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“Yeah,” I say deliberately. “Yeah.”

There’s a few minutes of silence as both of us page through the e-mails again.

Finally Caro says, “What companies, though? And who’s getting the e-mail?”

“And there’s another big question,” I remind her. “Who’s sending the e-mail?”

“Yeah.” Caro looks up at me inquiringly. “Who?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

We’re quiet again. Both thinking hard, and both mystified. Then all at once, a high-pitched sound pierces the silence.

“Beeper,” I say, shaking my head in embarrassment. It’s my stupid new beeper. “Sorry.”

As it continues to bleat its insistent annoying signal, I rifle through though my bag for the black box, wishing I could just throw it out Caro’s thirty-second-story window. I poke the message button, fearing the worst.

It arrives.

Call Angela.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got to call the office.” Whatever this is, it’s going to be terrible. I grab my cell phone from my purse and click the green button on.

Nothing. I click it again. Totally dead battery. “Damn it,” I say, tossing the useless thing back into my bag. “I mean, rats. Could I use your…?”

“Phone’s in the kitchen,” Caro says, pointing.

I trudge by the opulently upholstered walls of the penthouse hallway. It feels as if I’m walking through
Architectural Digest
, but I know I’m on the way to certain doom. “Call Angela,” I mutter. Why on earth would I want to do that? I come to an expanse of stainless steel appliances and pick up the phone.

Newszilla answers immediately, attempting an impossible mixture of sympathy, regret and pomposity. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know you’re with Franklin…”

I don’t tell her I’m not.

“But we need you to handle a news conference for us. Do you want to be picked up at the hospital? Or meet your crew here at the station? It’s at Aztratech Pharmaceuticals,” she says. “In Boxford. In two hours.”

I lean back against the counter for support.

“At…?”

“Reacting to that story in the paper, of course. And since we figured you know all about this anyway,” she says pointedly, “you might as well go cover it. At least you won’t have to play catch-up.”

I can just imagine her self-satisfied expression as she throws my defeat in my face.

“Yup, sure, fine,” I say. I’m in agony. I might as well just put a big
L
on my chest.

“Three o’clock, Aztratech headquarters,” she repeats. “The speaker will be somebody named Wesley Rasmussen. I assume you at least know who that is.”

I drag my feet through the kitchen, back through the pantry, through the dining room, too depressed to be impressed. “Louis XV, Louis XVI, who cares,” I mutter petulantly. Everything sucks.

I arrive in the living room and open my mouth to tell Caro I have to go.

She’s already talking.

“Check it out,” she says, eyes sparkling. “I think I have an idea.”

“An idea—about what?” I ask tentatively. Please let this be something good.

“Remember I told you Wes Rasmussen is always quoting the Bible? In fact, he had one on his desk all the time, full of yellow stickies that mark his favorite passages or something.”

“Yes,” I say, unsure where this is going. “What about it?”

“The e-mails,” she says. “They look like Bible verses, but you said they aren’t always real ones. Who would know enough about the Bible to use it as a code?” She looks at me eagerly and ticks off her points on her fingers. “You’d have to be familiar with the Bible, incredibly hypocritical to use it to further some illegal insider-trading scheme and arrogant enough to think you could get away with it.”

“In other words…”

“Mr. Wes Rasmussen.” Caro nods. “Absolutely.”

“You’ve got a point, I have to admit,” I answer. I look at my watch. Still a little time to spare.

“How about this,” I begin again. “He’s at Aztratech. That means Aztratech is one of the companies involved. I mean, it makes sense since that’s where Brad worked. And what if Aztratech, it starts with
A
after all, is number one. As in Numbers, Chapter One.”

Caro sifts through the e-mails and pounces on Numbers, Chapter One. “If that’s true, that would mean the stock price of Aztratech would be somewhere in the fifty-five to fifty-six range. Or would have been, around the date of the e-mail. Which was—” she checks the date line “—three weeks ago.” She smiles. “Before they knew about the lawsuit, of course.”

“And if there were some reason the stock price was going to go up back then—like a new drug going to be approved by the FDA or something,” I add, “Rasmussen couldn’t have profited from purchase or sale of his own stock. But he could have let his compadres know, by way
of this secret spam system, and they could have made a ton of money. With no one the wiser.”

Caro leaps up. “Got an idea,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves the room. “Be right back.”

Alone in the living room, I start thinking about what you could buy with all that money. Boats, shopping malls, racehorses, property. I start thinking about all the companies in the boxes of files. It’s got to be—those are the companies in the insider-trading loop.

Then I remember. The files are missing. And I still haven’t told Franklin.

