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tonight."
    "Fine with me," he growled. "Who's the mystery smoker?"
    She hesitated. "Our First Lady."

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    His eyebrows lifted with interest. "No shit? Preinterview jitters?"
    "No. That day we met for coffee."
    "Now that you've interviewed her one on one, do you still think she's a dimwit?"
    "I never thought that."
    He gave her a look. "You've called her that a dozen times, sitting right where you are now. Mississippi Belle. Isn't that your nickname for her?
    You've described her as one of those women who never have an original thought, or pretend not to. All her opinions are formed by men, men she fawns over, namely her father and her husband. She's vacuous and vapid.
    Have I left out anything?"
    "No, that about covers it." Sighing, Barrie absently traced the rim of her coffee cup with her finger. "That's still my opinion, but I also feel sorry for her. I mean, losing your baby. Lord."
    "So?"
    Barrie didn't realize that she'd lapsed into a thoughtful silence until Daily's question nudged her out of it. "So, what?"
    "You're gnawing your inner cheek, a sure sign that something's on your mind. I've been waiting all evening for you to unload it, whatever it is."
    She could hide her feelings from everyone else, including herself, but never from Daily. When she was puzzled, or troubled, or otherwise stressed, he homed in on it with the inner radar that had made him an excellent newsman.
    "I don't know what it is," she told him honestly. "It's just this . . ."
    "Itch at the back of your neck?"
    "Something like that."
    "Probably means you're on to something, but you don't know what."

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    Daily leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining as brightly as those of a firehouse dog at the first clang of the bell. There was color in his cheeks, making him look healthier than he had in weeks, rejuvenated by the scent of a hot lead.
    His keen interest made Barrie feel guilty for having broached the subject.
    She was setting him up for a big disappointment. There probably was no story here. On the other hand, what harm could come from sharing a few thoughts? Maybe he could make sense of them. Either that, or he could tell her there was no life in her sketchy ideas.
    "The SIDS series has generated a lot of interest," she began. "Did I tell you I got it on the bird?" Her series had been fed to a satellite, allowing it national coverage.
    "It's certainly given your career a kick in the butt," Daily said. "Which is what you wanted, isn't it? So what's the problem?"
    She stared into her cup, swirling the coffee that had grown too cool to drink. "When I first met with her, she was having understandable guilt feelings, so I reminded her that no one can be blamed for a crib death-that it just happens. Curiously, she said, `Does it?'
    "It was that question and the way she asked it that prompted me to research SIDS. Then I ran across a bizarre story of a woman who'd had four babies die of the syndrome. Which later proved not to be the case."
    "She had that . . . that . . ."
    "Munchausen syndrome by proxy," Barrie supplied. "Some crib deaths are now coming under suspicion. Mothers are being charged with killing their own babies to get attention.
    "Well . . ." She took a deep breath and held it, raised her head, and gave him a puissant look.
    He held her stare for a noticeable length of time. Finally he said, "Maybe I should adjust my oxygen level. I'm either

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    not getting enough, or I'm getting too much. For a minute there I thought you were suggesting that the First Lady of the United States killed her own baby."
    Barrie set her cup on the coffee table and came to her feet. "I did no such thing."
    "Sounded like it."
    "That's not what I'm suggesting, Daily. I swear."
    "Then why all this cheek gnawing?"
    "I don't know! But something's not right." She dropped back onto the edge of the sofa and held her head between her hands. "I've been with Vanessa Merritt twice in the last few weeks. The first time, she was as