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Maxi made mental notes on how she perceived him. Tired. Seemingly not nervous. But not distraught, either. Good-looking, certainly: fortyish, about six feet tall, a hint of stubble on even features, expensively styled but slightly mussed light brown hair, well-cut business suit, polished Italian loafers, manicured fingernails. No surprises.
    Rodger switched off the camera and picked up the pace. Carter Rose skipped the baggage-claim area—his chauffeur would probably pick up his luggage, Maxi figured.
    For better vantage, the media gang pushed en masse in front of Rose and the two detectives, camerapersons still shooting as their subjects piled into an unmarked car. One of the detectives took the driver’s seat, the other climbed into the backseat with the man of the hour. Their car slid quickly away from the curb and into traffic.
    As the newsies scattered, Maxi whispered to Rodger, “What the hell was
that
about?”
    “
What
that?” Rodger asked.
    “Carter Rose giving me an exclusive. Even calling me by name, which will be great in the piece.”
    Harbaugh shot a quick look at Maxi’s sculpted features, her glowing cheeks flushed from running, her full lips glimmering in smoky pink lipstick, the bright green eyes, blond hair shining in the lights, her long, trim body in the fitted gray silk suit, the spiky black heels, purse swinging from her shoulder, microphone in hand, her air of supreme competence overlaid with a look of vulnerability, like she really did need a man to slay dragons for her.
    “Because he’s a guy,” was all he said.
    “Oh,
please,
Rodg. He just found out that his wife is dead, maybe murdered, he’s spent the entire night on an airplane from China—not that he said anything to me, really, but I’m sure the last thing he wanted to do was talk to the press. So, why?”
    Harbaugh gave her a crooked smile and a palms-up shrug, not easy with a thirty-pound minicam on his shoulder. Clearly, he believed what he’d said, that it was a “guy” thing.
    Maxi knew different. Carter Rose had an agenda, and she had a feeling she was going to find out what it was.

6
    G reat get!” producer Wendy Harris called from the open door of the edit bay, where Maxi was recutting her morning piece for the Four O’clock News.
    “Huh?” Maxi said.
    “Your little exclusive with Carter Rose, of course, what else? What
planet
are you on, Maxi?”
    “I’m walking and talking and doing, but I am actually asleep,” Maxi responded. She’d been up and working for twelve hours, and still had three more hours to go before the Six O’clock newscast that she co-anchored with Rob Reordan. Between now and then, she had to do live reports on the set for the Four and the Five.
    “Nobody else had him talking,” Wendy went on. “Not at the airport, not at Parker Center, not all day.”
    “He gave me a dozen words and I’ve romanced them every which way since Sunday—I oughtta be ashamed.”
    Wendy cocked her head, calculating. “Thirty-seven words,” she said after a moment. “I know them by heart—I’ve cut ’em up and danced ’em around for every tease and every show since you fed in at six this morning.”
    Maxi chuckled. “Since Carter Rose is my new best friend,” she said, “what do you think my chances are of getting a real interview with him?”
    “Nada. I’ve already called, and you gotta know that every media gang in the country is trying to get to him, but he has the palace guard up now. You caught him on some kind of groggy whim this morning. By now I’m sure he’s wide awake and talking to his lawyers.”
    “Mmmm … I don’t think this guy operates on whims, groggy or otherwise. He strikes me as way too cool.”
    “Maybe, but I’m betting we still can’t score. Wanna give him a try yourself? Couldn’t hurt.”
    “Got numbers?”
    “Sure … his private at the office, his assistant, his home, his car phone, his cell, his mistress—”
    “His
mistress?
Who—”
    “Just kidding,”