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Avery sat down on the arm of the sofa. He absently draped his arm over her thigh and caressed her knee with negligent possession. When Zee moved away, he glanced up at her and smiled. "Hi."

"Hi."

And then he remembered. She watched as memory crept back into his eyes, eating up the warm glow in his gray irises until they were cold and implacable once again. He gradually lifted his arm away from her.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he said.

"Yes?"

"Did you ever take care of birth control?"

"No. And neither did you."

"Terrific."

She couldn't let his contempt intimidate her into keeping her distance. For the remainder of the day, she didn't intend to get any farther away from him than she was at the moment.

"Irish, line two's for you."

"Can't you see I'm already on the frigging phone?" he yelled across the pandemonium in the newsroom. "Put ' emon hold. Now," he said, speaking into the receiver again, "did you try knocking?"

"Till my knuckles were bloody, Mr. McCabe. He's not home."

Irish ran his hand down his florid face. The gofer was calling in with news that made absolutely no sense. "Did you look through the windows?"

"I tried. The shades are down, but I listened through the door. I couldn't hear a single sound. I don't think anybody's in there. Besides, his van's not here. I already checked the parking lot. His space is empty."

That was going to be Irish's next suggestion. "Christ," he muttered. He had hoped that Van would be at home, sleeping off a night of overindulgence, but obviously he wasn't. If his van wasn't there, he wasn't at home, period.

Irish reasoned they might have gotten their signals crossed and that Van had gone straight to the Palacio Del Rio, but after checking with the crew there, they reported they hadn't seen him either.

"Okay, thanks. Come on back in." He pressed the blinking light on the telephone panel. "McCabe," he said gruffly. He got a dial tone in his ear. "Hey, wasn't somebody holding for me on two?"

"That's right."

"Well, they're not there now."

"Guess they hung up."

"Was it a guy?" he wanted to know.

"A woman."

"Did she say who?"

"No. Sounded kinda ragged out, though."

Irish's blood pressure shot up. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"I did!"

"Jesus!"

Arguing with incompetents wasn't going to help anything. He stamped back into his office, slammed the door behind him, and lit a cigarette. He couldn't be certain it had been Avery on the phone, but he had a gut instinct that it had been. Maybe that's what was making his gut hurt so bad—his rotten instincts.

He took a swig of antacid straight from the bottle and yanked up the telephone again. He dialed the hotel and got the same cool voice as before. When he demanded to be connected to the Rutledge suite, the operator began her same unruffled litany.

"Look, bitch, I don't give a fuck about your fucking instructions or who the fucking calls are supposed to be routed through. I want you to ring her suite now.Now, gotthat? And if you don't do it, I'm gonna come over there and personally take your fucking head off." She hung up on him.

Irish paced his office, puffing smoke and chugging like a steam locomotive. Avery must be beside herself. She would think they'd deserted her.

Van, that irresponsible bastard, hadn't shown up at the hotel where he was supposed to be, where she would be watching for him, relying on him. His calls weren't being put through to her, so she had no way of knowing that he'd frantically been trying to contact her.

He stormed back into the newsroom as he pulled on his tweed blazer. "I'm going out."

"Out?"

"What, are you deaf?Out.If anybody calls or comes looking for me, tell ' emto stay put or leave a message. I'll be back when I can."

"Where are you. . .?" The subordinate was left talking to wisps of cigarette smoke.

"You're sure he's not there?" Avery was struck with disbelief. "I phoned earlier and—"

"All I know is somebody said he went out, and I can't find him, so I guess he's out."

"Out where?"

"Nobody seems to know."

"Irish wouldn't go out the day of an election."

"Look, lady, it's a madhouse around here, especially since Irish decided to split, so do you want to leave a message, or what?"

"No," she said distantly. "No message."

Feeling that she'd been cut adrift, she hung up and wandered back into the main room. Her eyes automatically sought out Tate first. He was talking with Nelson. Zee was ostensibly listening to their conversation, but her eyes were fixed on Tate with that faraway absorption that often characterized her.

