll find her."

Without a backward glance, Finn strode out of the house. Seconds later, the sound of his engine roared.

"I can't blame him," Jeff muttered. He looked toward Jenner. "No one could."

He locked up carefully behind the policeman. His smile grew wider, wider, wider as he climbed the stairs. They might come back. A small, grinning part of him hoped they would. Because he would lead them right through the house, right by the hidden room where his princess slept.

They would never find her. And eventually they would go away. He and Deanna would be alone. Always.

He turned on the television in his room. The evening news didn't interest him. He flipped a switch on the splitter behind the set and settled down to watch Deanna.

She slept on, still as a doll behind the glass of the screen. The tears he wept now were of simple joy.

Jenner caught up with Finn at home. He made no mention of the speed limits Finn had ignored. "We'll be checking out Hyatt and O'Malley thoroughly. Why don't you be a reporter and get the story on the air?"

"It'll be on the air." Standing in the chill December wind, Finn struggled to stave off panic. "Hyatt looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did." Jenner blew out a smoky breath. Three days until Christmas, he thought. He would do everything in his power to be certain it was a day of celebration.

"I had some trouble with that house," Finn said after a moment.

"What kind?"

"Nothing out of place. Not a crooked picture, not a dustball. Books and magazines lined up like soldiers, furniture all but geometrically arranged. Everything centered, squared and bandbox clean."

"I noticed. Obsessive."

"That's how it strikes me. He fits the pattern."

Jenner acknowledged that with a slight nod. "A man can be obsessively neat without being obsessively homicidal."

"Where was the Christmas tree?" Finn muttered.

"The Christmas tree?"

"He's got the wreath, he's got the lights. But no tree. You'd think he'd have a tree somewhere."

"Maybe he's one of those traditionalists who don't put it up until Christmas Eve." But the omission was interesting.

"One more thing, Lieutenant. He claims he came home early to lie down. The bed in his room was the only thing mussed up. Pillow scrunched a bit, bedspread wrinkled. We got him up from his nap."

"So he says."

"Why did he have his shoes on?" Finn's eyes gleamed in the lowering light. "The laces were tied in double knots. Someone that neat doesn't lie down on his bed with his shoes on."

He'd missed that clue, damn it, Jenner thought. "I believe I mentioned this before, Mr. Riley, you have a good eye."

He couldn't stay at home. Not without her. Finn did the only thing that seemed possible. He went back to the station, avoiding the newsroom. He couldn't bear to answer questions, to be asked questions. He went to his office, brewed a pot of strong coffee. He added a healthy dose of whiskey to the first cup.

He booted up his computer.

"Finn." Fran stood in the doorway, her face splotchy, her eyes swollen and red. Before he'd risen completely, she took a stumbling step forward. "Oh God, Finn."

He stroked her shaking shoulders, though he felt no well of comfort that he could offer. It was just the routine, the show of comfort that meant nothing to anyone.

"I had to take Kelsey to the pediatrician for her checkup. I wasn't here. I wasn't even here."

"You couldn't have changed anything." "I might have." She shoved away, eyes fierce now. "How did he get to her? I've heard a dozen different stories."

"This is the place for them. Truth or accuracy, which do you want?"

"Both."

"One's not the same as the other, Fran. You've been in the game long enough. Accurately, we don't know. She left early, went out to the lot where her car and driver were supposed to be waiting. Now she's gone. Her driver seems to have vanished into thin air."

She didn't like the cool control of his voice or the workaday hum of his computer. "Then what's the truth, Finn? Why don't you tell me what the truth is?"

"The truth is that whoever has been sending her those notes, whoever killed Lew Mcationeil, Angela and Pike, has Deanna. They've got an APB out on her, and one on O'Malley and the car."

"Tim wouldn't. He couldn't."

"Why?" The single word was like a bullet. "Because you know him? Because he's part of Deanna's extended family? Fuck that. He could have." Finn sat down, drained half his coffee. The shock of caffeine and whiskey spread through him like velvet lightning. "But I don't think he did. I can't be sure until he turns up. If he turns up."

"Why wouldn't he?" Fran demanded. "He's worked for Dee for two years. He's never missed a single day."

