My cell phone rang. C. J. Lyons, the display said. Jane Augustine’s producer at WNDY.

“You asked me to give you a heads-up,” she said in typical C.J. form without any pleasantries. “Channel 5 is running something. I just heard. I don’t know anything else. Newscast starts in a few minutes.”

I jumped up and headed for the living room.

“Now I need a favor from you,” C.J. continued. “Tell me straight-is Pickett Enterprises selling WNDY?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Because I heard that the Pickett board approved the sale of ten radio stations and five TV stations. We weren’t in that group. For now. But I want to know if we’re next.”

I was shocked. Forester’s business model had been all about building the empire, rather than selling it. But then again, Forester wasn’t there anymore. The people who were running the board were Walt and Chaz. And now Shane.

“I haven’t heard anything,” I said.

“All right. Gotta go.”

I grabbed the three remotes, frantically pressing the ten different buttons that were required to turn on the TV ever since Sam, who considered himself an electronics genius, had set up our system.

The soaring sounds of Channel 5’s opening music filled the room. The lead story was a news conference held by the mayor to address allegations of a hiring scandal at City Hall.

“C’mon, c’mon,” I muttered. The city of Chicago ran so well it was hard to care if some DMV worker got his job because his cousin knew the mayor’s dentist’s dog walker.

The next story was more familiar.

“Today the city mourned one of its most well-known and respected businessmen,” said the male newscaster. “Funeral services were held this afternoon in Lake Forest for Forester Pickett, founder and CEO of Pickett Enterprises, the largest media conglomerate in the Midwest. Pickett died this week of cardiac arrest.”

A smiling photo of Forester filled the screen, then the picture shifted to a shot of his casket being carried down the steps of the church, a stream of mourners trailing behind. I caught a glimpse of Forester’s housekeeper and Chaz Graydon.

“Pickett’s death has been overshadowed by allegations that one of his financial advisers stole millions of dollars in corporate shares owned by Pickett.”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Samuel Hollings, age thirty,” the anchor continued, “is an employee of Carrington & Associates.”

“No!”

A photo of Sam took over the screen.

I stared at a photo I’d never seen before, but which was now being broadcast to millions of people. Sam was wearing a suit I recognized as one of his old ones. Other people had clearly been cropped out of the picture, because Sam looked disembodied. His arms, which must have been around people on either side, were cut off.

The story kept going-Panama corporation…real estate…safe…missing.

When he was finished, they returned to a wide-angle shot of the anchor desk.

“That’s a significant amount of money,” the anchor said, turning to his coiffed female companion.

“Son of a motherless goat!” I yelled, using one of my replacement curse phrases. It didn’t cut it. “Son of a bitch!” I yelled, my voice boomeranging around my condo.

“It certainly is significant, Bill,” the other anchor answered somberly. She swung her body to face a different camera and began a new story.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled again. Now that Forester’s missing shares were news, as well as Sam’s apparent part in the disappearance, I wouldn’t be able to stop the rest of the media from covering the story. Whether he deserved it or not, Sam was about to get crucified.

I hit the Off button. I trembled from the sense that everything was spiraling out of control with every passing moment.

I threw the remote at the TV. I missed and instead the remote hit yet another framed photo of Sam and me at one of his rugby games. The frame teetered, our smiling faces wavering. The frame fell, and the glass shattered.

36

Day Five

S am Hollings stepped out of the elevators and walked through the lobby of the hotel. He’d gotten in so late last night he hadn’t noticed much except that the hotel was a tall, reflective tower, like those in any big city. It was a welcome relief after the kitschy, cottagey place he’d stayed at in Key West, where the air-conditioning never worked and a host of cockroaches set up camp in the tub every night.

Now he took in the polished floors of the lobby and the restaurant at the far end, where low-slung red couches were dotted around sleek ebony tables.

He straightened his tie and made his way toward the front doors. It felt good to be in a suit. It felt good to be working again. But really, it was much more than work, and he knew it.

Outside the hotel, he tipped the bellman, who hailed him a cab. He gave the driver the address. He had memorized it, but just to be certain he pulled a small notebook from his briefcase and double-checked.

The drive was short-maybe fifteen minutes or so-but even a few seconds was enough time to let his mind swirl around what he’d done. What he still had to do.

The problem was, he wasn’t the only part of this riddle, and he couldn’t be sure how much of the situation had been organized or how much had yet to be initiated. He would have to watch and wait, assessing and adapting to each change. How long that would take, he had no idea.

Just focus on today, on this morning, he told himself. This piecemeal approach-always looking at the smallest goals right in front of him, rather than the big picture-was how he’d gotten through college and B-school and the early years at Carrington when he was learning the business. Focusing only on what was right in front of his face allowed him to believe he could handle such tasks. Accomplishing them one by one got him to the end of the big picture without ever having to contemplate the momentousness of what he was doing. He was grateful that somewhere along the way he had stumbled on this style of tackling his duties. He needed it now. Because the big picture was terrifying.

When he arrived at the address, he studied the nondescript three-story building with its frosted-glass windows.

He went inside and gave his name to a doorman, who gave him a slow but aggressive stare that traveled up and down his body. Finally, the doorman handed him a badge and directed him to an office down the hall.

He walked down a hallway-as nondescript as the building itself-the doors all closed, probably because it was a Saturday. He stopped when he came to the office where he’d been directed.

He knocked.

“One minute,” the woman’s voice said.

But it was only ten seconds before she let him in.

37

When I think of autumn, I think in reds and oranges. But that year in Chicago, after the hot, long summer we’d had, it was more about yellows and golds. When I stepped outside my condo that Saturday morning, I made myself stop and look around at how the city appeared gold-spun and glowing. It was only sixty degrees, and I was grateful I could ride my Vespa. The El train on a Saturday would take too long and after twelve hours of sleep the night before, I was raring to go. I would work for Mayburn, I would figure out if someone had harmed Forester and I would find Sam, for better or for goddamned worse. First stop-my meeting with Shane.

I opened the garage door and started the scooter. As I let it warm up, I looked at the blinds. All down the way they were supposed to be. I looked around some more, and I noticed something on top of the storage shelves-my silver helmet. I rarely wore the thing. Illinois was one of the few helmet-free states, and the helmet tended to flatten my hair. I’d rather have windblown curls than matted fuzz. And there was always the problem of where to put the thing, especially at a restaurant or bar. It was unwieldy to walk around with; it wouldn’t fit in a handbag.