“So are we all, Bathsheeba.”

Lonnegan, the Angel realized, was going down the tight-lipped route for now. That was all right. She glanced at Stevens, who was studiously looking elsewhere.

“Thank you, Detective.” She looked at Michael and nodded. “Detective.”

She didn’t look at the note that Stevens had passed her until she was alone in the elevator going down to the lobby. It read in hastily scrawled letters: “Meet me at Uncle Chowder’s in three hours. Important.”

She stopped at reception. The desk man handed her the computer she’d given him along with a fifty-dollar bill when he’d brought her the towels she’d requested.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

“Anytime,” he replied, and watched with great admiration as she sashayed to the front door.

In all fairness, the Angel thought, she could hardly expect Detective-Inspector First Class Lonnegan to show her hand when she was holding her own cards so close to her bosom.

“Miss Pond, Miss Sweet, please look over here.” The photographer pointed toward the loft’s south-facing windows, and Michelle and Peregrine immediately took his direction and started giving him pose after pose.

“You know,” Peregrine whispered, “if they hadn’t told me you were doing this campaign, I might not have done it. But ‘Women of Power’ looks like it’s going to be good.”

A jolt of happiness surged through Michelle. She had admired Peregrine for years. “Well,” she whispered back, “I was thrilled when I found out you were going to be part of this, too.”

“How would you feel about coming on Season Nine of American Hero and doing a guest shot? We have some interesting kids, and you’d probably kick all their asses.”

“I don’t know,” Michelle said with a laugh. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. This campaign, and I’m still on part-time with the Committee. Also, as tempting as it would be to come back to American Hero, I’m not sure I’m the right fit.”

Peregrine nodded and tossed her head a little. “I understand,” she said. “I might have left myself, but they’re paying me a fortune to stay.”

They were both dressed in stovepipe black slacks, white shirts, and black platform shoes. Posed in front of a white backdrop, they were supposed to be showing off their wild card powers. And Michelle had made sure she had enough fat to bubble through the session.

“Miss Sweet, Miss Pond, can you give us some buddy shots? You know what we want: look like you’ve known each other for years. And Michelle, can you make those bubbles a little bigger?”

Amare gave the photographer an imperious look. “Dear boy,” she said, “we have known each other for years. Ever since she was on the first season of American Hero.”

The photographer didn’t look chastened at all. “Both of you have appointments after this,” he said with a sigh. “And I promised I’d get you out of here quickly. Get off my back, Amare.”