Chapter 4

Zachary's personal slave, the most recent in a long line of disposable employees, entered the room carrying a covered tray. She wore a secretive smile as she set it down before him. And there were other warning signs. The girl had not combed her hair today, but that was only mildly interesting. It appeared that she had misplaced her shoes, for she was walking barefoot through corporate America. And were those the same clothes she had worn last night? Yes. He smiled with genuine affection for her, his best find in months. It was a pity that she could not last much longer. His genius lay in the ability to spot fracture lines in a damaged psyche. He had known what she was on the day of her hire; he had seen it in her eyes, a bit too wide, too bright. The less astute personnel director had mistaken the girl's manic chatter for enthusiasm.

Her smile turned ghoulish as she lifted the silver tray cover to reveal a generous serving of steak tartare. "Mr. Needleman said this was your favorite."

"My producer? You talked to him?"

"Yeah, he called me this morning." She sat down at the table and lowered her head until her nose was only inches from his food, then watched his plate with great concentration.

"The bastard never calls me." And now he also stared at his lunch. "So you pissed on it, right?" When she raised her face to his, he saw deep disappointment in her eyes. "Sorry." He pushed the tray away. "I spoiled your fun."

She rallied with a triumphant smile. "Mr. Needleman gave me the call-in figures for last night. He said the listener response was over the moon."

Evidently, the producer had also told her that she was the inspiration for most of those calls. The fans had wanted to know if she had been fired or not, for the show had ended abruptly with the last caller's find of a live juror in Manhattan. Bless Randy of SoHo. Whenever the juror death rate remained stagnant for too long, Zachary worried that the game would become stale, that he would lose the high ratings of his shock-radio audience. Sometimes he had to skate by on his talent for torturing the hired help. The sound engineer had proved a huge success as his new whipping girl, and she knew it.

"So now you think you're bulletproof, don't you, babe?" He shook his head. "No way." He could kill her with words any time he wanted to. She would break and fold before tonight's show was over. Or maybe not.

The girl picked up a fork and began to eat the red meat, which obviously had not been pissed on. "Jerk-off," she said.

And his new term of endearment for her was "You crazy bitch."

She looked up from the lunch plate, responding to this name, and grinned as another thought occurred to her. "That window in my booth, is that bulletproof?"

"Absolutely unbreakable." Zachary had insisted upon that specification before he would sign with the New York media giant. Thick glass on the booth windows was a necessary precaution, a lesson learned the hard way when his show had been based in Chicago. One memorable night in his old studio, the security door had held up through a pounding – but the engineer's window had not. A crazed woman had broken the glass to get at him. She had nearly bled to death, clumsy fool, after cutting herself on the shards. And all the while, he had taped a play-by-play account of the action to the rhythm of a security guard banging on his door. The ambulance crew had provided the climax, asking for Zachary's autograph while strapping a bleeding woman to a gurney bound for a hospital psychiatric ward. His most current crazy bitch was stuffing food in her mouth with her fingers. The concept of silverware was quite beyond her now.

"Maybe I'll take over the show," she said, "when they take you off the air." "They? Who? The FCC?" He shrugged. "They can try." In fact, lately he had wondered why they did not try harder. He missed his daily visits from frustrated bureaucrats who had failed to shut him down. Perhaps they were afraid of more formidable attorneys. Or had they simply tired of losing every legal action to the American Civil Liberties Union?

"Maybe the network will get rid of you," she said. "Sooner or later, somebody's going to sue you for – "

"I get sued all the time." He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, warming to his favorite subject. "Usually it's the outraged relatives of dead jurors, looking to make some fast cash. The network accountants crunched the numbers. Given the current advertising revenues coast to coast, it's cheaper to pay off the families." 'Then the Reaper will get you."

Oh, I doubt it. He couldn't find the jurors without me and my fans. He's probably my most loyal listener." What if he's saving you for last?"

He nodded, as if considering this. In reality, he was wondering why her cognitive reasoning remained unimpaired, and he made a mental note to work on that.

"If you die," she said, "I could be your replacement. I could be bigger than you."

"Well, you can dream." Zack smiled at his newest candidate for induced psychosis. He had to admire her stamina. She was the only one who had remained with him after that moment when her mind had gone elsewhere. "You crazy bitch."

Johanna Apollo almost dropped the pet carrier. Kathy Mallory was a jarring sight on any occasion, but this was such a gross invasion. The uninvited visitor stood at the end of the narrow foyer, somewhat annoyed by Johanna's intrusion into her own hotel suite.

Riker appeared at the young woman's side. "Hey, Jo."

Johanna entered the living room and set the pet carrier on the floor at her feet. "How did you two get in here?"

"Same way we got into this thing." Riker stood before her open armoire and nodded to the tall blonde. "She has a way with locks."

Mallory strode toward the front door, causing Johanna to move out of the way or be trod upon. One foot in the outer hall, the younger woman's face was turned toward the glass door that gave a view of the elevator. She called back over one shoulder, "Hurry it up. We've only got a few minutes."

"Get out now," yelled Riker.

"I'll call from the lobby." Mallory dropped a cell phone and kicked it to the end of the foyer, and then the door closed behind her.

Riker picked up the phone and pocketed it, then resumed his chore of ransacking the armoire. Johanna stared at the empty shelves and cubbyholes. Her red suitcase lay open on the floor, and it was filled with file holders and loose papers. She was being robbed.

"I didn't have time to wait for you, Jo. I'm one jump ahead of the cops."

"But Mallory's a cop. You're a cop."

"Not anymore. They pensioned me off." He pulled out a drawer and upended it, sending the contents into the suitcase. "And Mallory was never here. Remember that, Jo – when Flynn comes."

After replacing the drawer, he hit the wood hard with the heel of his palm to bang it shut, then moved on to the next one. She could not tell if this was done in anger. For as long as she had known him, he had slammed every drawer and door, though that quirk did not fit with his easygoing nature. This was a man with a great deal of unresolved anger, and he no doubt believed that he was hiding it well.

"If you've got anything else that's incriminating," he said, "go get it. I have to take it out of here before – " "Incriminating? You can't believe I – "

"Jo, if I was still a cop, I'd lock you up – right now!" He hunkered down to open the bottom drawer filled with wine bottles, all the same vintner, the same year. This was Timothy Kidd's drawer. Riker looked up at her. "Is the hotel maid pilfering your bottles?"

"Something like that." It was nothing like that, but only now did she see her error, and it was too late to call the words back.