"Thirty seconds! Talk faster, Holly!"
"Well, okay, I guess it's—wait a minute! You said she came to you. Why to you? Are you paying this woman?"
"Fox doesn't have to pay for news," Holly said, her tone one of righteous indignation. "Perhaps a small appearance fee, her transportation, a night in a hotel here in Manhattan, a little wardrobe help. That's all."
"Crap! Crap and double crap! Spivak, you know what you just did? You just tainted that woman's testimony. Now get out of here before I thrill your viewers by giving you a hefty belt in the chops. I did it before, you know. You've probably already run the tape a million times. Out of my way. Move!"
"And five ... four ... three ... two—throw it back to the studio! Throw it back!"
"You got that? Tell me you got that," Holly Spivak said, picking herself up from the pavement, as Maggie had been a little violent when she'd shoved her walker forward, and the tangle of cords caught on one leg of the thing, she pulled, and the reporter (holding tight to the microphone) had gone down.
"Close the door," Maggie told Socks, hopping into the foyer because that was still faster than trying to roll lightly on her left foot. "And lock it!"
"You want to let your dad's alibi in?"
"What's the point?" Maggie asked, carefully walking toward the elevator. "They'd put her on the stand, let her tell her story, and then ask her if she'd been paid for her story. End of credibility. Is Sterling upstairs?"
"Yeah," Socks said, looking out at the commotion on the sidewalk. "Wow, Spivak's really mad, Maggie. And she's got the other blonde standing with her now, and she's asking her questions. I think maybe you should have—"
"I know, I know," Maggie said, holding open the door to the elevator. "First I did, then I thought. But it's too late now. I could kill Alex for being friends with that bloodsucking blonde. Is he okay?"
Socks was mugging for the camera, which was now focused on the locked door. "Hmm? Oh. Sterling? I don't know. I asked him why he didn't go with you to the doctor and he said he didn't think you really needed him. And then he bailed on going to lunch with me. When does the Sterlman not eat lunch?"
"I think he's catching a cold," Maggie lied quickly, and let go of the door, not frowning until it was closed and she was on her way up to her floor.
It was only when she was standing in front of her door that she realized that Socks still had her purse. With her keys in it.
"Damn! Can my life get any more screwed up?"
The ding of the elevator at the end of the hall pulled her attention, and she looked hopefully down the hall for Socks.
But it was Lieutenant Steve Wendell who emerged, carrying her purse by the strap, as if it was a poisonous snake. "Hi, Maggie. Saw Holly Spivak doing one of her on-the-spot deals downstairs and figured you had to be home. The amount of stories she's been doing on you, she must think you're her ticket to the big time. Socks handed me this. How's it hoppin'?"
"Funny," she said, grabbing the purse from him. "Aren't you going to ask me?"
"Ask you what?" Steve leaned against the wall, watching as she struggled to extract her keys from the purse.
Saint Just had carried her. Steve watched while she struggled.
And was there anyone in the civilized world who might wonder why, when caught up in associations with both men, she'd opted for her imaginary hero with the lovely Regency Era manners and the belief that women were to be treated with every courtesy?
"Thanks for the help," Maggie said, sort of glaring at him when Steve finally leaned over and pushed open the now unlocked door. "Oh, cripes!"
Steve caught her before she could tumble over the huge box just inside the door.
"Steady," Steve warned, and then slid through the doorway to lift the box out of the way. "Wow, this is heavy." He leaned his face down toward the top of the box. "But it smells good."
"Sterling!" Maggie called out loudly, and a moment later Sterling poked his head out of the doorway across the hall. "The box?"
"Oh, oh yes," he said, hurrying across the hall. "Mr. Campiano sent it for you. It arrived a little while ago, a belated Christmas present. We've got one as well. I've opened ours. Meatballs—Saint Just's favorites. Isn't that a lovely, thoughtful present?"
"Hey, at least it's not a horse's head in your bed," Steve said, depositing the box on the dining table. "And it's not everyone who gets a box of meatballs from New York's premier mobster. Caroline's right, Maggie—you live a strange life."
"And you're happier being out of it, right?" Maggie said, finally managing to make it to the couch, where she sat down heavily. "How is your girlfriend, anyway? You two had fun on the slopes?"
Steve blushed to the roots of his shaggy light brown hair. "We ... uh ... we never really made ... made it to the slopes."
"You couldn't locate them?" Sterling asked as Maggie gave it up and began to laugh. What was the matter with her, poking at Steve that way?
Although she'd liked the guy, sure, she'd chosen Alex. But Steve, unbeknownst to her, had been choosing Caroline-the-orthodontic-assistant or whatever she was at the same time Maggie had been realizing that, although Steve was nice, and normal, what she really wanted was Alex. Maybe that's what bugged her. Which was stupid, and entirely too female a reaction to make her feel good about herself.
"You said I was going to ask you something, Maggie?" Steve reminded her as she sat there, thinking her stupid thoughts.
"Hmm? Oh, right. Aren't you going to ask me how I broke my foot? Because I've got some real zingers lined up."
Steve grinned, making his handsome, boyish face adorably appealing. She really did like him. He just had come into her life at the wrong time—which was at the same time Alex had poofed into it. "I already know how you broke it. Sterling told me when I called one day last week or so. But hit me with a couple anyway. I know you're dying to."
"No, that's all right," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Well, okay. Just one. I tripped trying to get out of Donald Trump's way when he spied a dime lying on the sidewalk."
Steve nodded. "Okay. Not great, but okay. You have more?"
"You didn't like that one? I thought that one was pretty good. Okay, one more. I tripped trying to get out of the way when Donald Trump ran away when he saw Rosie O'Donnell coming down the sidewalk?"
"Don't give up your day job, Maggie. Stand-up comedy doesn't need you."
"Yeah, well, I'm working under a handicap," she said, shrugging.
"Your foot?"
"My dad's arrest," Maggie said, forgetting her foot, and the stupid nonwalking walking cast that was going to be her constant unwelcome companion for the next six weeks.
"Right, your dad." Steve was looking nervous again.
"You're here because you're going to go back to Ocean City with me, right? Talk to the cops there? Cop to cop?"
He shook his head. "I can't, Mags. That's what I came to tell you. I didn't want to do it in a phone call, and I've only got a minute, but I wanted you to know. I was up for the next case, and got hit with a triple homicide this morning. I'm primary, can't get out of it. I'm sorry."
Maggie bit her lips between her teeth, nodded. "It's okay, Steve. We'll ... we'll manage."
"You and Alex? You'll have half the Ocean City police force putting in for early retirement before you're through," he said, and then laughed without much humor. "But I did call down there for you."
"And?"
"And ... not much. They pretty much told me they don't have more than circumstantial evidence against your dad. That's probably why he got bail so easily. They knew they probably didn't have enough to hold him too long, but since he was all they had, they put the collar on him anyway, trying to look good for the morning papers. Amateur hour, you know?"