A chauffeured Lincoln Town Car drove up and double-parked directly in front of her. The driver waved the attendant away while a man got out. He smiled and nodded hello to Daisy.

She acknowledged his smile and hello with one of her own and strode off to get her recorder, thinking Washington was a friendly place and the party not nearly as bad as Steve had predicted.

Minutes later she flew up the stairs with recorder in hand, mentally planning her interview. She swung through the front door, paying little attention to the people around her, trying to recall facts about Abdul that she’d read in the paper. She wanted a smooth, intelligent interview, she decided. She wasn’t going to shoot for depth, and she wasn’t going to try to nail old Abdul to the wall on the arms stuff. She didn’t want to get in over her head the first time out.

As she reached the patio, she was nervous enough for her heart to beat faster, nervous enough not to see Ethel Begley’s schnauzer dart in front of her. Both the dog and Daisy let out an ear-piercing yelp on contact. Daisy lost her balance and lurched forward, arms outstretched, slamming into the back of the man who had arrived in the Lincoln. They went down hard in a heap on the cement patio, and in the process a gun went skidding off into the grass. Daisy saw it skim her fingertips and recoiled in horror.

Six men instantly materialized from the crowd to scoop up the gun and pin the man to the ground.

Daisy raised her head to see Steve bending over her. He had his hand on her arm. “You okay?” he asked.

“What happened?”

“My guess is you knocked the gun out of the hand of some guy who’d crashed the party to snuff out Rhaman. Rhaman’s goons were all over him.”

“ ‘Goons’?”

“Undercover protection.” He pulled Daisy to her feet, straightened her skirt, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You seem to have this weird propensity for running down criminals.” He picked up the recorder.

“It was an accident. I tripped over the dog.”

“Uh-huh.” He saw the cameraman swing his minicam from the gunman to Daisy. “Show-time,” Steve said, taking her hand. “Pretend you’re Miss America and wave good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Daisy waved, smiling at the camera.

Steve put an arm around her and nudged her through the wall of curious onlookers. “We have to leave now,” he said. “Miss Adams is needed elsewhere. Once a party is rendered safe, it’s our moral obligation to move on.”

“What about the interview?” Daisy asked at the door. “I never did the interview.”

Steve hustled her down the stairs and out onto the driveway, not waiting for an attendant to bring the car. “Rhaman’s gone. They got him out of there before that gun hit the ground.”