sleep. Honestly, Sherry, Molly Bartholomew is a sweetheart. She’s the producer I was telling you about. She won’t let you go on the air if you’re hideous.”
Oh, now, that was reassuring. “Okay,” Sherry said. “Do it.”
“Excellent,” Audrey said. “Now, I want to talk to you about a book idea I had.”
“Jesus, Audrey.” This time, Sherry and Larry said it together.
“What? Is it so wrong to pursue unique opportunities while they’re hot? I think Baker Publishing would jump on the chance to publish this story. Rich Czabo recently moved there, and I thought, if I could lock him in early, it would probably be good for a solid six figures.”
“No,” Sherry said.
“Why?”
“We’re talking about my son, Audrey.”
“We are not. We’re talking about you. It’s just so high-concept. ‘The counselor needs assistance.’”
Sherry could hear the finger-quotes as she uttered that last phrase. “It’s unseemly.”
“It’s horrifying,” Larry said.
“How is it horrifying? Jesus, everybody wants to know how celebrities deal with stress. It’s a natural.”
“No, Audrey,” Sherry repeated. “And I’ll say it again, in case you didn’t get it the first time. No. Good God, I’d look like a ghoul.”
“No one would have to know,” Audrey pressed. “We could put a complete embargo on the story.”
“I’m hanging up, Audrey. Call this Bartholomew lady and tell her we’re a go in the morning.”
“Okay,” Audrey said. Sherry envisioned her as wired on thirty cups of coffee. “And I’ll let you know what Rich Czabo says about the book.”
“Audrey!” The line was dead.
“She’s Satan incarnate,” Larry said as he wandered back in from the kitchen.
“She’s made me a fortune, Larry.”
He stopped in his tracks, placed a hand on his hip. “I’m sorry, have you not read Faust?”
She flipped him off.
“This television thing is a mistake,” Larry warned.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“Roll your eyes all you want. People are going to see you on television within a few hours of Scott’s disappearance, and they’re going to draw all the wrong conclusions.”
“What wrong conclusions?”
“Exactly the same conclusions they would have drawn about a book: that you’re exploiting this whole thing for publicity. With all due respect, my dear, you don’t do ‘caring nurturer’ very well. Your strong suit has always been ‘in-your-face preacher.’”
Sherry recoiled. “I’m insulted.”
“Well, forgive me, then.” Larry headed for the foyer. “You pay me for my opinions, and I give them to you.”
“Is that what I pay you for?”
Larry opened the door and paused before leaving. “I don’t know what the hell you pay me for. But in deference to the generous check, just please take my advice and be careful.”
Sherry glanced at the clock and panic gripped her. “Oh, my God, look at the time. I’ve got to get a couple of hours’ sleep.”
“I’ll give you a wake-up call at five-thirty,” Larry said.
“And then another one ten minutes later, in case I fall back to sleep!” Before she could finish, the door was already closed. She had no idea whether he heard her.
6
T HERE’D NEVER BE A WAY for Brandon to thank Jim Lundgren adequately for his help.
After working the phones for an hour, trying to find an airline that was still launching planes this late at night, he’d finally realized the hopelessness of his efforts. Noise restrictions forbade any commercial liftoffs after 9:00 P.M. As a last resort, he’d called Lundgren, president of Federal Research—Brandon’s employer for the past eighteen years—with the express purpose of stepping way out of line. “My son’s been in a plane crash out in Utah,” Brandon explained to the groggy executive. “I can’t find a flight to get me out there, and I—”
“Take my jet,” Lundgren offered, without missing a beat, and without hearing the rest. The Gulfstream was a perk reserved
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