"Jennifer? Do I send him, or not?"

But she couldn't say no. She couldn't admit she had been wrong. He'd kill her if she backed off the story now. Everything about the way she had made her proposal, and the cool way she had walked out of his office, forced her hand now. There was only one possible answer.

"Yes, Dick. I want him."

"You'll have the piece for Saturday?"

"Yes, Dick."

"And it's not a parts story?"

"No, Dick."

"Because I don't want sloppy seconds on 60 Minutes, Jennifer. It better not be a parts story."

"It's not, Dick."

"I don't hear confidence," he said.

"I'm confident, Dick. I'm just tired."

"Okay. Marty leaves Seattle at four. He'll be at the hotel about eight. Have the shoot schedule ready when he arrives and fax me a copy at home. You've got him all tomorrow."

"Okay, Dick."

"Nail it, babe," he said, and hung up.

She flipped the phone shut, and sighed.

She turned on the ignition, and put the car in reverse.

Casey saw Malone backing out of the parking lot. She was driving a black Lexus, the same car Jim drove. Malone didn't see her, which was just as well. Casey had a lot on her mind.

She was still trying to figure out what Marder was doing. He had blown up at the reporter, told her it wasn't a slats incident, and told her there was going to be a preliminary finding from the IRT. How could he say that? Marder had bravado to spare, but this time he was digging a hole. She didn't understand how his behavior could do anything but damage the company-and himself.

And John Marder, she knew, never damaged himself.

Norma listened to Casey for several minutes without interruption. Finally she said, "And what's your question?'

"I think Marder's going to make me the spokesman for the company."

"Par for the course," Norma said. "The big guys always run for cover. Edgarton will never do it. And Marder won't, either. You're the press liaison for the IRT. And you're a vice-president of Norton Aircraft. That's what it will say at the bottom of the screen."

Casey was silent.

Norma looked at her. "What's your question?" she said again.

"Marder told the reporter that TPA 545 wasn't a slats problem," she said, "and that we were going to have a preliminary report by tomorrow."

"Hrnmm."

"It's not true."

"Hmmm."

"Why is Marder doing this?" Casey said. "Why did he set me up for this?"

"Saving his skin," Norma said. "Probably avoiding a problem he knows about, and you don't."

"What problem?"

Norma shook her head. "My guess is something about the plane. Marder was program manager on the N-22. He knows more about that aircraft than any other person in the company. There may be something he doesn't want to come out."

"So he announces a phony finding?"

"That's my guess."

"And I'm the one carrying the water?"

"Looks like it," Norma said.

Casey was silent. "What should I do?'

"Figure it out," Norma said, squinting through the smoke of her cigarette.

"There's no time…."

Norma shrugged. "Find out what happened to that flight. Because your tail is on the line, honey. That's how Marder's set it up."

Walking down the hall, she saw Richman.

"Well, hi-"

"Later," she said.

She went into her office and shut the door. She picked up a photograph of her daughter and stared at it In the picture, Allison had just emerged from a neighbor's swimming pool. She stood with another girl her age, both of them in swimming suits, dripping water. Sleek young bodies, smiling gap-toothed faces, carefree and innocent.

Casey pushed the picture aside, turned to a large box on her desk; opening it, she removed a black portable CD player, with a neoprene sling. There were wires that ran to a strange pair of goggles. They were oversize, and looked like safety goggles, except they didn't wrap around. And there was a funny coating on the inside of the lenses, sort of shimmery in the light This, she knew, was the maintenance Heads-Up Display. A card from Tom Korman fell out of the box'. It said, "First test of VHUD. Enjoy!"

Enjoy.

She pushed the goggles aside, looked at the other papers on her desk. The CVR transcript of cockpit communications had finally come in. She also saw a copy of Transpacific Flight-lines. There was a postit on one page.

She flipped it open to the picture of John Chang, employee of the month. The picture was not what she had imagined from the fax. John Chang was a very fit man in his forties. His wife stood beside him, heavier, smiling. And the children, crouched at the parents' feet, were fully grown: a girl in her late teens, and a boy in his early twenties. The son resembled his father, except he was a little more contemporary; he had extremely closely cropped hair, a tiny gold stud in his ear.

She looked at the caption: "Here he relaxes on the beach at Lantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children, Erica and Tom."

In front of the family a blue towel was spread across the sand; nearby, a wicker picnic basket, with blue-checked cloth peeking out. The scene was mundane and uninteresting.

Why would anyone fax this to her?

She looked at the date on the magazine. January, three months ago.

But someone had had a copy of that magazine, and had faxed it to Casey. Who? An employee of the airline? A passenger? Who?

And why?

What was it supposed to tell her?

As Casey looked at the magazine picture, she was reminded of the unresolved threads of the investigation. There was a great deal of checking still to do, and she might as well get started.

Norma was right.

Casey didn't know what Marder was up to. But maybe it didn't matter. Because her job was still the same as it had always been: to find out what happened to Flight 545.

She came out of the office. "Where's Richman?" Norma smiled. "I sent him over to Media Relations to see Benson. Pick up some standard press packets, in case we need them."

"Benson's got to be pissed off about this," Casey said.

"Uh-huh," Norma said. "Might even give Mr. Richman a hard time." She smiled, looked at her watch. "But I'd say you've got an hour or so, to do what you want. So get going."

"So. Singleton," Ziegler said, waving her to a seat. After five minutes of pounding on the soundproof door, she had been admitted to the Audio Lab. "I believe we found what you were looking for," Ziegler said.

On the monitor in front of her she saw a freeze-frame of the smiling baby, sitting on the mother's lap.

"You wanted the period just prior to the incident," Ziegler said. "Here we're approximately eighteen seconds prior. I'll start with full audio, and then cut in the filters. Ready?"

"Yes," she said.

Ziegler ran the tape. At high volume, the baby's slobbering was like a bubbling brook. The hum inside the cabin was a constant roar. 'Taste good?" the man's voice said to the baby, very loudly.

"Cutting in," Ziegler said. "High-end bypass."

The sound got duller.

"Cabin ambient bypass."

The slobbering was suddenly loud against a silent background, the cabin roar gone.

"High delta-V bypass."

The slobbering was diminished. What she heard now were mostly background sounds-silverware clinking, fabric movement.

The man said, "Is-at-akfast-or you-arah?" His voice cut in and out.

"Delta-V bypass is no good for human speech," Ziegler said. "But you don't care, right?"

"No," Casey said.

The man said, "Not-ailing-or-ewardess-on-is- ightr

When the man finished, the screen became almost silent again, just a few distant noises.