Tony stared at the receiver as though he were likely to get a virulent disease from it. “Why can’t she call Matt?”

“She tried. She can’t get through.”

They used the services of a freelance location finder—who no one could ever find.

“Amy . . .”

“Is busy.”

Across the office, Rachel’s assistant flipped him the finger and continued convincing someone to do something they clearly weren’t happy about.

He sighed and wrapped his fingers around the warm plastic—as far as he could tell, the office phones never got a chance to cool down. “Who is it?”

“Rajeet Singh at the permit office.” Rachel had a second receiver halfway to her ear. “Just let her talk,” she told him again, reached across to hit the hold button on his phone, and snapped, “CB Productions.”

Tony moved as far away as the cord allowed, and turned his back. “Ms. Singh? How can I help you?”

“It’s about that night shoot you’ve got lined up on Lakefield Drive . . .” Everything after that disappeared into the argument coming through the jack in his left ear and the ambient noise in the office. Resting one cheek on the edge of Rachel’s desk, Tony did as instructed and let her talk.

From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, nearly blocked by a stack of cardboard boxes, the door leading to the bull pen—the cramped hole that the show’s three staff writers called their own, although not in CB’s hearing—and CB’s office.

If he turned a little, he could see Mason’s office and through the open door, Mason’s personal assistant, Jennifer. Snide remarks about just what exactly her job entailed had ended the day she’d pushed past a terrified security guard and strong-armed a pair of Mason’s more rabid fans off the set and back into their 1983 Dodge Dart. She rode with the Dykes on Bikes during Pride Parade and someday Tony promised himself he’d find the guts to ask her about her tattoos.

Next to Mason, the art department—one room, one person, and a sideline in erotic greeting cards everyone pretended they didn’t know about. Then finance, the kitchen, and the door leading to post production. Somewhere amid the half dozen cubbyholes crammed with equipment, Zev Sero, CB’s music director, had an office but Tony hadn’t yet been able to find it.

Behind him and to the right, the costuming department. Directly behind him, the stairs leading to the basement and special effects. Given CB’s way of making a nickel scream, Tony had been amazed to discover that the FX was done in house. He was more amazed when he found out Arra Pelindrake was a middle-aged woman who’d been with CB—through bad television and worse—for the last seven years. Safer not to think of the possible reasons why.

“. . . so does it have to be that street at that time?”

He glanced over at Rachel who appeared to be attacking a pile of order forms with a black magic marker. “Uh, yes.”