“I don’t think the issue is how the press got wind of this,” Mavis Trelane commented. “The point is they did, and the resulting publicity has been shaded heavily against us, putting Hayward in a very vulnerable position. The stockholders want a solution quickly.”

“Does anyone here believe Hayward is not culpable for Mrs. Wolburg’s injuries?”

“It’s not what we believe,” Mavis corrected. “And none of us could make a decision on that until a full investigation into the incident. What is relevant is how such matters are handled.”

She frowned when a knock interrupted her.

“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, and moved away from the table to walk stiffly to the door. “Janine, I explained we weren’t to be interrupted.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The secretary, who had thrown her loyalty to Sydney five minutes after hearing the story, kept her voice low. “This is important. I just got a call from a friend of mine. He works on Channel 6. Mrs. Wolburg’s going to make a statement on the Noon News. Any minute now.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sydney nodded. “Thank you, Janine.”

“Good luck, Ms. Hayward.”

Sydney smiled and shut the door. She was going to need it. Face composed, she turned back to the room. “I’ve just been told that Mrs. Wolburg is about to make a televised statement. I’m sure we’re all interested in what she has to say. So with your permission, I’ll turn on the set.” Rather than waiting for the debate to settle it, Sydney picked up the remote and aimed it at the console in the corner.

While Lloyd was stating that the board needed to concern themselves with the facts and not a publicity maneuver, Channel 6 cut from commercial to Mrs. Wolburg’s hospital bed.

The reporter, a pretty woman in her early twenties with eyes as sharp as nails, began the interview by asking the patient to explain how she came by her injury.

Several members of the board shook their heads and muttered among themselves as she explained about tripping on the ripped linoleum and how the noise of the construction had masked her calls for help.

Lloyd had to stop his lips from curving as he imagined Sydney’s ship springing another leak.

“And this floor,” the reporter continued. “Had the condition of it been reported to Hayward?”

“Oh, sure. Mik—that’s Mikhail Stanislaski, the sweet boy up on the fifth floor wrote letters about the whole building.”

“And nothing was done?”

“Nope, not a thing. Why Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski, the young couple in 101, had a piece of plaster as big as a pie plate fall out of their ceiling. Mik fixed it.”

“So the tenants were forced to take on the repairs themselves, due to Hayward’s neglect.”

“I guess you could say that. Up until the last few weeks.”

“Oh, and what happened in the last few weeks?”