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but couldn’t get a straight answer from any of those bottom-feeders. Personally, I don’t understand it. But you can count on me to stay with this. None of the other programs I’m producing is as close to my heart. To my spirit . I mean, I’m really committed. The Cold War’s important. The ignoramuses out there need to know it’s still going on. Give me a jingle when you get a break from all those boys drooling all over you, and we’ll talk. Love ya.” The machine clicked off.
    For a moment, she did not move. If someone had not just tried to murder her, she would be shaking with outrage.
    She punched the replay button and listened once more. It made no sense for them to cancel the series now, at the last minute. The network had spent a fortune buying the rights to everything, including all of her old cable shows, and it had allocated another fortune to publicity. Everything was working—the buzz was spreading. She had been interviewed not only for the TV Guide story but for articles in People , Entertainment Weekly , and—surprisingly— GQ . Plus, the network had positioned the series to follow the hugely popular 60 Minutes on Sunday nights. Although the two were on different channels, the time slot gave hers an extra push. Everything was in line to build on the series’ cult success and explode it into TV gold. For her, what was most critical was she would reach millions of viewers.
    â€œGood Lord, Liz!” Kirk stood in her doorway, the color draining from his face. He had, as usual, come in without knocking. “What happened to you? Are you hurt? Of course you are. What am I saying. Look at you!” He strode toward her.
    She stared down. Her T-shirt was in tatters, and dirt and scratches covered her arms and legs. A bruise was turning purple on her midriff. She had no idea what her face looked like, but she figured it was not pretty.
    â€œI’m fine,” she announced. “I’ll clean myself up in a minute. Right now I’ve got to call the Sheriff’s Department. Some crazy jogger threw me off the cliff.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, a jogger threw you off the cliff? What jogger?”
    â€œI wish I knew.” She picked up the phone.
    Kirk scowled, making a decision. “The sheriff can wait. First you’re going to the doctor.”
    â€œReally, I’m okay. Nothing’s broken.” She began to dial.
    With a surprisingly quick motion, Kirk snapped the receiver from her hand.
    His face was turning pink, his freckles vanishing in the glow of his anger. Or perhaps it was fear. “I said doctor. You could be hurt a lot worse than you think. You’re too damn bullheaded, Liz. I’ll drive. When we get there, I’ll phone the sheriff for you.”
    Â 
    After her doctor examined her, cleaned her wounds, and pronounced her otherwise healthy, Liz followed Deputy Sheriff Harry Craine out to a wooden bench in the small park across from the doctor’s office in Montecito. Kirk disappeared inside Tecolote Book Shop to pick up the new Covert-One thriller he had ordered.
    Liz described the attack.
    â€œHow old was he?” Deputy Craine wanted to know. “What did he look like?” Craine was a large, gravel-voiced man with old eyes. He was only in his mid-forties, she guessed, but he had the demeanor of someone who had seen a long lifetime of bad people and worse deeds.
    â€œHe was white and had a snub nose, a heavy jaw, and prominent cheekbones,” she told him. “His skin was taut, no sagging. Judging by it and his general muscle tone, he was in his early to mid-thirties. His hair was brown, a mousy color, on the short side. Inch and a half, maybe. He had a runner’s build—muscled legs, lean chest. He was taller than me. I’d say maybe six-two. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses, a baseball cap of some kind, light blue shorts, and a matching T-shirt. Regular jogging shoes, white, with dark blue