Caro races back into the room, waving a newspaper. “Let’s just see.” She opens the pages and spreads them out on the floor. “Good thing I’m saving old
Boston Globes
for Dads while he’s gone. I dug out the one for just after the date of the e-mail.” She runs her finger down the stock tables.

“Aztratech,” she says slowly, “Aztratech.” She flips a page and runs her finger down another list. “Fifty-six,” she says, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. She picks up another paper. “Now, here’s two weeks later.”

I kneel on the floor beside her, eager to see what she’ll find. The paper is a gray-and-black blur. I grab my purse and hunt for my reading glasses. But Caro already has her answer.

She points to the paper so emphatically it actually tears—but it’s still readable. “Aztratech,” Caro reads out loud. “Closed this day at seventy-one.”

I’m trying to do the math. And it’s easy.

“So if someone bought a chunk of it three weeks ago at fifty-six, let’s say,” I begin, “and sold it two weeks later at seventy-one…”

“They’d have made big bucks,” Caro finishes my sentence. “Big, big bucks.”

G

It feels as if I’m being sent to detention. Angela, grand master of mind games, certainly wants me to feel that way. Faced with my own defeat.
Scooped.
Depressing.

I dig into my purse on the seat beside me and pull out my useless lump of a dead cell phone. It beeps as I plug it into the cigarette-lighter thingy to charge it up. Wish there was a way to charge myself up.

As I pull out onto the street, I hear my phone beeping. It’s the voice mail alert—One Message Waiting, it says.

A honking idiot in the car behind me gives me the Boston reminder that the light has changed to green. Instead of giving him the finger back, I hit Message Retrieve, tuck the phone under my chin and pull away as slowly as I can.

The message is from Melanie.

“Hello, Charlie,” she begins. “I just got a call from your Josh Gelston.”

My eyes fly wide open. “He reminded me of that dinner party where he met Brad and me, and said you thought the party was given by Wes Rasmussen.”

I hear Melanie’s soft little laugh.

“I’m not sure why this is so important, Charlie,” she goes on, “but that dinner was not at the Rasmussens’,” she finishes. A pause.

“Oh,” she adds. “The police still think it was kids who did the break-in. I’m feeling a little better about it now. Talk to you soon.”

I click the phone off, and step a toe into uncharted waters, testing the possibilities. If Wes wasn’t the host, then what Josh told me at the diner must have been true. Was all the rest true, too?

I plummet to the depths. It was.

And of course I, Miss Know-It-All, as much as told the most desirable man to cross my path in years that he was a lying dirtbag. I was so vile and sarcastic he actually walked out of the restaurant.

I tap one finger on the steering wheel, planning. Yes. I’ll pull over and give Josh a call. Fix things. Start over. Moving into the outer lane, I scout the highway for a turnoff.

No. I can’t call him. I swerve back into the center. He’s at his Jordan Beach Road house, as he told me in the message, and he told me in the diner there’s no phone up there. Wish I hadn’t ripped up his cell-phone number.

I pound the steering wheel in disappointment. Stewing in frustration, I drive a few more miles until I reach the turnoff for Boxford. Half a mile to humiliation. Mom was right. I should have gone to law school.

Arriving at the Aztratech compound, I find a parking spot, but I stay in my Jeep, seat belt still on. Damned if I’m going in there fifteen minutes early. I scan for the Channel 3 news car and crew. Not here yet. I sigh dismally and take a sip of my finally cool-enough latte.

The blinking phone on the front seat reminds me—I should call Franklin and tell him about Caro and the idea we came up with. Franklin’s going to love it.

By the time my call gets routed from the wrong nurses’ station to some other patient’s room and eventually to Franklin, I only have a few minutes to spare. There’s no time to explain the whole e-mail scheme, but I finally summon the courage to tell him about the files. It’s better like this, anyway. Don’t have to break the ultrabad news face-to-face.

“So, Franko,” I moan, “can you believe it? They’re just not there. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but—”

“Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts, “the files were not stolen.”

“Of course they were,” I interrupt. “You think the trash people mistakenly threw them away or something?”

“I do not think the ‘trash people’ threw them away,” Franklin says. His voice sounds strange. “I’m certain they didn’t, as a matter of fact. Because I took the files.”

I’m speechless.

“Those were the boxes I was putting into my trunk the morning I got nailed in the parking lot. I took the files home so I could compare Brad’s box and Mack Briggs’s box, and do some more research. That’s when I looked up the CEOs’ salaries.”