"He's never been dead before, has he?" He swore at her, at himself when her color faded to paste. Rising, he poured her whiskey, straight. "I'm sorry, Fran. I'm half out of my mind."

"How can you sit in here and say things like that? How can you work, think about work, when Dee's out there somewhere? This isn't some international disaster you're covering, goddamn it, where you're the steady, unflappable journalist. This is Dee."

He jammed useless hands in his pockets. "When something's important, vital, when the answer means everything, you sit, you work, you think it through, you take all the facts and create a scenario that plays. Something that's accurate. I think Jeff's got her."

"Jeff." Fran choked on whiskey. "You're crazy. Jeff's devoted to Dee, and he's harmless as a baby. He'd never hurt her."

"I'm counting on that," he said dully. "I'm betting my life on it. I need everything you've got on him, Fran. Personnel records, memos, files. I need your impressions, your observations. I need you to help me."

She said nothing, only studied his face. No, his eyes weren't cold, she realized. They were burning up. And there was terror behind them. "Give me ten minutes," she said, and left him alone.

She came back in less than her allotted time with a stack of files and a box of computer disks. "His employment record, resume, application for employment. Tax info." Fran smiled weakly. "I lifted his desk calendars. He keeps them from year to year. They were all filed."

Meticulous. Obsessive. Though his blood iced, Finn accessed the first disk.

"That's his personnel file from CBC. I hope you don't mind breaking the law."

"Not a bit. This application is from April eighty-nine. When did Dee go on air at CBC?"

"About a month before that." Fran reached for the whiskey to unclog her throat. "It doesn't prove anything."

"No, but it's a fact." The first he could build on. "Same address he's got now. How'd he afford a house like that when he'd been working as a radio gofer?"

"He inherited it. His uncle left it to him. Finn, I had to call Dee's family." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "They're getting the first flight out in the morning."

"I'm sorry." He stared hard at the screen. Families. He'd never had one to worry about before. "I should have done it."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just — I don't know what to say to them."

"Tell them we're going to get her back. That's the truth. Fran, see if you can find the date in his calendar when Lew Mcationeil was killed. It was February ninety-two."

"Yeah, I remember." She opened the book, flipped through the pages, skimming Jeff's neat, precise notations. "We had a show that day. Jeff was directing. I remember because we had snow and everybody was worried that the audience would be thin."

"Do you remember if he came in?" "Sure, he was here. He never missed. Looks like he had a ten o'clock meeting with Simon."

"He'd have had time," Finn murmured. "Christ Almighty, do you really think he could have gone to New York, shot Lew, come back and waltzed into the studio to direct a show, all before lunch?"

Yes, Finn thought coldly. Oh yes, he did. "Fact: Lew was killed about seven — that's Central time. There's an hour's time difference between Chicago and New York. Speculation: He flies in and out, maybe he charters a plane. I need his receipts."

"He doesn't keep his personal stuff here."

"Then I'll have to get back in his house. You make sure he comes in tomorrow morning. And you make sure he stays."

She got up, poured coffee into her whiskey. "All right. What else?"

"Let's see what else we can find."

She'd lost track of time. Day or night, there was no difference in the claustrophobic world Jeff had created for her. Her head was cotton from the drug, her stomach raw, but she ate the breakfast he'd left for her. She didn't open the plain white envelope he'd left on her tray.

For a timeless, sweaty interlude, she tried to find an opening in the wall, had pried and poked with a spoon until her fingers had cramped uselessly. All she'd accomplished was to mar the pristine wallpaper.

She couldn't be sure if he was gone, or how long she'd been alone. Then she remembered the television and jumped like a cat on the remote.

Still morning, she thought, her eyes filming with tears as she scanned the channels. How easy it was to time your life around the familiar schedule of daytime TV. The bright laughter of a familiar game show was both mocking and soothing.

She'd slept through her own show, she realized, and choked back a bitter laugh. Where was Finn? What was he doing? Where was he looking for her?

She rose mechanically, walked into the bathroom. Though she'd already checked once, she repeated the routine of standing on the lip of the tub, climbing onto the lid of the toilet and searching for hidden cameras.

