He flushed. "Same as always, Dee. We toss around ideas, brainstorm. When we come up with some workable topics and guests, we do the research and make some calls."
"And the guest list is confidential until it's confirmed?"
"Sure it is." He nervously slicked a hand over his hair. "Standard operating procedure. We don't want any of the competitors to horn in on our work."
Deanna picked up a pencil from the glass surface of her counter, tapped it idly. "I learned today that Angela Perkins knew we were interested in booking Rob Winters within hours of our contacting his agent." There was a general murmuring among the staff. "And I suspect," Deanna continued, "from what I learned, that she was also aware of several others. Kate Lowell appeared on Angela's two weeks after her people claimed a scheduling conflict. She wasn't the only one. I have a list here of people we tried to book who guested on Angela's within two weeks of our initial contact."
"We've got a leak." The muscles in Fran's jaw twitched. "Son of a bitch."
"Come on, Fran." Jeff cast worried glances around the room. He shoved at his glasses. "Most of us have been here from the first day. We're like family." He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, cutting his eyes back to Deanna. "Man, Dee, you can't believe any of us would do anything to hurt you or the show."
"No, I can't." She pushed a hand through her hair. "So I need ideas, suggestions."
"Jesus. Jesus Christ," Simon mumbled under his breath as he pressed his fingers to his eyes. "It's my fault." Dropping his hands, he gave Deanna a shattered look. "Lew Mcationeil. We've kept in touch all along. Hell, we've been friends for ten years. I never thought… I'm sick," he said. "I swear to God it makes me sick."
"What are you talking about?" Deanna asked quietly, but she thought she knew.
"We talk once, twice a month." He shoved back from the table, crossing the room to pour a glass of water. "Usual stuff — shop talk." Taking out a bottle, he shook two pills into his hand. "He'd bitch about Angela. He knew he could to me, that it wouldn't go any further. He'd tell me some of the wilder ideas her team had come up withfor segments. Maybe he'd ask who we were lining up. And I'd tell him." He swallowed the pills audibly. "I'd tell him, because we were just two old friends talking shop. I never put it together until this minute, Dee. I swear to Christ."
"All right, Simon. So we know how, we know why. What are we going to do about it?"
"Hire somebody to go to New York and break all of Lew Mcationeil's fingers," Fran suggested as she rose to go stand beside the clearly distressed Simon.
"I'll give that some thought. In the meantime, the new policy is not to discuss any guests, any topic ideas or any of the developmental stages of the show outside of the office. Agreed?"
There was a general murmuring. No one made eye contact.
"And we have a new goal. One we're all going to concentrate on." She paused, waiting until she could skim her gaze over each face. "We're going to knock Angela's out of the number-one spot within a year." She held up a hand to stop the spontaneous applause. "I want everyone to start thinking about ideas for remotes. We need to start taking this show on the road. I want sexy locations, funny locations. I want the exotic, and I want Main Street, USA."
"Disney World," Fran suggested.
"New Orleans, for Mardi Gras,"
Cassie put in, and lifted her shoulders. "I always wanted to go."
"Check it out," Deanna ordered. "I want six doable locations. I want all the topic ideas we have cooking on my desk by the end of the day. Cassie, make a list of all the personal appearance requests I've got and accept them."
"How many?"
"All of them. Fit them into my schedule. And put in a call to Loren Bach." She sat back and rested her palms on the surface of the desk. "Let's get to work."
"Deanna." Simon stepped forward as the others filed out. "Can I have a minute?"
"Just," she said, and smiled. "I want to get started on this campaign."
He stood stiffly in front of her desk. "I know it might take you a little time to replace me, and that you'd like a smooth transition. I'll hand in my resignation whenever you want."
Deanna was already drawing a list on a legal pad in front of her. "I don't want your resignation, Simon. I want you to use that wily brain of yours to put me on top."
"I screwed up, Dee. Big time."
"You trusted a friend."
"A competitor," he corrected. "God knows how many shows I sabotaged by opening my big mouth. Shit, Dee, I was bragging, playing "My job's bigger than your job." I wanted to needle him because it was the only way I could stick it to Angela."
"I'm giving you another way." She leaned forward, eyes keen. She felt the power in her now, and she would use it, she knew, to finish what Angela had begun. "Help me knock her out of the top slot, Simon. You can't do that if you resign."
"I can't figure why you'd trust me." "I had a pretty good idea where the leak had come from. Simon, I spent enough time around here to know you and Lew were tight." She spread her fingers. "If you hadn't told me, you wouldn't have had to offer to resign. I'd have fired you."
He rubbed a hand over his face. "So I admit to being a jerk and I keep my job."
"That about sums it up. And I expect, because you're feeling like one, you'll work even harder to put me on top."
More than a little dazed, he shook his head. "You picked up a few things from Angela after all."
"I got what I needed," she said shortly. She snatched up her phone when it buzzed. "Yes, Cassie?"
"Loren Bach on one, Deanna." "Thanks." She let her finger hover over the button as she glanced back at Simon. "Are we straight on this?"
"As an arrow."
She waited until the door shut behind Simon, then drew in a deep breath. "Loren," she said when she made the connection. "I'm ready to go to war."
In the cold, gloomy hours of a February morning, Lew kissed his wife goodbye. She stirred sleepily, and gave his cheek a pat before snuggling under the down quilt for another thirty-minute nap.
"Chicken stew tonight," she mumbled. "I'll be home by three to put it on."
Since their children had grown, each had fallen into a comfortable morning routine. Lew left his wife sleeping and went downstairs alone to eat breakfast with the early news. He winced over the weather report, though a glance out the window had already told him it wasn't promising. The drive from Brooklyn Heights to the studio in Manhattan was going to be a study in frustration. He bundled into a coat, pulled on gloves, put on the Russian-style fur hat his youngest son had given him for Christmas.
The wind was up, tossing the nasty wet snow into his face, letting it sneak under the collar of his coat. It was still shy of seven, dreary enough that the streetlights still glowed. The snow muffled sound and seemed to smother the air.
He saw no one out in the tidy neighborhood but an unhappy cat scratching pitifully on his owner's front door.
Too used to Chicago winters to complain about a February storm, Lew trudged to his car and began to clean the windshield.
He paid no attention to the fairy-tale world forming behind him. The low evergreens with their frosting of white, the pristine carpet that coated winter grass and pavement, the dancing flakes that swirled in the dull glow of the streetlamps.
He thought only of the drudgery of scraping his windshield clean, of the discomfort of snow on his collar, of the nip of the wind at his ears. Of the traffic he had yet to face.
He heard his name called, softly, and turned to peer through the driving snow.
For a moment he saw nothing but white and the snow-smothered beam of light from the streetlamp.
And then he saw. For just an instant, he saw. The shotgun blast struck him full in the face, cartwheeling his body over the hood of his car. From down the block a dog began to bark in high, excited yips. The cat streaked away to hide in a snow-coated juniper.