“Olivia Paras?” the woman asked too eagerly as she alighted.

My stomach squeezed. What now? There were so many things going on-the two recent deaths, the fake bomb, the real bomb, the cancelation of today’s event at the White House-that I couldn’t begin to guess what this lady wanted to talk with me about.

I tried getting past her but she stepped in front of me. She spoke into a handheld microphone that appeared to be connected to a recorder on the hip of her fur coat. “Olivia Paras, you’re the White House executive chef…”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“What can you tell us about tomorrow’s dinner?”

She shoved the microphone at me. I blanked. “Dinner?”

“We understand that the First Lady is meeting with Nicholas Volkov.”

As she said Volkov’s name, she widened her eyes and slowed her speech, giving the name additional weight.

The microphone popped in front of me again. “I’m sorry. I’m going in now.” I pointed up toward my floor. “And I’m cold.”

“But don’t you think the American public deserves to know if the First Lady is planning to meet with an accused murderer?”

My jaw dropped. I started to say, “What?” then thought better of it. Although I wanted to ask a million questions, I said, “I have nothing to say.”

The reporter’s shoulders drooped. “Ms. Paras, please,” she said, her voice quietly entreating. “My name is Kirsten Zarzycki. I’m with Channel Seven News. May I call you Livvie?”

Livvie? My reaction must have shown, because she started to apologize. “Channel Seven?” I said, my eyes raking the Honda behind her. “I-”

“You’ve never seen me. I’m new,” she said. “But I’ve been looking into all this for a while now and I think I’m onto something.” She lifted one shoulder. “I can’t get clearance to talk to any of the big shots involved, but I thought that maybe, since you’re planning the dinner, you might have some insight into what’s going on there.”

I rubbed my forehead and stared at this girl. Kirsten Zarzycki was younger than I was, by at least five years, and taller than me by at least five inches. Blonde, eager, and looking as though the high-rise pumps she wore were squeezing her feet, she pleaded, with both her eyes and her words.

“Listen, I’m trying to make a name for myself here,” she said. “You’ve got to be able to share something with me.” Now both shoulders shrugged and I wondered how many innocent foxes gave their lives for her protection against the night’s chill.

“I don’t have anything, and even if I did…” My mind raced. Volkov accused of murder? Could he have been the one who-

“That’s it,” she said, the excitement in her voice pushing it up an octave. “I see it in your face. You do know something. I know you do. You just might not realize how much you know. Come on,” she said, blinking rapidly. “You’re where you want to be in this world. Can’t you give a hand up?”

Plying me with almost the same argument Bindy had, she blinked again. I wondered if this tactic worked to better effect on men. I hoped not.

“Sorry,” I said, starting for my front door. My woolen coat was no match for the cold air, although little Miss High Heels seemed toasty in her fur.

“What about Zendy Industries?” she asked, desperation shooting her voice even higher. “I hear that Mrs. Campbell refuses to sell out. But does she realize how much Volkov’s involvement will hurt her investment?”

“Mrs. Campbell’s investments are none of my business.” I smiled. “Nor are they yours.”

She called after me. “Don’t you think this makes Mrs. Campbell a target now?”

I turned to face her. Anticipation sparked Kirsten’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ve been doing some research into Zendy,” she said. “I’m trying hard to make this into a story. But nobody seems to care.”

I shivered and wanted her to get on with it. “What did you mean when you said that the First Lady was a target?”

“It all revolves around Zendy.” She bit the insides of her cheeks and I could tell she was weighing how much to share. “Volkov needs the money from the sale of the company, right?”

I shrugged.

“It’s in the news. No secret there. His legal troubles are no secret either. The other thing that’s only slightly more confidential is that the company can’t be sold unless all four of the heirs vote unanimously to sell it.”

I knew that much. This girl wasn’t going to make it big in the media unless she could come up with something hotter than that.

“Who did Nick Volkov supposedly kill?” I asked.

“You don’t know?”

I saw my capital dropping fast in her estimation. I shook my head.

“Mrs. Campbell’s father.”

That took me aback.

She frowned. “You really don’t have any information, do you?”

“And you think Mrs. Campbell is a target because…”

“With her father dead, she’s the only person standing in the way of the sale of Zendy Industries,” Kirsten said with exasperation. “I’m connecting the dots here. I think when Volkov killed Mrs. Campbell’s father, he assumed she’d be ready to just sign everything away.”

I decided not to remind her that in America people are innocent till proven guilty. That wouldn’t have stopped this girl’s cascade of information. By the way her breaths spun out into the night in short, agitated spurts, I could tell she was so tightly wound up with this story that the truth wouldn’t stop her now. “But if you’re right,” I said, “and Volkov is arrested, then the danger’s gone, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I have to convince someone he’s guilty.”

“What else do you know?” I asked.

She twisted her mouth. “You’re getting more out of me than I’m getting out of you.”

“Maybe that’s because there’s no story here.” I started for my front door again, not acknowledging any of the questions she shouted to my back. I waved without turning, and called, “Good night!”

CHAPTER 19

“WHAT’S GOING ON OUT THERE, OLLIE?” JAMES asked when I made it through the building’s front doors. Tonight Stanley was with him. The two of them wore nearly identical looks of concern.

I waved away James’s inquiry. “Just more of the same. Everyone wants secrets spilled, but why they think I have them is beyond me.”

Stanley had been resting his hip against the desk. Now he shifted his weight. “You ask anybody about those neutrals?” he asked.

James perked up immediately. “What are you talking about?”

Again I tried to dismiss his concerns. “Just a theory we discussed. About the… you know… electrocution.” I addressed Stanley. “I asked three people already. The acting chief electrician and two of his assistants. None of them is interested in what I have to say.”

Stanley fisted the desk, making James jump. “Damn it, they should. The more I think about it, the more I believe that’s what got your friend. And if I’m right, it could still cause trouble. You got to get somebody to listen before another person gets fried.”

His words shook me more than I cared to admit. What if something else did happen… if Curly, Vince, or Manny were electrocuted and I could have prevented it? How would I feel then?

I knew the answer. I couldn’t live with myself. Despite the fact that I’d done my best to warn them, I realized I needed to push harder. And pushing was something I was good at.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “The guys I talked to think I’m just butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’ll be sure to let the fellow in charge know that I talked with you.” I smiled at Stanley. “I’ll let him know that a real electrician is behind my questions.”

Mollified, Stanley eased back to leaning. “I don’t need no credit, y’understand, but if you think it’ll make them listen, you do that, Ollie.”