She had no choice but to trust Jeff that he wouldn't pry in this room. She slid the door closed, tried not to think about the lack of a lock. And she stripped.

She had to bite back the fear that he would come in when she was most vulnerable. She needed the cold, bracing spray to help clear her mind. She scrubbed hard, letting her thoughts focus as she soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed.

He hadn't missed a detail, she thought. Her brand of shampoo, of powder, creams. She used them all, finding some comfort in the daily routine. Wrapped in a bath sheet, she walked back into the bedroom to go through the drawers.

She chose a sweater, trousers. Just the sort of outfit she would pick for a day of relaxing at home. Ignoring the fresh shudder, she carried the outfit, and the lacy underwear he'd provided, into the bathroom.

Dressed, she began to pace. Pacing, she began to plan.

Finn parked his car half a block down, then backtracked on foot. He walked straight to Jeff Hyatt's front door. He didn't bother to knock. Since he'd just hung up his car phone with Fran, he knew Jeff was in the office.

Finn had the extra set of keys Fran had taken from Jeff's bottom desk drawer. There were three locks. A lot of security, he mused, for a quiet neighborhood. He unbolted all three and, once inside, took the precaution of locking up again.

He started upstairs first, clamping down on the urge to dive wildly into desk and files. Instead he searched meticulously, going through each drawer, each paper with his reporter's eye keen for any tiny detail. He wanted a receipt, some proof that Jeff had traveled to New York and back on the day of Lew's murder.

The police might overlook his reporter's instinct, but they wouldn't overlook facts. Once they had Jeff in custody, they would sweat out of him Deanna's whereabouts. He kept his eyes open, too, for some proof that Jeff had another house, a room, an apartment. He might be holding her there.

He wouldn't believe she was dead.

The pattern so far was to kill people in public places.

He shut the last drawer of the desk and moved to the files.

By the time he'd finished, his palms were damp. Biting back the taste of despair, he strode from the office into Jeff's bedroom. He'd found nothing, absolutely nothing except proof that Jeff Hyatt was an organized, dedicated employee who lived quietly and well, almost too well, within his means.

While Finn searched the bedroom, Deanna paced the floor beneath him. She knew she would have only one chance, and that failure would be more than risky. It might be fatal.

In the room above, Finn scanned row after row of videotapes. The man was beyond a buff, Finn mused. He was fanatical. The neat labels indicated television series, movies, news events. Over a hundred black cases lined the wall beside the television. Finn juggled the remote in his hand, deciding if he had time after searching the house, he'd screen a few to see if there was anything more personal on tape.

He set the remote down, only a push of a button away from bringing Deanna to life on screen. He turned to the closet.

The scent of mothballs, an old woman's odor, tickled his nostrils. Slacks hung straight and true, jackets graced padded hangers. The shoes were stretched on trees. The photo album he found on the shelf revealed nothing but snapshots of an elderly man, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jeff beside him. His jaw seemed permanently clenched, his lips withered to a scowl. Beneath each shot was a careful notation.

Uncle Matthew on 75th birthday. June 1983. Uncle Matthew and Jeff, Easter 1977. Uncle Matthew, November 1988.

There was no one else in the book. Just a man, young, a little thin, and his hard-faced uncle. Never a young girl or a laughing child, a romping pet. The book felt unhealthy, diseased, in his hand. Finn slid it back on the shelf, careful to align the edges.

Details, he thought grimly. Two could play.

Underwear was tucked into the top dresser drawer. All snowy white boxers, pressed and folded. There was nothing beneath them but plain white paper, lightly scented with lilac.

It was almost worse than the mothballs, Finn thought, and moved down to the next drawer.

None of the usual hiding places was utilized. He found no papers, no packets taped to the undersides or backs of drawers, no valuables tucked into the toes of shoes. The nightstand drawer held a current TV Guide with selected programs highlighted in yellow. A pad and a sharpened pencil and an extra handkerchief joined it.

He'd been in the house for nearly an hour when he hit pay dirt. The diary was under the pillow. It was leather-

bound, glossy and locked. Finn was reaching in his pocket for his penknife when he heard the rattle of a key in the lock.

