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bars for Tony, two cinnamon twists for himself, and a cup of coffee to go.
    The rest of the drive was easy, and Erik managed to swig down the stale coffee and eat both cinnamon twists by the time he turned on Hollywood Boulevard and parked in the Schwartzvold lot. He opened the office door at precisely eight-thirty to find Tony pacing the floor, clutching a copy of their proposal for Video Kill .
    â€œThere’s a couple of maple bars in here with your name on them.” Erik put the bag on the desk and headed toward the coffee pot with the single-minded purpose of a true addict.
    Tony followed him. “Did you hear the news this morning?”
    â€œNope.”
    Erik took his cup from the drainboard and wiped it meticulously before he filled it. It was a basic difference between the two men. Erik washed his coffee cup every night before he left the office and Tony hadn’t touched sudsy water since the last time Allison had dropped in.
    â€œAnd you didn’t take time to read the paper?”
    Tony was grinning broadly now, and Erik turned to look at him.
    â€œThat’s right. I didn’t take time to read the paper. What’s with you, Tony? You’re acting like a cat with a mouthful of feathers.”
    â€œCome with me and I’ll show you.”
    Tony grabbed Erik’s arm and steered him into the reception area. Since they had no need for a secretary, it held two matching couches, a long wooden coffee table for spreading out papers, and a television monitor with a DVR on top. Tony pushed Erik down on the nearest couch and turned on the television to play the recording he’d just made. The stabbing last night had been almost identical to their first scene in Video Kill , and he could hardly wait to see Erik’s reaction.

3
    Allison Rocca was wearing the apron Tony had given her two years ago when they had first moved to their new house in Studio City. It was a chef’s apron, much too large for her, with ribbon ties that wound twice around her small waist. Tony had personalized it with one of his messages, most of Tony’s gifts had messages, and Allison’s apron said MY BUNS ARE PERFECT in bold red letters.
    She opened the refrigerator, a gleaming steel model with a built-in ice maker, and took out a Tupper ware bowl filled with potato salad. Everything in the kitchen was new, from the six-burner gas range top to the double ovens and industrial-sized microwave built into the wall. The appliances would have put many restaurant kitchens to shame, and Allison felt a bit intimidated by the matching copper pans hanging on a metal rack over the butcher block work center and the variety of specialized utensils in its neatly divided drawers. Her most successful entrees were made with packaged ingredients and Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup.
    The party yesterday had been catered, but Allison had provided the potato salad. It was made from her mother’s recipe, and Allison had spent hours cooking potatoes, peeling hard-boiled eggs, and reading the Cuisinart instruction booklet to identify the proper attachments to chop everything up into the right-sized pieces. Allison’s potato salad had been the hit of the party. Even the woman from the catering service had asked for her recipe.
    Allison got out a lovely bone china plate and put a scoop of potato salad on the side, decorating it with three ripe olive slices and a sprinkle of Hungarian paprika. She was taking lunch to her mother today. Helen Greene’s appetite was failing and Allison was determined to come up with something that would tempt her.
    As Allison stood back a bit to survey her work, she brushed back her naturally curly, reddish-blond hair. Since she’d allowed it to grow past shoulder length, it often got in her way. Brushing it aside with the back of her hand was a nervous gesture she’d developed lately, right along with tapping her fingers against the arm of the couch and jumping visibly