"Meg, you drive like a potato. You are totally inert when you drive."
"At least we're breathing when we get to wherever we're going. Hey, Luis. How's it going?"
"Not so good," Luis admitted. He opened the driver's-side door for Quill and took her place when she I got out.
"You don't look very well," Quill said. She bent over and peered at him. "A little pale. Are you feeling okay?"
He shrugged. "My heart is sad." He turned the ignition on and raised one hand in a forlorn way.
"Luis?" Meg said. "We've got a new chapter for you for your book. We need you to help us hack into a computer system."
"No book," he said.
"No book?" Quill looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry. But I hear these sorts of things fall through a lot. Another publisher may come along."
"I don't believe so." His accent, which had been only slightly Hispanic in the discussions Quill had had with him, had deepened. "I had visitors, you understand? There are people who would not like this book. People who tell me if I want to stay in this country, I must not help with this book. So I do not."
"What people?" Meg demanded.
Luis shrugged. "Que querdo?"
"You have a green card, don't you?" Quill said.
"I am a citizen."
There was an undercurrent of anger in his voice - very encouraging to Quill. "Then nobody can deport you for helping with a book, Luis. Trust me. It's a basic part of your American freedoms."
"He can trust us," murmured Meg. "I think the question is how far can he trust Cressida Houghton's lawyers."
"Was that it?" Quill demanded. "Did a man named Hawthorne see you?"
"Who else could it be?" Meg said. "Honestly, Quill."
"You have visitors. In your house." Luis put the Mercedes in gear and backed away. "Many women with gold jewelry and fancy cars. I will garage this. Good-bye."
"Luis!" Quill ran a few steps after the car. "Just tell us. Did a man named Hawthorne come to see you?"
Luis hesitated, then nodded.
"Luis," said Meg. "Just park the car and come in to your office for a minute. Okay? We've got a way to get these guys off your back."
"We do?" Quill said.
"The truth," said Meg, "shall set you free. Nobody can stop Luis from his silly book if it's the truth. And if hacking into Carmichael's system can help us break the case, that's going to help Luis, isn't it?" She made a face. "At least it can't hurt."
"True."
Luis parked the Mercedes next to a black Cadillac trimmed in bronze, then walked over and opened his office door. Meg pulled Quill after her, then shut the door against the outside. "Luis. How good are you at hacking?"
He smiled, looking very young. "Not bad. Not too bad."
"Good. See this?" Meg pulled a copy of their client record from Carmichael's office out of her purse. "This piece of paper has this law firm's E-mail address and all other kinds of stuff on it. Can you break into this system and find Verger Taylor's client files?"
Luis took the application and scanned it. His eyebrows rose.
"We lied," said Quill, guessing that he was looking at their phony income statement. "But it'll help a lot, Luis, if you can get to Taylor's financial records and his court cases."
"And his income tax returns and his divorce papers," said Meg merrily. "Whatever. Can you do it?"
"I need a lot of passwords, Miss Quilliam. Do you have them?"
"Passwords? No. No, we don't."
"Do you know who runs the system for the big guy?"
"You mean Verger's system? Um..."
"Let me make a few phone calls." He shook his head, brow furrowed over the pages. "La. La. La. La. We shall see."
"Then we'll come and see you after we take care of our visitors. Okay, Luis? You can't let these people intimidate you."
He grinned. "As I said, we shall see."
"You'll just bet we'll see," Meg muttered, stamping after Quill to the door of 110. "Isn't it just like the Cressida Houghtons of this world to think they can control the freedom of the press." A stray photographer, either left over from the morning press barrage or the advance guard of the press due for Tiffany's conference at one o' clock, jumped from behind the oleander shading the front atrium to the Combers and shoved his camera in Meg's face. "Get out of the way, you little weasel!" she snapped. She balled one small fist and brandished it in his face. The photographer, wearing a baseball cap backwards and baggy jeans, shrugged cheerfully. Meg thrust her key into the lock of 1l0's door and growled again, "Beat it!"
"And to hell with the First Amendment," Quill added. Following Meg inside, she almost collided with her.
"What did you say?"
"Honestly, Meg. You can't have it both ways. The press is either free or it..."
Tiffany, having apparently heard the door open, came trotting down the hall and came to a full stop, "Oh," she said flatly, "It's just you."
"Just us," said Quill cheerfully, "How's the therapy session going?"
Tiffany was wearing white leggings and a soft white Angora sweater that covered her muscular arms, It had a cowl collar that surrounded her blonde hair with a fuzzy aureole, Her only jewelry was a pair of white pearl earrings. She looked innocent, angelic, and vulnerable.
"I thought you were that little shit shrink," she said.
"Dr. Bob?"
Tiffany whirled and stamped back toward the living room. Quill pulled a face at Meg and followed her. The living room was filled with beautiful women. Elegantly dressed women, Their hair formed a rainbow of Clairol colors: bronze, sherry, raven, chestnut, and more shades of blonde than had ever occurred in nature. Their skirts were short, showing perfect knees; their suit jackets, blouses, silk sweaters, and knitted tops were tightly fitted, in an astonishing array of reds, greens, yellows, and black. Quill's wholly unscientific estimate of their average weight was ninety pounds.
The air was heavy with perfumes Quill had never smelled before, mixed with the acrid scent of cigarettes. "Virtual Vogue," Meg said into the silence, "Wow."
"This is Sarah Quilliam and her sister, Margaret," Tiffany said. She perched on the arm of the leather sofa and lit a cigarette from a pack lying on the table. "Quill? These are the phobics." She waved the cigarette in a semicircle, beginning with a tall brunette slouched gracefully against the kitchen counter. "This is Barb. She's here because she actually took out a Wal-Mart credit card. Then Nicole, the one I told you about, who's got that job in publishing, then next to her is Merry, who thinks she should go to school, for God's sake..." She trailed off disconsolately. "Oh, what's the use? There's nobody out there, girls. Just some reporter from the local Pennysaver."
"Where is Dr. Bob?" asked Quill gently.
Tiffany stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one. "It looks like he's not corning, doesn't it? I swear I' m going to report him to the AMA. How dare he leave us hanging like this? How dare he!" She narrowed her eyes through the smoke. "You know what happened, don't you? You know who got to him, right? That caviar-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth Miss Idol-of-America Houghton. He's ditched us. Abandoned us completely."