"Goddamn it, Fran." He glanced back at the closet, rejecting it instantly not only as a clich`e, but also as a humiliating one. He'd rather face a foe than hide from one. He stepped forward toward the bedroom door just as Jeff walked down the hallway, whistling on his way to the kitchen.

"Don't seem too devastated, do you? You son of a bitch." Muttering under his breath, Finn slipped toward the stairs.

He couldn't wait to see her. Jeff knew he was taking a chance leaving the office when Fran was so insistent that he stay. But he'd slipped out, antsy to get home. To get to Deanna. The office was in an uproar, he thought. No one could work, and he could always claim to have needed to be alone. Nobody would blame him.

He poured a glass of milk, arranged fancy tea cookies on a china plate and put them all on a tray with another single rose.

She'd be rested now, he was certain. She'd be feeling better, more at home. And soon, very soon, she would see how well he could care for her.

Finn waited at the top of the stairs. He heard Jeff whistling and the sound of dishes ringing together. He heard the footsteps, a quiet click, followed moments later by another.

Then he heard nothing at all.

Where did the bastard go? he wondered. Moving quietly, he descended the stairs. He slipped like a shadow from room to room. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was baffled. He saw the bakery box of cookies, caught the candy scent of icing. But the man had vanished like smoke.

"You look wonderful." Secure in the soundproofed room, Jeff smiled shyly at Deanna. "Do you like the clothes?"

"They're very nice." She willed herself to smile back. "I took a shower. I can't believe you went to all the trouble to pick out all my favorite brands."

"You saw the towels? I had them monogrammed with your initials."

"I know." Her stomach rolled. "It was very sweet of you, Jeff. Cookies?"

"They're the ones you like best." "Yes, they are." Watching him, she walked over, fighting not to grit her teeth. She kept her eyes on his as she chose a cookie, bit in delicately. "Wonderful." She saw his gaze lower to her mouth as she licked at a crumb. "You were gone a long time."

"I came back as soon as I could. I'm going to turn in my resignation next week. I have plenty of money put away, and my uncle invested. I won't have to leave you again."

"It's lonely here. By myself." She sat on the edge of the bed. "You'll stay with me now, won't you?"

"As long as you want."

"Sit with me." In a subtle invitation, she touched the bed beside her. "I think if you explain things to me now, I'd be ready to understand."

His hands trembled as he set the tray down. "You're not angry?"

"No. I'm still a little scared. It frightens me to be locked in here."

"I'm sorry." He eased down beside her, careful to keep an inch of space between them. "One day it'll be different."

"Jeff." She made contact by laying her hand over his. "Why did you decide to do this? How did you know this was the time?" "I knew it had to be soon, before the wedding. When I came in yesterday and saw you in your wedding dress — I couldn't wait any longer. It was like a sign. You were so beautiful, Dee."

"But it was a terrible risk. Tim was downstairs waiting."

"It was me. I was waiting. I used his hat and his coat, the sunglasses. I had to get Tim out of the way."

"How?" When he looked down, staring at their joined hands, her heart dropped. "Jeff. Is Tim dead?"

"I didn't do it the way I did the others." Eager, anxious, he looked back at her, his eyes as hopeful as a child's. "I wouldn't have done that. Tim didn't hurt you. But I had to get him out of the way, and fast. I liked him, too, really. So I was real quick. He didn't suffer. I put him in the trunk of the car after — and then when I'd brought you here, I drove the car to a parking lot downtown. I left it there and I came home. To be with you." His face crumbled when she turned hers away. "You've got to understand, Deanna."

"I'm trying to." Oh, God. Tim.

"You haven't hurt Finn?"

"I promised I wouldn't. He's had you all this time, and I've been waiting."

"I know. I know." Instinctively she soothed. "They're looking for me, aren't they?"

"They won't find you."

"But they're looking."

"Yes!" His voice rose as he pushed off the bed. Everything had gone perfectly up till now, he reminded himself. Perfectly. But he felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, and couldn't see the bottom. "And they'll look and look. And then they'll stop. And nobody will bother us. Nobody."

"It's all right." She rose, too, though her legs trembled. "You know how curious I am about everything. Always asking questions."

