"All right, Simon. So we know how, we know why. What are we going to do about it?"

"Hire somebody to go to New York and break all of Lew Mcationeil's fingers," Fran suggested as she rose to go stand beside the clearly distressed Simon.

"I'll give that some thought. In the meantime, the new policy is not to discuss any guests, any topic ideas or any of the developmental stages of the show outside of the office. Agreed?"

There was a general murmuring. No one made eye contact.

"And we have a new goal. One we're all going to concentrate on." She paused, waiting until she could skim her gaze over each face. "We're going to knock Angela's out of the number-one spot within a year." She held up a hand to stop the spontaneous applause. "I want everyone to start thinking about ideas for remotes. We need to start taking this show on the road. I want sexy locations, funny locations. I want the exotic, and I want Main Street, USA."

"Disney World," Fran suggested.

"New Orleans, for Mardi Gras,"

Cassie put in, and lifted her shoulders. "I always wanted to go."

"Check it out," Deanna ordered. "I want six doable locations. I want all the topic ideas we have cooking on my desk by the end of the day. Cassie, make a list of all the personal appearance requests I've got and accept them."

"How many?"

"All of them. Fit them into my schedule. And put in a call to Loren Bach." She sat back and rested her palms on the surface of the desk. "Let's get to work."

"Deanna." Simon stepped forward as the others filed out. "Can I have a minute?"

"Just," she said, and smiled. "I want to get started on this campaign."

He stood stiffly in front of her desk. "I know it might take you a little time to replace me, and that you'd like a smooth transition. I'll hand in my resignation whenever you want."

Deanna was already drawing a list on a legal pad in front of her. "I don't want your resignation, Simon. I want you to use that wily brain of yours to put me on top."

"I screwed up, Dee. Big time."

"You trusted a friend."

"A competitor," he corrected. "God knows how many shows I sabotaged by opening my big mouth. Shit, Dee, I was bragging, playing "My job's bigger than your job." I wanted to needle him because it was the only way I could stick it to Angela."

"I'm giving you another way." She leaned forward, eyes keen. She felt the power in her now, and she would use it, she knew, to finish what Angela had begun. "Help me knock her out of the top slot, Simon. You can't do that if you resign."

"I can't figure why you'd trust me." "I had a pretty good idea where the leak had come from. Simon, I spent enough time around here to know you and Lew were tight." She spread her fingers. "If you hadn't told me, you wouldn't have had to offer to resign. I'd have fired you."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "So I admit to being a jerk and I keep my job."

"That about sums it up. And I expect, because you're feeling like one, you'll work even harder to put me on top."

More than a little dazed, he shook his head. "You picked up a few things from Angela after all."

"I got what I needed," she said shortly. She snatched up her phone when it buzzed. "Yes, Cassie?"

"Loren Bach on one, Deanna." "Thanks." She let her finger hover over the button as she glanced back at Simon. "Are we straight on this?"

"As an arrow."

She waited until the door shut behind Simon, then drew in a deep breath. "Loren," she said when she made the connection. "I'm ready to go to war."


In the cold, gloomy hours of a February morning, Lew kissed his wife goodbye. She stirred sleepily, and gave his cheek a pat before snuggling under the down quilt for another thirty-minute nap.

"Chicken stew tonight," she mumbled. "I'll be home by three to put it on."

Since their children had grown, each had fallen into a comfortable morning routine. Lew left his wife sleeping and went downstairs alone to eat breakfast with the early news. He winced over the weather report, though a glance out the window had already told him it wasn't promising. The drive from Brooklyn Heights to the studio in Manhattan was going to be a study in frustration. He bundled into a coat, pulled on gloves, put on the Russian-style fur hat his youngest son had given him for Christmas.

The wind was up, tossing the nasty wet snow into his face, letting it sneak under the collar of his coat. It was still shy of seven, dreary enough that the streetlights still glowed. The snow muffled sound and seemed to smother the air.

He saw no one out in the tidy neighborhood but an unhappy cat scratching pitifully on his owner's front door.

