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particularly attracted to blonds; more often than not, I find them rather bland and ordinary, possibly because I have to look at one in the mirror every day. But Peter Graff very nearly took my breath away, he was that stunning. In his early twenties, he was trim and tanned, with a chiseled, angular face that included a square jaw cleft neatly with a dimple only God could have given him. The centerpiece of his flawless face was a pair of blazing blue eyes, set perfectly under thick waves of golden hair that tumbled boyishly across his forehead. As he stood—in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals—I saw a body of average height that was compact but lean, with silky golden hair sprinkled generously along his firmly muscled legs and forearms. If there was anything imperfect about him, I didn’t see it.
    I was gawking as he shook my hand, feeling ridiculously overwhelmed by his beauty. I heard Cecile Chang in the background, beyond the buzz in my head, explaining to Graff that I would probably be “joining the team,” and that he was to assist me in every way possible. Then she was facing me.
    “I’ll leave you with Peter, Mr. Justice. We’re shooting a video for presentation to potential grant donors, and I’m afraid I’m the star. We’re using one of the upstairs editing bays for background. I’ve kept the camera crew waiting longer than I should have.”
    I came out of my trance and followed her to the door.
    “I’m sorry I took so much of your time, Cecile.”
    “Not at all. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. You’ll want to talk to Tommy Callahan as soon as possible about his script. I’m sure you’ll have some questions for him.”
    Graff spoke just as she started through the door.
    “Cecile—”
    She hesitated, looking a trifle impatient.
    “I haven’t heard from Tommy since Wednesday night.”
    She cocked her head, and her voice quickened.
    “That’s five days.”
    Graff nodded, and her voice rose with urgency.
    “He agreed to continue as producer. He knows we’ve fallen behind.”
    “I’ve tried calling him.” Graff shrugged. “No luck.”
    “What about his beeper?”
    “He’s not answering his pages.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
    “You’ve been so busy with the fund-raising video and your other shows. I figured he was sick or something. I’ve been keeping up with the video logging. We’re in pretty good shape.”
    Her eyes roved our faces, while not quite looking at either of us. Then, as suddenly as she had tensed up, she relaxed.
    “Of course. Why am I even worrying? I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon enough.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, I’ve really got to get back upstairs to the shoot. In this business, time is money.”
    Then she was gone, and I was left alone with Peter Graff, trying to figure out where to put my eyes. He offered me a guided tour of the building. I told him it was an excellent idea.
    We’d started down the hallway, toward a stairwell, when I remembered that I’d left my notebook in Cecile Chang’s office. Graff offered to get us coffee and meet me back in the same spot. He turned one way and I turned the other.
    I stopped at Denise’s desk in the cubicle outside Chang’s office, and explained the situation. She told me to go on in, and turned back to her keyboard, punching keys.
    My notebook was where I’d left it, in one of the chairs facing Chang’s desk. As I retrieved it, something out the window caught my eye.
    I saw Chang hurrying across the parking lot to an older white BMW sedan. She was in such a rush that she fumbled with her car keys, dropping them before she unlocked the door and slid inside. Then she was looking over her shoulder, backing out, impatiently twisting the wheel, and speeding to the exit that led to Ventura Boulevard.
    I watched her tires spin as she hit the accelerator too hard, before she raced away into the midafternoon traffic, like a woman on a mission.

Chapter Three
     
    “These are the editing