“Her father, former Vice President James Litchfield, refused to answer questions today when . . .”

Toni turned down the volume as the report began to speculate about foul play. She propped the telephone receiver in the crook of her neck and frowned. “It was bound to come out.”

“Does it make our job easier or harder?”

She’d been wondering the same thing. “It’ll be harder for her to hide, so there’s a better chance she’ll be forced to surface. But it also raises the stakes. Now every crackpot in the world knows that she’s vulnerable.”

“Come down to my room, will you?”

“Why, babycakes, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Cut the crap. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

“How big is it?”

“Sexual harassment can work two ways, DeLucca,” he snapped. “And you just stepped way over the line.”

“Well, excuuuze me.” She hung up the phone and smiled. Jason might not have much of a sense of humor, but she had to respect his professionalism. She pulled on a pair of baggy sweats that were held together at the waist with a safety pin, picked up her room key, and headed down the corridor.

When he opened the door, she flicked her fingers against his chest. “Mommy’s here. Did you want me to fix your night-light so you won’t get scared in the dark?”

He rolled his eyes in exactly the same way her twenty-three-year-old daughter Callie did when Toni was annoying. Only young people could manage such an extreme degree of eye rolling.

“Take a look at this.” He gestured toward the laptop computer sitting on the desk.

She’d forgotten her reading glasses and had to squint at the screen to see that he’d pulled up the web site for tomorrow morning’s edition of a small West Virginia newspaper.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“Right there.” He jabbed his finger at the screen.

“ ‘Santa Wins Celebrity Lookalike Contest’? Why would I be interested— Whoa.” She readjusted her distance from the computer and went back to the beginning of the article to read more slowly. “How did you find this?”

“Just surfing around. I’ve been checking the newspapers in a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius of Mc-Connellsburg. It says the woman was Hispanic, so it’s probably not important. Besides, why would anyone who was trying to hide enter a lookalike contest?”

“Still . . . Damn, I wish there was a photo. Get into the telephone directories and see if you can find a . . .” She squinted at the screen. “Brandy Butt. Doesn’t sound Hispanic to me. And most Hispanic women don’t look like Aurora.”

“So far I’ve come up empty, but I have a few more places to check.”