Jack and Eddy were downstairs seeing to the arrangements in the ballroom while carefully monitoring returns as they were reported. It was still several hours before the pollsclosed, but early indications were that Tate was staying abreast of Dekker. Even if he didn't pull out in front, he'd given the pompous incumbent a good scare.

Dorothy Rae had pleaded a headache earlier and gone to her room to lie down for a while. Fancy was sitting on the floor with Mandy. They were coloring together.

On a sudden inspiration, Avery called her name. "Could you come here a minute, please?"

"What for?"

"I. . .I need you to run an errand for me."

"Grandma told me to entertain the kid."

"I'll do that. Anyway, it's getting close to her nap time. Please. It's important."

Grudgingly, Fancy came to her feet and followed Avery back into the bedroom. Since the incident a few nights earlier, she had been much more pleasant to be around. Every now and then, traces of her recalcitrance asserted itself, but on the whole, she was more congenial.

As soon as she closed the door behind them, Avery pressed a small key into Fancy's hand. "I need you to do something for me."

"With this key?"

"It's a post office box key. I need you to go there and see if there's something inside. If there is, bring it back with you and hand deliver it to me—no one else."

"What the hell's going on?"

"I can't explain right now."

"I'm not gonna go chasing—"

"Please, Fancy. It's terribly important."

"Then, how come you're asking me? I usually get the shit detail."

"I thought we were friends," Avery said, turning up the heat. "Tate and I helped you out of a jam the other night. You owe us a favor."

Fancy chewed on that for a moment, then flipped the key in her palm several times. "Where's it at?" Avery provided her with the address of the post office branch. "Jeez, that's a million miles from here."

"And you said half an hour ago that you were tired of being cooped up in this friggin ' hotel suite. And I believe that's a quote. Now, will you do this for me?"

Avery's demeanor must have conveyed some measure of the urgency and importance of the errand because Fancy shrugged. "Okay."

"Thank you." Avery gave her a hard hug. At the bedroom door, she paused. "Don't make a big deal of leaving. Just go as unobtrusively as possible. If someone asks where you are, I'll cover for you."

"Why so hush-hush? What's the big secret? You're not screwing a postman, are you?"

"Trust me. It's very important to Tate—to all of us. And please hurry back."

Fancy retrieved her shoulder bag from the credenza in the parlor and headed for the double door of the suite. "I'll be back," she tossed over her shoulder. No one gave her a second glance.

FORTY-EIGHT

Fancy lifted her hip onto the stool and laid the small rectangular package she'd taken from the post office box on the polished wood surface of the bar. The bartender, a mustached, muscular young man, moved toward her.

The smile she blessed him with had been designed in heaven for angels to wear. "A gin and tonic, please."

His friendly blue eyes looked at her skeptically. "How old are you?"

"Old enough."

"Make that two gins and tonic." A man slid onto the stool beside Fancy's. "I'm buying the lady's." The bartender shrugged. "Fine with me." Fancy assessed her rescuer. He was a young executive type—insurance or computers, she would guess. Possibly late twenties. Probably married. Looking for kicks away from the responsibilities he had assumed so he could afford his designer clothes and the timepiece strapped to his wrist.

This was the kind of trendy place that attracted singles or marrieds on the make. It was filled with worthless antiques and glossy, gargantuan greenery. The bar created a vortex during happy hour that sucked in yuppies from their BMWs and Porsches by the scores.

While she was analyzing him, he was analyzing her. The gleam in his eyes as they moved down her body indicated that he thought he'd scored big.

"Thanks for the drink," she said.

"You're welcome. Youareold enough to drink, aren't you?"

"Sure. I'm old enough to drink. Just not old enough to buy." They laughed and toasted each other with the drinks that had just arrived.

"I'm John."

"Fancy."

"Fancy?"

"Francine, if you prefer." "Fancy."

The mating ritual had begun. Fancy recognized it. She knew the rules. Hell, she'd invented most of them. In two hours—possibly less, if they got hot sooner—they'd be in bed somewhere.