Too used to Chicago winters to complain about a February storm, Lew trudged to his car and began to clean the windshield.

He paid no attention to the fairy-tale world forming behind him. The low evergreens with their frosting of white, the pristine carpet that coated winter grass and pavement, the dancing flakes that swirled in the dull glow of the streetlamps.

He thought only of the drudgery of scraping his windshield clean, of the discomfort of snow on his collar, of the nip of the wind at his ears. Of the traffic he had yet to face.

He heard his name called, softly, and turned to peer through the driving snow.

For a moment he saw nothing but white and the snow-smothered beam of light from the streetlamp.

And then he saw. For just an instant, he saw. The shotgun blast struck him full in the face, cartwheeling his body over the hood of his car. From down the block a dog began to bark in high, excited yips. The cat streaked away to hide in a snow-coated juniper.

The echo of the shot died quickly, almost as quickly as Lew Mcationeil.

"That was for Deanna," the killer whispered, and drove slowly away.


When Deanna heard the news a few hours later, the shock of it overshadowed the envelope she'd found on her desk. It said simply:

Deanna, I'll always be there for you.

Chapter Nineteen

Deanna lounged in Finn's big tub with steaming water whirling and pulsing around her, her eyes half closed and a frothy mimosa in her hand. It was the middle of a Saturday morning, and she had more than an hour before Tim O'Malley, her driver, would be by to pick her up for an appearance in Merrillville, Indiana.

She felt as lazy and smug as a cat curled in a sunbeam.

"What are we celebrating?"

"You're in town; I'm in town. And not counting your afternoon across the state line today, it looks like it could stay that way for a week."

From the opposite end of the tub, Finn watched her tension ease, degree by degree. She'd been wound tight as a spring for weeks. Longer, he thought, sipping the icy drink. Even before Lew Mcationeil's random and senseless murder, she'd been a bundle of nerves. In the weeks following Lew's death her feelings had shifted from remorse to anger to guilt to frustration over a man who had done his best to sabotage her show for his own ends.

Or Angela's ends, Finn theorized.

But now she smiled, and her eyes were heavy with pleasure. "Things have been a little chaotic lately."

"You flying off to Florida, me chasing presidential candidates from state to state. Both of us trying to put together a show with press and paparazzi dogging our heels." He shrugged, rubbing his foot up and down her slick, slippery leg.

It hadn't been easy for anyone on her staff, or his, to work with the continued and pesky attention the media had focused on their relationship. For reasons neither of them could fathom, they had become the couple of the year. Just that morning, Deanna had read about her wedding plans in a tabloid some helpful soul had tucked under the front doormat.

All in all it made her uneasy, unsure and far too distracted.

"Do you call that chaotic?" Finn asked, and drew her attention back.

"You're right, just another day in the simple life." Her sigh was long and sumptuous. "And at least we're getting things done. I really liked your show on Chicago's decaying infrastructure, even if it did make me start to worry that the streets are going to crumble under my car."

"Everything was there — panic, comedy, half-crazed city officials. Still, it wasn't as gripping as your interview with Mickey and Minnie Mouse."

One eye opened. "Watch it, pal."

"No, really." His grin was wicked. "You've got America talking. What kind of relationship do they have, and what part does Goofy play in it? These burning questions need to be answered — and who knows, it might help take some of the heat off us?"

"We were dealing with American traditions," she shot back. "On the need for entertainment and fantasy, and the enormous industry that fuels it. Which is every bit as relevant as watching politicians sling insults at each other. More," she said, gesturing with her glass. "People need some mode of escape, particularly during a recession. You do your shows on global warming and the socioeconomic troubles in the former Soviet Union, Riley. I'll stick with the everyday issues that affect the average person."

He was still grinning at her. Deanna took a sip of her mimosa and scowled at him. "You're riding me on purpose."

"I like the way your eyes get dark and edgy." He set his glass aside so that he could slide forward and lay his body over hers. Water sloshed lazily over the lip of the tub. "And you get this line right here" — he rubbed his thumb between her brows—"that I get to smooth away."