My mind is racing. “So when they took your car…”

“The files were in the trunk,” Franklin finishes. “So. Either the bad guys wanted my Passat for parts and then got an extra big bonfire afterward, or…”

“Or they really wanted the files,” I finish.

“Yup,” Franklin agrees. “Or they really wanted the files.”

I picture the two bad guys, whoever they are, following Franklin out of the station and into his car, watching him
lug the two file boxes. I picture them following him home, staking him out. I picture them coming back early the next morning, waiting for him to bring the boxes out. If he hadn’t, they could just break into his condo and get them then.

Which reminds me. Melanie. And whomever ransacked her study. The “gang of teenagers” theory is becoming highly unlikely.

“Listen, Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts my thoughts. “I don’t like this. It’s pretty clear whoever it was came after me, specifically. And someone sent them to do it. And now—”

I hear the honk of a car horn, then turn to see a Channel 3 news van pulling up beside me. “Sorry, Franko, gotta go,” I say. “Talk to you later.”

Head high, I approach the Waltmobile and look inquiringly at the stranger getting out of the passenger seat. She’s sleek and smooth as a baby seal. Her red beret is fashionably tilted on ultra-flat blond hair that’s right out of a cream-rinse commercial, and I swear I recognize the tawny designer boots I coveted at Saks. Daddy’s charge must have gone platinum for those, I calculate. A thousand bucks a boot.

“I’m Charlie McNally,” I begin.

“Hi,” she says.

Okay, then. “Are you here with Walt?” I ask deliberately. Maybe she doesn’t understand English.

“Totally.” She wobbles on her stilettos as she hikes Walt’s equipment bag onto her shoulder. “Oooh.” She giggles.

“Hey,” Walt says. “That bag is too heavy for you.”

Hell is apparently freezing over—Walt takes the bag from her and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Hel-lo?” I persist. “Wa-lt?” I make his name two syllables.

“Yeah, Charlie,” the photog finally growls. “This is
Alissia Nevins.” He cocks his head at the girl, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Intern. Angela Nevins’s daughter.”

I don’t know whether it’s more interesting that the Queen of Darkness has offspring, or that she’s sent her camera-ready daughter out on a story. With me. Of course now every move I make will be reported to the inner sanctum, probably to be inscribed on some permanent record of my flaws.

That’s serious tactics, I’ve got to give Angela credit. But I wonder, where’d this girl get the financing for that outfit? Angela doesn’t make that much money.

Walt and the dauphine are already heading toward Aztratech’s front door, me tagging along behind. This is a roiling disaster, I realize. No, it’s a buffet. Beef jerky, cheesecake—and me, toast.

When we get to the briefing, I recognize the woman adjusting the microphones at the front of the dark-paneled conference room deep inside the Aztratech building. It’s Gwen Matherton, Wes Rasmussen’s fashion-plate assistant. She looks behind her, as if confirming there are enough chairs lined up for Aztratech staff, then steps to the podium.

“Mr. Rasmussen will be here in just a few minutes.” Megawattage lights click on, photographers aiming them right at her. Gwen blinks a little in the sudden glare. “He’ll have a brief statement, and then take questions.”

She surveys the room, then, getting no reaction from the half-listening group of reporters, walks out a side door.

Alissia, who entered in a swirl of perfume and a coquettish rearranging of her scarf, doesn’t need a podium to take center stage. Photographers, the men at least, ignore their video equipment and unabashedly check her out. The female TV reporters, with a nose for a new kid, look at me
questioningly, concerned for their territory. I shake my head. Don’t worry, I signal. She’s no threat.

But to me—she might be useful.

“So, Alissia,” I begin, “this your first news conference?” I guide her to the back of the room, the buzz of the media pack resuming enough to give us a little privacy.

She looks at me as if I’m her befuddled grandmother and begins a brief history of her apparently already brilliant career. It’s a self-satisfied teen-queen bio punctuated by head tosses and hair flipping.

“…and so, like, when my mom got the job at Channel 3, she told me she’d be able to get me in there, anytime. I was the anchor for my high school newscast. It’s awesome.”

“How nice,” I reply, oh-so-sincerely. “In fact, I’m wondering if you’d like to ask the questions here today.”

Anyone with any sense, of course, would never step into a news conference without having some idea of what’s going on. I’m counting on her inner prima donna to lure her into the spotlight.

She pauses, then nods. “Sweet,” she says. “Can’t be that tough. Just tell me what to ask and that’ll be so cool.”

I scrawl out a list of questions, trying to keep my handwriting legible and a grin off my face.

“Here you go,” I say. “Just have Walt roll on everything, that way if someone else asks a good question, we’ll get that answer on tape, too. I’ll stay with you until it starts, then I’ll meet you back at the car.”

