“My bio is much simpler,” she said. “Born and grew up in Atlanta; the old man was a lawyer, now a judge; two years at Bennington, which my father thought was far too radical—I was wearing only black clothes and not washing my hair enough—so I finished at the University of Georgia, in journalism. Summer between my junior and senior years, I got on the interns’ program at the network, and, when I graduated, they offered me a job as a production assistant. I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m still a production assistant.”

“But at a higher level, surely? After all, you’re assisting Barron Harkness.”

She laughed. “It’s a nice place to work, if your father can afford to send you there. The perks aren’t bad.” She looked at him sideways. “You skipped something.”

“What?”

“Married?”

“Nope.”

“Never? Why not?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Cynic.”

“Probably.”

“No girl?”

“Not at the moment. I was seeing somebody for a couple of years. When I was in the hospital, she accepted a transfer to LA.”

“Sweet.”

Stone shrugged. “I didn’t come through with the commitment she wanted; she took a hike.” He imitated her sidelong glance. “What about you?”

She sighed. “The usual assortment of yuppies during my twenties. I’m just out of a relationship with a married man.”

“Those don’t work, I’m told.”

“This one sure didn’t. He kept me on the hook for four years, and then he just couldn’t bring himself to leave his wife.”

“That’s the drill. Still hurting?”

“Now and then, if I don’t watch myself. I think I’m relieved, more than anything else.”

“Was it Harkness?”

“No; he wasn’t in the TV business. Advertising.”

“For what it’s worth, I think the guy’s nuts.”

She smiled, a wide mouth full of straight, white teeth. She started to speak, but didn’t. Instead, she concentrated on her pasta.

Stone watched her, and he felt the possibilities in his gut.

When they left Elaine’s, the rain had stopped, and the air was cool. The car still waited for them.

“Can I drop you?” she asked. “It’s one of the perks of the job; I think I probably spend more of the network’s money on cars than they pay me.”

“Sure, thanks. It’s early; I’ll give you a nightcap at my house.”

“Sold.”

They got into the car, and Stone gave the driver his address.

She looked at him, eyebrows arched. “That’s a pretty expensive neighborhood. You on the take?”

Stone laughed. “Nope. I’ll explain later.”

They drove straight down Second Avenue, and at Sixty-ninth Street they ran into a wall of flashing lights. A uniformed cop was waving traffic through a single open lane.