“Fine. But I’m doing you guys a significant favor here and I want it remembered on election day.”

“Election day . . . ?”

“Municipal elections. City council. Don’t forget to vote. I’ll send your permit over this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” But he was thanking a dial tone. He handed Rachel the receiver in time for her to answer another line and turned to see Amy’s shadow come out of Mason’s office.

Or not.

His own shadow elongated and contracted again as he walked across the office and by the time he reached Amy’s side, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d merely seen Amy’s do the same thing. Almost. Except Amy had been standing, essentially motionless, beside her desk.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting down and reaching for her mouse.

“Yeah. Fine.” Her shadow reached for the mouse’s shadow. Nothing overtly strange about that. “Just having an FX moment.”

“Whatever. What do you want?”

“Lee’s not here yet and he was supposed to be in makeup at eleven.”

“Do I look like his baby-sitter?”

“Peter wants you to call him.”

“Yeah? When? In my copious amounts of . . .” She snatched up the ringing phone. “CB Productions, please hold . . . spare time?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” She reached for the rolodex. So did her shadow. “What are you looking at? I got a boob hanging out or something?”

“Why would I be looking at that?”

“Good point.” Glancing past his shoulder, she grinned. “Hey, Zev. Tony’s not looking at my boobs.”

“Uh . . . good?”

Tony turned in time to catch the flush of red on Zev’s cheeks above the short black beard and smiled in sympathy. On her good days, Amy went about two postal codes beyond blunt.

The music director returned his smile, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as though he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re off set? I mean, I know you’re off set,” he continued before Tony could answer, “you’re here. I just . . . Why?”

“Peter sent me out to have someone call Lee. He’s not here yet.”

“He is. I, uh, saw him from Barb’s office.”

Barb Dixon was the entire finance department.

“What were you doing in with Madame Number-cruncher?” Amy asked.

Zev shrugged. “She gets swamped at the end of the month. Sometimes I help her out; I’m good with numbers.”

“Yeah?” Tony’d been leaning out around the boxes, watching for Lee to come in the door, but that got his attention. “I totally suck at math and I’m trying to come up with a budget. I’ve got to buy a car—the commute’s fucking killing me. Maybe you can help me out sometime.”

“Sure.” Zev’s cheeks darkened again and yanking a hand from his pocket, he ran it back through his hair.

“You . . . uh . . .”

“I know.” He replaced his yarmulke and headed for the door to post production. “You know where I am, just give me a call.”