A typical Saturday morning: joggers, walkers, nannies, bikers. The sky was clear blue, the rising sun ready to turn brutal in just a few hours. The kind of day air-conditioning was invented for.

She emerged from the park at Fifty-ninth Street, continuing south, stopping for a cold protein shake outside Grand Central before entering the chrome-and-glass lobby of the Grand Hyatt and riding up to the twenty-sixth floor. Still flushed from her run, yet chilled by the artificially cool air, she nodded to the two new watch cops guarding the hallway and proceeded past the open suite toward her room at the end of the hall.

A door farther down opened as she was passing by, and Gersten saw Maggie Sullivan slipping out into the hallway, still wearing her clothes from the previous night’s Nightline interview. Her hair was mussed, and her shoes were in her hand.

“Um . . . morning?” said Maggie, giving her a funny look, a cross between embarrassed and giddy.

Gersten realized that the Scandinavian Air flight attendant wasn’t leaving her own room. Gersten glanced inside as she passed, and caught just a glimpse of Magnus Jenssen standing near the table at the foot of his bed, shirtless and in boxer shorts, the blue cast on his left wrist. He looked up from checking his wristwatch, his eyes meeting Gersten’s in the instant she was passing.

His look was cool and unfazed, showing neither the guilt nor the apparent pleasure Maggie had shown.

Then the door clicked shut.

Gersten stopped and turned back, watching Maggie complete her walk of shame, fumbling her room card into the slot of her door, nudging it open with her hip and slipping inside. Gersten smiled, properly scandalized. What happened to Joanne Sparks? she wondered. The IKEA store manager had been pursuing Jenssen pretty hard last night, but had apparently lost the sweepstakes to the small-town flight attendant.

Gersten continued to her own room, entering, wishing she had someone with whom she could share this fun bit of gossip. She checked her phone first thing, but still had no messages beyond the usual work e-mails she would rather handle on her laptop.

Good for tousle-haired Maggie, thought Gersten, pausing to look at herself as she undressed, the water running for her shower. Not only had she bagged a hot, well-built Swede, but she had also bedded the man who saved her life. Not bad, going from reading romance novels to actually living one.

The shower felt great, and Gersten allowed her mind to wander, as well as her hand, bringing herself to orgasm with a minor fantasy involving shirtless Jenssen and a locked hotel room with a Jacuzzi tub and good champagne. Then out of the shower and into her robe, knocking down overnight Intel reports on her laptop.

Nothing new on the hunt for Bin-Hezam. If not for Fisk, she would be totally out of the loop, marooned here in this midtown hotel.

She dressed and headed down the hall to breakfast, and to relieve Patton. A buffet was set up along one wall of one of the adjoining rooms, and the first person Gersten saw was Maggie. She too had showered and changed, and despite the bags beneath her eyes she looked refreshed, energized. They were alone.

“Good morning,” said Gersten, with a smile.

“Oh my god,” said Maggie, shaking her head, her smile complicit.

“Sleep well?” asked Gersten.

“Beautifully,” said Maggie, dumping eggs and toast onto her plate. “For about two hours.”

“What happened?” Gersten wanted to know.

“Too much rum,” said Maggie. “Too much excitement, too many emotions.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gersten, looking around quickly, “but I thought the IKEA manager . . .”

“So did I,” said Maggie. “This . . . this really isn’t my style, normally, you know? I think she nodded off maybe. I don’t know. He made the first move, and I was like, lead the way.” She heard herself say that and laughed. “Oh my god.”

“I’m sure you just felt sorry for him. The cast and all.”

Maggie smiled. “I was not myself last night,” she said. “But the person I was is very, very happy this morning. Should I leave it at that?”

“No,” said Gersten. “You should tell me every single detail.”

Maggie went away laughing, eating her much-needed breakfast.

Patton came over, anxious to leave. “What was that about?”

“Girl talk, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Ask me how I slept,” he said.

“Like a baby, I’m sure.”

“Exactly. Not at all.”

“Things get a little crazy in here last night?”

“A little bit. Lots of giggling in that room. Then snoring. I had the Yankees on, a late West Coast game.”

“They win?”

“A-Rod bounced to third with two men on. They lost, four to three.”

Gersten looked at Maggie devouring her breakfast. “Well, we can’t win ’em all.”

“Yes we can,” said Patton. “We’re the Yankees.” He grabbed a muffin off the table. “Hey, one person you need to meet before I get outta here.” He led her over to a man wearing a suit jacket that was just slightly too large. He looked like someone who spent a fair amount of each day working out in a gym, yet his chest was bulked out a little more than was natural. Gersten made him as Secret Service before she even shook his hand.

“Tim Harrelson,” he said.

Gersten introduced herself. “I take it things are about to get a little more interesting around here,” she said.

“It seems so,” he said, with a confident smile.

Patton rubbed his hands together and made for the door. “Have fun, kids. See you later.”

Gersten excused herself, leaving Harrelson to return to the head of the buffet table. She smeared cream cheese over half a sesame bagel and carried it into the other room. CNN was running clips from The Six’s Nightline appearance, but the sound was low. Nouvian stood by the window, his hands in the pockets of his wool pants. Aldrich was working on a clump of bacon, looking grumpy as usual. Frank was rolling through messages on his phone, perhaps already putting out feelers and fielding interest for a book or life-rights deal.

Joanne Sparks, looking sharp in flared pants and a tight blouse, sat on the cushioned arm of Jenssen’s chair, nibbling an English muffin. Jenssen looked up as Gersten entered, not smiling or acknowledging her, just looking.

Gersten couldn’t look at Sparks. Apparently, she had no knowledge of Jenssen’s visitor the previous night. Maggie sat near the window, her legs crossed, sipping orange juice. Things were about to get interesting indeed.

The publicist from Mayor Bloomberg’s office looked like she was in the corner talking to herself, but she was actually finishing up a phone conversation via her Bluetooth ear clip.

“Okay,” announced the publicist, stepping forward. “I have your schedule for today, and it’s going to be a fun one, something you’re all going to remember for the rest of your lives.”

Skepticism, rather than enthusiasm, was their reaction. Aldrich and Nouvian eyed Harrelson, who had stepped into the adjoining doorway, warily.

“We are leaving here within the half hour and going a few blocks over to the Today show studio for a live interview with Matt Lauer, who is coming in on the weekend especially for you folks, which I’m told he never does. Because you’re big stars, right? You deserve the best.”

Sparks straightened her back, excited, but most of the rest were waiting to hear what else.

“I want you to know we’ve turned down scores of offers, some wacky, some interesting. But we don’t want to overload or overtax you. So after the Today show, you will be heading back here to one of the event rooms, which we will have set up for a pool interview with print journalists. That means the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, et cetera, will send one reporter each to interview you all at the same time, rather than parceling out your story over ten, twelve, even twenty little interviews. Those things turn your minds into mush, trust me.”