“Sweet,” she says again. “Mom is going to think you are so brilliant.”

Probably not, I don’t say. Alissia turns to take her place by Walt, but I stop her.

“Look. I have my own car. Your mom knows I’m headed
back to the hospital, so you just take the tape to the station, and they’ll tell you what to do.”

“Faboo,” Alissia replies incomprehensibly. “I’m so amped.” With a final toss of her flat-ironed hair, she takes my list of questions and heads to the bank of cameras. I hang by the door, near the back of the room.

I have an idea. Risky, most certainly. Rewarding, very possibly. But with Franklin in the hospital, and with what Caro and I think we’ve figured out—it’s definitely now or never.

Wes Rasmussen enters through the side door, barely glancing at the waiting media army. No golf shirt today. He’s straight out of
Forbes
magazine in a TV-perfect dark suit, pale blue shirt and yellow tie. He sits in one of the folding chairs behind the podium and whispers to some aide beside him.

I stand motionless in the back, waiting for the perfect time to make my move.

Gwen Matherton steps back to the podium and gives a brief history of Aztratech—founded eight years ago, pharmaceutical research and development, new gastrointestinal drug recently approved by the FDA.

Then Rasmussen comes to the podium, adjusting his tie and then looking down at some notes. When he looks up, every eye in the room is watching him, and every light in the room is turned to shine right on his face.

In that instant, I’m out the door. I’ve been in this building before and I know right where I’m going.

Plastering a confident expression on my face, I walk purposefully down the corridor and away from the conference room. I’ve got the trusty have-to-use-the-ladies’-room-and-oh-golly-I’m-lost excuse ready, just in case. I
glance at my watch—the news conference can’t be any shorter than fifteen minutes. If I can get in and get out in that time, I’m golden.

It takes just two minutes to get to Rasmussen’s office. His receptionist is not at her desk, and his door is open. I can’t hesitate. I close the door partway after I step into the deep pile of his extra-plush executive-suite carpeting, and once again see the glow of the
Miranda
in the showcase.

It seems like such a long time ago I first saw that.

Back to my plan. I go behind Rasmussen’s desk, scanning the stacks of paperwork and books on top of it. I don’t want to move anything if I don’t have to.

Bingo.

Without a second thought, I reach out and grab the prize from between the lion bookends. Just as Caro Crofts described, it’s a battered leather-covered Bible, about a dozen yellow stickies marking what, I don’t know. But I do know this book is key evidence to what I’m convinced is an insider-trading scheme, and now I’ve got it.

I imagine a darkened theater, and annoyed viewers of the Charlie-movie analyzing my every step. No way she would go into that office, someone whispers. She’s definitely going to get caught. Yeah, someone snaps back. She’s an idiot.

I close my ears to my persistent fears and zip the Bible into my purse. Now I just have to get out of the office and into the elevator. I take a step toward the door. That’s when I hear the voices.

I gasp and my heart clenches. I am an idiot. I look wildly around the room, as if there’s some magic that’s going to save me from certain discovery. But I’m trapped.

The voices are coming closer to the office. How could
Rasmussen be out of the news conference so quickly? I check my watch—it’s been just five minutes. The news conference can’t be over. I struggle to find an explanation, but I can’t come up with a thing.

Maybe they’ll just walk on by. Anyone could be in the hall, I’ve just proved that. My heart begins to slow a little. In fact, I decide, it’s pretty unlikely that anyone’s on the way to Rasmussen’s office.

Unless it’s Rasmussen himself. My heart starts up again. But he has to be in the news conference. Doesn’t he?

And then I hear a louder voice. A man. “Here’s the office,” it says, “just ahead. Go on in. Phone’s on the desk.”

Everything is black. My eyes are wide open, and still everything is black. And that is such a good thing.

I clutch my purse to my chest, contraband Bible still inside, and huddle as far back against the wall as I can. I close my eyes for a moment, reeling at my own wild misjudgment. How did I get myself into this?

By pushing the right button, I answer myself. Back at that first interview, Rasmussen touched something underneath his desk that opened a hidden closet in the wall behind him. That’s where he got the sport coat he put on for the camera. So, I figured, I had one chance to avoid whomever was heading for the office.

Of course if Rasmussen comes in and decides to hang up his suit jacket, there’s pretty much no explanation that’s going to fly. I struggle through my fear to try and get my bearings. The closet feels like it’s full of scratchy jackets, and it smells like golf shoes and aftershave. Terrific. If I throw up, they’re certain to find me.