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to find out anything that had made it to cyberspace about the players, the policies, and the stock drop at Rose International.
    Yukon followed her to the bathroom, sat on his haunches looking up at her while she brushed her teeth, then followed her back into the bedroom and watched while she pulled on jeans and a sweater and laced up her running shoes. Another reason why she couldn’t manage a time-consuming love relationship these days—her baby was a little vulnerable since their recent mutual life-threatening ordeal. Yukon couldn’t handle the competition right now.
    “Come on, snow-boy, we’re outta here,” she said to him. He padded happily after her out the door.

8
    R odger Harbaugh was assigned as her cameraman on the Carter Rose news conference. That was a break. You could never count on having the shooter of your choice on any story—it depended on the vagaries of availability. But since this conclave was called last night, Capra had seen the wisdom in assigning Harbaugh with Maxi, for continuity, and he’d had the lead time to do it.
    When they arrived at Rose’s white limestone mansion at the top of Carolwood Drive in Beverly Hills, the massive gilt and wrought-iron gates were open and an army of local and national media were already milling around on the immaculately groomed grounds. Harbaugh sussed out a spot, set down a folding two-step stool, and stood on it, making him a head higher than most of the gang staked out in front of him. He hoisted his minicam up on his shoulder and handed Maxi a wireless microphone. Palming it, she squirreled through the crowd up to the front of the ranks.
    At 10:37 the massive, carved cherrywood front doors parted and Carter Rose stepped out onto the stone portico, followed by two detectives from the Beverly Hills Police Department, then two from the LAPD, since the Gillian Rose death happened in Los Angeles. Then, stepping out last, a big surprise to the journalists, was L.A.’s new chief of police.
    Rose looked uncomfortable. Facing the media had always been his wife’s role, and she had been a master at it. “Good morning,” he said, which was met with some low mutterings from the rarely gracious massed press.
    Then he lobbed a bomb.
    “I’ve called you here to tell you that someone broke into
this
house yesterday, by
these
front doors,” he said, turning to indicate the entrance to his home, “and would have tried to murder
me,
I’m sure, if I hadn’t stopped it.”
    So that explained why he’d called his news conference here and not at the Rose building, Maxi noted.
    To a gaggle of shouted questions Rose declined to give details, but he did say that it had happened in the afternoon, while he was in his bedroom trying to get some sleep after his all-night flight and the long morning session downtown with the detectives. He also told the press that he was going public with this to let his would-be assailant know that the police would be watching for him, and they would get him.
    Rose went on to say that he had been issued a limited Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department permit to carry a concealed weapon, a permit given only to peace officers and to a very few citizens who demonstrated urgent need. He wanted this probable killer to know that he was carrying a gun now, he said, and that if he was threatened again, he’d use it.
    “I’m convinced,” Rose concluded, “that my wife was murdered, and that the person who tried to attack me yesterday is the person who killed her.”
    More shouted questions: “Was it someone you know?”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Was he armed?”
    “Were you hurt?”
    “How did he get through the doors?”
    Rose put his two hands in front of him, palms forward, signifying that the news conference was over. He turned and headed back toward his front doors, which prompted the media horde to start gathering up equipment in preparation to leave. Then Rose abruptly turned back, caught the eye of Maxi Poole in the front