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of a tow chain. They were particularly angered that, on the way back toward Rachel on the dirt road, all of their heavy-duty tires had been slashed.
    Charlie ate the bagel dry and wondered how “tiny Rachel” could support a towing service. Maybe by putting sharp things in the road after a tourist vehicle had set out for Groom Lake. And she’d read somewhere that the mysterious guards of Area 51’s borders wore camouflage uniforms.
    She turned off the TV, poured her coffee, and, for penance, took her Toshiba notebook out of the safe in the closet to check her E-mail.
    Type A types may sleep better away from home, but they do not vacation like other people.
    There was a message from Larry Mann, her assistant, one from Ruby Dillon, Richard’s office manager and right-hand woman, one from Mitch Hilsten, superstar. Nothing from Libby—both a comfort and a worry.
    Libby Greene had an old car, a new computer, a new boyfriend, and a new part-time job. Charlie didn’t know where to expect trouble next—she just knew to expect it.
    Libby has made it to seventeen without screwing up major. That’s more than you can say.
    Ruby wanted to know why the hell Richard wasn’t answering his E-mail or her phone calls. Richard, determined he and his subordinate would get away from the office, had refused to bring his pager or cell phone and insisted Charlie do likewise.
    Larry hoped she was having a good time and getting some rest. Reynelda Goff was giving her publisher trouble over revisions to Bewitched and Bedeviled in Boulder, which, if you knew Boulder, sounded more like a nonfiction book than a historical novel. (Reynelda was of the age to say “an” historical novel.) The title had almost nothing to do with the story. But it did relate to last year’s news event in Boulder, which related to why Pitman’s Publishing paid such a ridiculous price for it. Reynelda had turned artistic on them—not an unusual happening when big money makes one suddenly famous. But the news event and the fame had faded by now and the book still hadn’t made it to the printer.
    There was an analogy between publishing and Las Vegas here that Charlie Greene didn’t want to think about.
    Larry had a few more office details to relate, one a promising query on Sheldon Maypo for a possible writing job at an ad agency. Pitch a treatment for a feature film and get a job writing commercials. Hey, anything’s better than nothing, and Shelly wasn’t getting any younger.
    Charlie finished off the coffee while responding to Larry’s questions and warned him of the problem with Georgette Millrose. She was tempted to answer Ruby Dillon’s post with Tami the bodybuilder, but Charlie liked her job. She did not mention the two murdered men and her growing concern that the two thugs were responsible for both and that at least one knew she was staying here.
    Mitch Hilsten wanted to know why she didn’t return his calls, why he’d had to go on-line to get in touch with her. Charlie just didn’t know, so she didn’t answer his E-mail either.
    She locked the computer back in the safe, showered, dressed, and sat on the bed. She had to tell someone of her suspicions about Officer Graden’s death. For someone with elastic morals, she was great at guilt.
    She checked her electronic Day-Timer. It was Tuesday.
    She knew that.
    She had a luncheon appointment with Evan Black.
    She knew that too. Somehow, she didn’t figure he’d show. But she’d be there in case. She had about two hours to kill at blackjack, or finding out which police station housed the bicycle cops, or wandering around openly to see if the goon in the Jacuzzi was following her, or she could just do nothing.
    Charlie had lost the skill to just do nothing years ago, when she realized she was a kid with a kid to raise. But Richard Morse saved her the need to make a decision.
    â€œCharlie, I’m in love,”