"Reporters aren't the only ones who can harass. Keep that in mind." Jenner closed his file, rose. "Now I have work to do."
No, Jenner thought now, sympathy and admiration aside, he wasn't about to let Finn go off on his own. He might be wearing blinders to the fact that his life was in danger, but Jenner knew better.
He rose to refill his coffee cup, and glanced through the glass door. "Speak of the devil," he murmured. Jenner pulled open the door. "Looking for me?" he asked Finn, and waved away the uniform who was blocking Finn's path. "It's all right, officer. I'll see Mr. Riley." He nodded briefly at Finn. "You've got five minutes."
"It's going to take a little longer." Finn studied the police photos on the board dispassionately. There were snapshots of both victims taken prior to and after death. Side by side, they were like before-and-after shots gone desperately wrong. "You're going to need to put one more set up there."
Twenty minutes later, Jenner completed his conversation with the detective in Brooklyn Heights. "They're faxing us the file," he told Finn. "Okay, Mr. Riley, who knew that Mcationeil was passing information on to Angela?"
"Deanna's staff. I'd be certain of that. I'd also give odds that it would have leaked downstairs." There was an excitement brewing in him now. The kind he recognized as energy from a puzzle nearly solved. "There's always been a lot of interaction between Deanna's people and the newsroom. Are we on the same wavelength here? Three people are dead because they threatened Deanna in some way."
"I can't comment about that, Mr. Riley." Finn shoved back from the table. "Damn it, I'm not here as a reporter. I'm not looking for a scoop, the latest tidbit from an unnamed police source. You want to frisk me for a mike?"
"I don't think you're after a story, Mr. Riley," Jenner said calmly. "If I'd ever thought that, you never would have gotten your foot in the door. But maybe I think you're too used to doing things your own way, to running your own show to handle the delicate matter of cooperation."
Finn slammed his hands down on the table. "If you think you're going to brush me off, you're wrong. You're right about the harassment, Lieutenant. One phone call and I can have a dozen cameras dogging your every move. I can put so much pressure on you that you won't be able to sneeze without someone sticking a mike up your nose. Before you catch your next breath Chicago will be buzzing about a serial killer. The commissioner and the mayor will love that, won't they?" He waited half a beat. "You use me, or I'll use you. It's your choice."
Jenner folded his arms on the table, leaned forward against them. "I don't like threats." "Neither do I. But I'll do a lot more than threaten if you try to block me out now." He looked at the victims on the board. "He could lose it." He spoke quietly now, carefully. "He could lose it anytime and try to put her up there. You're pissed because I did some tracking on my own, fine. Be pissed. But use me. Or by God I'll use you."
Objectively, Jenner buried his irritation, calculating how much damage would be done by a media war. Too much, he mused. It was always too much.
"Let's do this, Mr. Riley. Let's say we theorize that Mcationeil was the first victim of three — and we'll want to keep that under our hat."
"I told you I'm not interested in a story." "Just laying down the ground rules. We'll theorize that, and that only a limited number of people had the knowledge that would lead to motive for his murder." He gestured to a chair, waiting for Finn to sit again. "Tell me about those people. Start with Loren Bach." In the spirit of compromise, Jenner opened the file on Loren that Angela had commissioned from Beeker.
Cassie walked into Deanna's office, then let out a long, long sigh. Deanna stood on a stool in the center of the room, the seamstress at her feet. Yards of shimmering white silk billowed.
"It's gorgeous."
"It's barely started." But Deanna was almost sighing herself as she brushed a hand over the sweeping skirt neatly pinned to the lacy bodice. Irish lace, she mused. For Finn. "But you're right."
"I've got to get my camera." Inspired, Cassie bolted for the door. "Don't move."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You must be still," the seamstress complained over a mouthful of pins. Her voice was raspy, as if she'd already swallowed more than her share.
Deanna used all her willpower not to shift from foot to foot. "I am being still."
"You're vibrating like a spring." "Sorry." Deanna took a long, steadying breath. "I guess I'm nervous."
"The bride-to-be," Cassie recited as she walked back in with a Palmcorder blocking her face. "Deanna Reynolds, the reigning queen of daytime TV, has chosen an elegant gown of…"
"Italian silk," the seamstress prompted. "With touches of Irish lace and a sea of freshwater pearls."
"Exquisite," Cassie said soberly. "And tell us, Miss Reynolds—" with an expert's touch, she zoomed in on Deanna's face—"how do you feel on this exciting occasion?"
"Terrified." She crossed her eyes. If the fitting took five minutes over the allotted hour, she'd be making up time all week. "And partially insane. Other than that I'm enjoying every minute of it."
"If you'll just stand perfectly still, I'll do a little circle around so that our viewers can get the full effect." Cassie sidestepped, panned back. "This'll go in my growing library of life behind Deanna's Hour."
Deanna felt her smile stiffen. "Do you have a lot of tape?"
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Simon pulling what's left of his hair out. Margaret tossing spitballs. You racing for the elevator."
Beneath the sparkling bodice, Deanna's heart thudded thickly. "I guess I've never paid much attention. So many cameras around. You always keep that at hand, don't you?"
"You never know what historical, or humiliating, moment you might capture."
Someone had captured her, Deanna remembered, while she'd slept at her desk. Coming to work, going from, shopping, playing with Fran's baby in the park.
They'd captured her unconscious in the studio beside Angela's body.
Cassie, who was in and out of the office dozens of times a day. Cassie, who knew every detail of Deanna's schedule. Cassie, who had dated one of the studio camera operators.
"Turn it off, Cassie."
"One more second."
"Turn it off." Her voice sharpened, and Deanna set her teeth to steady it.
"Sorry." Obviously baffled, Cassie lowered the camera. "I guess I got carried away."
"It's all right. I'm just edgy." Deanna managed to smile again. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It was insane even to speculate that Cassie would be capable of murder.
"It's your first day back." Cassie touched her hand and Deanna had to force herself not to jerk away. "God knows it was a madhouse around here after the show with all those calls coming in about Kate Lowell. Why don't you give yourself a break after you've finished the fitting, and go home? I can reschedule the rest of the afternoon's business."
"I think that's a good idea." She spoke slowly over the erratic thud of her heart. "I've got a lot of things to deal with at home."
Cassie's mouth thinned. "I didn't mean you should jump out of one madhouse into another. You're not going to get any work done there, with all those painters and carpenters slogging away. I think—" She saw that Deanna's eyes had focused behind her and turned. "Jeff." Her mouth softened at the admiration on his face. "She looks fabulous, doesn't she?"
"Yeah. Really." He glanced at the camera Cassie held. "You got pictures?"
"Sure. Capture the moment. Listen, unless it's a crisis, hold it off, will you? This is a momentous occasion. Dee's going home early."
"Oh, good idea. Finn called, Deanna. He said to tell you he had a meeting and he'd see you at home. He thought he might get there by four."