"You won't miss being on television, Dee." He used his sleeve to wipe a tear away. "I'm your best audience. I could listen to you for hours and hours. I do. But now I won't have to watch a tape. Now it can be real."

"You want it to be real, don't you?" "More than anything."

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she reached out to stroke his cheek. "And you want me."

"You're all I've ever wanted." His face twitched under her palm. "All these years, you're all I've wanted. I've never been with another woman. Not like Pike. Not like Riley. I was waiting for you."

She wished she could harden her heart, but part of her wept for him. "You want to touch me." She steeled herself and lifted his hand, placed it on her breast. "Like this."

"You're soft. So soft." There was something pathetic and terrifying about the way his hand shook against her, even as his fingers moved to caress.

"If I let you touch me, the way you want, will you let me go outside?"

He jerked back as though she'd burned him. Bitter betrayal welled in his throat. "You're trying to trick me."

"No, Jeff." It was all right for her desperation to show, she told herself. Let him see her weakness. "I don't like being closed in. It frightens me. I only want to go outside for a few minutes, get some air. You want me to be happy, don't you?"

"It's going to take time." His mouth set in a stubborn line. "You're not ready."

"You know how I have to keep busy, Jeff." She stepped toward him, careful to keep her eyes fixed on his. When she slid her arms up his chest, his eyes clouded, darkened. "Sitting here like this, hour after hour, is upsetting me. I know how much you've done for me." And she felt the outline of the syringe in his pocket. "I know you want us to be together."

"We are together." He brought his unsteady hand back to her breast. When she didn't flinch, he smiled. "We'll always be together."

He lowered his head to kiss her. She slipped the needle from his pocket.

"Deanna," he murmured.

Her sharp indrawn breath betrayed her. She twisted, fighting to plunge the needle into him as they grappled to the floor.

Searching for Jeff finally brought Finn back to the bookcase. He had seen what he and Jenner had missed on their first search. The dimensions, he thought, as the spit in his mouth dried to dust. The dimensions were wrong. The bookcase couldn't be an end wall. Couldn't be.

She was in there, he realized. Deanna was in there. And she wasn't alone. He had one panicked notion of hurling himself bodily against the shelves. His body quivered with the effort of holding back. It wasn't the way. God knew what

Jeff would do to her in the time it took him to break through.

Struggling for calm, he began to search methodically for a mechanism.

She was losing. The hypo squirted out of her fingers when he rolled over her. She screamed as her head rapped hard against the floor. Though her vision blurred, she could see him above her, his face distorted, his tears running. And she knew he could kill. Not only others, but her.

"You lied," he cried out in an agony of despair. "You lied. I have to punish you. I have to." And sobbing, he closed his hands around her throat.

She used her nails to rake his face. The blood surged to the surface and ran like his tears. When he howled in pain, she squirmed free. Her fingers brushed over the syringe as he snagged her ankle.

"I loved you. I loved you. Now I have to hurt you. It's the only way you'll understand. It's for your own good. That's what Uncle Matthew says. It's for your own good. You'll have to stay in here. You'll have to stay and have bread and water until you're ready to behave." He chanted the words as he dragged her back toward the bed. "I'm doing my best for you, aren't I? I gave you a roof over your head. I put clothes on your back. And this is the way you thank me? You'll just have to learn. I know best."

He snagged her hand, yanked up her arm. She plunged the needle into him.

Finn heard the sound of sirens in the distance, but they meant nothing. Every ounce of concentration was focused on the puzzle at hand. There was a way in. There was always a way. And he would find it.

"It's here," he murmured to himself. "Right here. The son of a bitch didn't walk through the wall." His finger hit a nub. He twisted. The panel opened in well-oiled silence.

Deanna stood beside the bed, the syringe gripped in one hand. Eyes glazed, murmuring her name, Jeff crawled across the mattress toward her.

"I love you, Deanna." His hand brushed hers before he went limp.

"Oh, Jesus. Deanna." In one leap, Finn had her in his arms.

She swayed, the needle dropping from her loose fingers. "Finn." His name burned her bruised throat and felt like heaven. From what seemed like a long, long distance, she heard him swear when her body jerked with a shudder.

"Did he hurt you? Tell me if you're hurt."