Following her heartbreak over Eddy, she'd sworn off men. They were all bastards. They wanted only one thing from her, and it was the same thing they could buy from the cheapest whore.

Her mother had told her that one day she would meet a guy who truly cared for her and would treat her with kindness and respect. Fancy didn't really believe it, though. Was she supposed to sit around, bored out of her skull, letting her twat atrophy while she waited for Prince Charming to show up and bring it back to life?

Hell, no. She'd been good for three days now. She needed some laughs. This Jim, or Joe, or John, or whatever the hell his name was, was as good as any to give her some.

Like a freaking Girl Scout, she had run Carole's errand, but she wasn't ready to return to the hotel suite and sit glued to the TV set as the rest would be, watching election returns. She would get there eventually. But first, she was going to have some fun.

Finding a parking place anywhere close to the hotel was impossible. Irish finally found one in a lot several blocks away. He was heavily perspiring by the time he entered the lobby. If he had to bribe his way into the Rutledges ' private suite he would do it. He had to see Avery. Together they might figure out what had become of Van.

Maybe all his worries were for nothing. Maybe they were together right now. God, he hoped so.

He waded through the members of an Asian tour group who were lined up to check in. Patience had never been one of Irish's virtues. He felt his blood pressure rising as he elbowed his way through the tourists, all chattering and fanning themselves with pamphlets about the Alamo.

From amid the chaos, someone touched his elbow. "Hi."

"Oh, hi," Irish said, recognizing the face.

"You're Irish McCabe, aren't you? Avery's friend?"

"That's right."

"She's been looking for you. Follow me."

They navigated the congested lobby. Irish was led through a set of doors toward a service elevator. They got inside; the gray doors slid closed.

"Thanks," Irish said, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. "Did Avery. . ."In the middle of his question, it occurred to him that her correct name had been used. He glanced across the large cubicle. "You know?"

A smile. "Yes. I know."

Irish saw the pistol, but he wasn't given time to register the thought that it was actually being aimed straight at him. Less than a heartbeat later, he grabbed his chest and hit the floor of the elevator like a fallen tree.

The elevator stopped on the lowest level of the hotel. The lone passenger raised the pistol and aimed it toward the opening doors, but didn't have to use it. No one was waiting.

Irish's body was dragged down a short hallway, through a set of swinging double doors, and deposited in a narrow alcove that housed vending machines for hotel employee use. The space was lit from overhead by four fluorescent tubes, which were easily smashed with the silencer attached to the barrel of the pistol.

Covered with shards of opaque glass and stygian darkness, Irish McCabe's body was left there on the floor. The assassin knew that by the time it was discovered, his death would be obscured by another.

Prime time had been given over solely to election returns. Each of the three television sets in the parlor was tuned to a different network. It had turned out to be a close presidential race—still too close to call. Several times, the network anchors cited the senatorial race in Texas between the newcomer, Tate Rutledge, and the incumbent, Rory Dekker, as one of the closest and most heated races in the nation.

When it was reported that Rutledge was showing a slight edge, a cheer went up in the parlor. Avery jumped at the sudden noise. She was frantic, walking a razor's edge, on the brink of nervous collapse.

All the excitement had made Mandy hyperactive. She'd become such a nuisance that someone from the hotel's list of baby-sitters had been hired to keep her entertained in another room so the family would be free to concentrate on the returns.

With her mind temporarily off Mandy, Avery could devote herself to worrying about Tate and wondering where Irish and Van were. Their disappearances didn't make sense. She had called the newsroom three times. Neither had been there, nor had their whereabouts been known.

"Has anyone notified the police?" she had asked during her most recent call. "Something could have happened to them."

"Listen, if you want to report them missing, fine, do it. But stop calling here bugging us. Now, I've got better things to do."

The phone had been slammed down in her ear. She wanted to drive to the station as quickly as she could get there, but she didn't want to leave Tate. As the hours of the evening stretched out, there were two certainties at play in her mind. One was that Tate was about to win the Senate seat. The other was that something dreadful had happened to her friends.