Eventually, Casey knew, Transpacific Flight 545 would end up summarized in an equally diplomatic report. But there was much to do before then.

Norma came back. 'Transpacific's office is closed. I'll have to find that magazine tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Hon?"

"What."

"Go home."

She sighed. "You're right, Norma."

"And get some rest, will you?"

Her daughter had left a message saying she was having a sleep-over at Amy's house, and that Dad said it was all right. Casey wasn't happy about it, she thought her daughter shouldn't have sleep-overs on school nights, but there was nothing she could do now. She got into bed, pulled her daughter's photograph on the bedside table over to look at it, and then turned to her work. She was going through the flight tapes of TPA 545, checking the waypoint coordinates for each leg against the written radio transcripts from Honolulu ARINC and Oakland Center, when the phone rang.

"Casey Singleton."

"Hello, Casey. John Marder here."

She sat up in bed. Marder never called her at home. She looked at the clock; it was after 9 p.m.

Marder cleared his throat. "I just got a call from Benson in PR. He's had a request from a network news crew to film inside the plant. He turned them down."

"Uh-huh…" That was standard; news crews were never allowed inside the plant

"Then he got a call from a producer on that program Newsline named Malone. She said Newsline was making the request for plant access, and insisted they be allowed in. Very pushy and full of herself. He told her to forget it."

"Uh-huh."

"He said he was nice about it."

"Uh-huh." She was waiting.

"This Malone said Newsline was doing a story on the N-22, and she wanted to interview the president. He told her Hal was overseas, and unavailable."

"Uh-huh."

"Then she suggested we reconsider her request, because the Newsline story was going to focus on flight safety concerns, two problems in two days, an engine problem and slats deployment, several passengers killed. She said she'd spoken to critics-no names, but I can guess-and she wanted to give the president an opportunity to respond."

Casey sighed.

Marder said, "Benson said he might be able to get her an interview with the president next week, and she said no, that wouldn't work, Newsline was running the story this weekend."

"This weekend?"

"That's right," Marder said. 'Timing couldn't be worse. The day before I leave for China. It's a very popular show. The whole damned country will see it."

"Yes," she said.

"Then the woman said she wanted to be fair, that it always looked bad if the company didn't respond to allegations. So if the president wasn't available to talk to Newsline, maybe some other highly placed spokesman would."

"Uh-huh…"

"So I'm seeing this twit in my office tomorrow at noon," Marder said.

"On camera?" Casey said.

"No, no. Background only, no cameras. But we'll cover the IRT investigation, so I think you'd better be there."

"Of course."

"Apparently they're going to do some terrible story on the N-22," Marder said. "It's that damn CNN tape. That's what's started it all. But we're in it now, Casey. We have to handle this as best we can."

'I'll be there," she said.

Jennifer Malone awoke to the soft, insistent buzz of the bedside alarm. She turned it off, and looked over at the tanned shoulder of the man next to her, and felt a burst of annoyance. He was a stuntman on a TV series, she'd met him a few months back. He had a craggy face and a nice muscular body and he knew how to perform… but Jeez, she hated it when guys stayed over. She had hinted politely, after the second time. But he'd just rolled over and gone to sleep. And now here he was, snoring away.

Jennifer hated to wake up with some guy in the room. She hated everything about it, the sounds they made breathing, the smell coming off their skin, their greasy hair on the pillow. Even the catches, the celebrities who made her heart skip over candlelight, looked like soggy beached whales the next day.

It was like the guys didn't know their place. They came over; they got what they wanted; she got what she wanted; everyone was happy. So why didn't they go the fuck home?

She'd called him from the plane: Hi, I'm coming into town, what are you doing tonight? And he said, without hesitation, Doing you. Which was fine with her. It was sort of funny, sitting in an airplane seat next to some accountant bent over his laptop, the voice in her ear saying, I'm doing you tonight, in every room of your suite. Which, to his credit, he did. Not subtle, this guy, but he had lots of energy, that pure California body energy that you never found in New York. No reason to talk about anything. Just fuck.

But now, sunlight streaming through the windows…

Damn.

She got up from the bed, feeling the cold air-conditioned air on her naked skin, and went to the closet to choose the clothes she would wear. She was doing pretty straight types, so she picked jeans, a white Agnes B. T-shirt, and a navy Jil Sander jacket. She carried them into the bathroom, ran a shower. While the water was getting warm, she called the cameraman and told him to have the crew ready in the lobby in an hour.

While she took her shower, she reviewed the coming day. Barker first at nine, she'd film him briefly with some aviation background to warm him up, then break to do the rest at his office.

Next the reporter, Rogers. No time to do him at his newsroom in Orange County; she'd start him at Burbank, another airport, different look. He'd talk about Norton with the Norton buildings behind him.

Then at noon, she'd talk to the Norton guy. By then she'd already know the arguments from the other two guys, and she'd try to scare Norton enough that they'd give her access to the president

And then… let's see. The ambulance chaser later in the day, briefly. Someone from the FAA on Friday, for balance. Someone from Norton on Friday, as well. Marty would do a stand-up outside Norton, the script wasn't prepared but all she needed was the intro and the rest was voice-over. B-roll of passengers boarding, going to their doom. Takeoffs and landings, then some good crash shots.

And she was done.

This segment was going to work, she thought, as she stepped out of the shower. There was only one thing that troubled her.

That damned guy in the bed.

Why didn't he go home?

As Casey came into the QA offices, Norma glanced up at her, then pointed down the hall.

Casey frowned.

Norma jerked her thumb. "He was here when I came in this morning," she said. "Been on the phone for an hour solid. Mr. Sleepyhead's suddenly not so sleepy."

Casey went down the hall. As she came to Richman's office, she heard him say, "Absolutely not. We are very confident of how this will turn out No. No. I'm sure. Hasn't a clue. No idea."

Casey stuck her head in.

Richman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up on the desk, while he spoke on the phone. He appeared startled when he saw her. He put his hand over the phone. "I'll just be a minute here."

"Fine." She went back to her office, shuffled through papers. She didn't want him around. It was time for another errand, she thought

"Good morning," he said as he came in. He was very cheerful, big smile. "I got those FAA documents you wanted. I left them on your desk."