"No. No, he wanted to take care of me." She buried her face in Finn's shoulder. "He only wanted to take care of me."

"Let's get out of here." He carried her through the opening, down the hall, where he dragged at the locks.

"I kept asking him to let me go outside." She breathed in the raw air like wine. "He shot you, Finn. He was the one who shot you. And he killed Tim."

She jolted at the sound of screeching brakes. "Well." Jenner climbed out of his car, moments ahead of two black-

and-whites. The picture of Finn carrying Deanna down the front steps wasn't what he'd expected to see after he'd gotten the frantic call from Fran Myers. But it was an image that satisfied. "Went off on your own again, Mr. Riley."

"You can't trust a reporter, Lieutenant." "Guess not. Good to see you, Miss Reynolds. Merry Christmas."

Deanna studied her reflection in the dressing room mirror. The bruises had faded from her throat, and the haunted look had ebbed from her eyes.

But her heart was still sore.

As Joe had often told her during her reporting days, she had one that bled too easily.

She couldn't afford for it to bleed now. She had a show to do in thirty minutes.

"Hey."

She glanced over, saw Finn. Smiled. "Hey back."

"Can you spare a minute?"

"I've got several for you." She swiveled in her chair, held out her hands. "Don't you have a plane to catch?"

"I called the airport. My flight is delayed two hours. I've got time on my hands."

Suspicion gleamed in her eyes. "You're not going to miss that plane."

"I know, I know. You've already laid down the law. I've got a job to do, and you're not going to support me if I screw it up. I'm going to Rome. Only a week off schedule." He bent down, kissed her. "I figured I had time to give one more shot at talking you in!coming with me."

"I've got a job to do, too."

"The press is going to be all over you." She arched her brows. "Promises, promises." She stepped off the chair, turned a circle. "How do I look?"

"Like something I don't want to be several thousand miles away from." He tipped up her chin, looked deep into her eyes. "You're hurting."

"I'm better. Finn, we've been through this." She saw his face change, harden. "Don't."

"I don't know how long it's going to take before I close my eyes and stop seeing you in that room. Knowing you were there all those hours, and I'd walked right by you." He pulled her roughly against him. "I still want to kill him."

"He's sick, Finn. All those years of emotional abuse. He needed to escape, and he used television. And one day, the day he found his uncle dead, I walked out of the screen and into his life."

"I don't give a damn how sick he is, how warped or how pathetic." He drew her back. "I can't, Deanna. I don't have it in me to care. And I can't stand hearing you blame yourself."

"I'm not. Really, I'm not. I know it wasn't my fault. Nothing he did was my fault." Still, she thought of Tim, whose body had been found in the trunk of her company car in a downtown parking lot. "I was never real to him, Finn. Even all the time we worked together, I was never anything but an image, a vision. Everything he did he did because he'd twisted that image. I can't blame myself for that. But I can still be sorry."

"Dee." Fran stepped into the doorway, winked at Finn. "We need the star in five."

"The star's ready."

"I can postpone the flight, stick around for the press conference after the show."

"I can handle reporters." She kissed Finn firmly, on the mouth. "I've had plenty of experience."

"Want to get married, Kansas?" With his arm around her, he walked her into the corridor, down toward the set.

"You bet I do. April third. Be there." "I never miss a deadline." He turned her around to face him. "I'm crazy about you." And winced. "Bad choice of words."

She wasn't surprised that she could laugh. Nothing surprised her now. "Call me from Rome." Marcie leaped forward to repair Deanna's lipstick. "And don't forget, you have to handle the flowers for the church and reception. You have the list I made you?"

Behind her back, he rolled his eyes. "Which one?"

"All of them."

"No you don't." Marcie threw up a hand before Deanna could lean into another kiss. "You've got thirty seconds, and I don't want my work smeared."

"Stay tuned, Kansas. I'll be back." Deanna took another step toward stage. "The hell with it." She whirled around, flew into Finn's arms. Over Marcie's groan, she clamped her lips to his. "Hurry back," she told him, and rushed toward the stage, nailing her cue.

The floor director stabbed a finger toward her. Over the sound of applause, she smiled into the camera's glass eye and slipped seamlessly into millions of lives.

"Good morning. It's good to be home."