"Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He's itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can't let him find out Bradley was treated here."

Sara nodded.

"I'll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here."

Cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. The disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a little longer.

"Harvey?" she called out.

No answer.

She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.

By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.

She groaned again.

It was a hotel room, not Harvey's apartment. A fancy hotel room. A travel brochure would call it 'lush" and "well-appointed."

In the distance a car honked its horn, but to Cassandra it might as well have been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewhere in her cerebrum.

"Shhh," she said out loud.

Her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skull back together. She tried to remember what had happened. The meeting with Northeastern Air. Had they gotten the account? Not yet.

Northeastern's marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held off making a decision. Then they had gone drinking at the... at the Plaza, that's where she was.

What had they talked about? She couldn't remember. The marketing director, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited. A big-time phony. When he opened his mouth, shit came out.

She tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she could remember him saying was "me, I, me, I, me, I."

Then what?

Pretty simple. The marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucked her, and left. It started coming back to her now. The sex was bad. He was a "poser," someone more interested in his appearance than in what he was doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at his partner. Might as well have been making love to himself.

Cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. Yep, he was gone, thank God. He had left a note on the night table. She reached for it and read:

Congratulations. You got the account.

He had not signed the note, just left his business card.

Christ.

She swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. The room was like so many others she had been in spacious, beautiful, immaculate, expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. Only the best for Cassandra Lowell. Never a sleazy motel.

If you wanted to fuck Cassandra Lowell, you had to surround her with beautiful things. You had to take her to a classy place.

She was, after all, no cheap whore.

She was a classy whore.

She headed toward the bathroom. Standing outside the shower, she turned on the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping under the spray. She stood there for a very long time, letting the near-scorching water pound down on her. She lathered her body and rinsed off repeatedly. Forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. Then she sat on the kingsized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.

When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Good morning, honey," John Lowell said.

Cassandra looked up. Her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, his hair neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. Her father was still a good-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationship with a woman since her mother's death almost ten years ago. A shame and yet Cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to light up her father's eyes the way her mother had.

Spiteful, probably. That would be typical of her.

"Good morning," she replied.

"Have you heard from Sara?"

"No. Should I have?"

Her father shrugged.

"I called the hospital. They told me Michael checked out this morning.

I called their house, but all I got was the answering machine."

"Did you try Dr. Riker?" she asked.

Dr. Lowell nodded.

"He hasn't returned my call. I don't think he will."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say that Harvey Riker and I are not exactly buddies."

Cassandra lowered her eyes. She felt something peculiar, something, she guessed, akin to shame.

"Still," Dr. Lowell continued, "it's quite strange."

"What is?"

"Michael has hepatitis B, which means he'll have to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. Why would he check out?"

"Maybe they moved him to another hospital." "Maybe," Dr. Lowell said doubtfully.

Cassandra remembered how quickly Harvey had hustled out of the apartment after Eric's call yesterday morning. She had not picked up much of the conversation, but Harvey's tone had been grave, nervous.

She had also heard him mention Michael's name before hanging up and rushing out the door without so much as a goodbye.

Is something seriously wrong with Michael?

"I have to go," her father said.

"If your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone." He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. He had not asked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. When it came to sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss easier on the of' morals than the truth.

Cassandra thought about Harvey. She wondered why she had ended up in bed with that Neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well... too well?... with Harvey.

Well, c'est la vie. It could be that she and Harvey were never meant to last. Or it could be that she had too much to drink.

Or it could be... or it could be that you're a worthless whore, Cassandra.

She closed her eyes. When she heard her father drive away, Cassandra stood and crept down the corridor toward his study.

It was time to put last night behind her. There were other matters, more important matters, to consider.

She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. She knew that her father's study was off limits, that she had no right to pry into his private affairs. But Harvey's words and maybe the need to make up for last night propelled her forward: "It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing

Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?" Indeed, she thought. What was or is he trying to hide?

Could he really be connected with Reverend Sanders? Could her father really have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?

She reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. Her father's office was her favorite room in the house.

So spacious, with high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of books like Henry Higgins' study in My Fair Lady. She crept behind the large antique desk and pulled the side drawer. It would not open. She tried it again. Locked. She sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. Now where did he hide that damn key? Her hand felt around the underside of the middle drawer. A few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.

Bingo.

Her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the ipe. She unlocked the desk and began to rifle through its on tents In the bottom right-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. She skimmed through them until she found one that piqued her interest. It was from Dr. Leonard Bronkowitz, the chief trustee at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital: