It’s good to be back in New York, Fran thought as she looked down from her office onto Rockefeller Center. The bleak, sleet-filled morning had evolved into a cold, gray afternoon, but still she loved what she was seeing, loved watching the brightly dressed skaters, some so graceful, others barely able to stay upright. The peculiar mix of the gifted and the plodders, she thought. Then, looking beyond the skating rink toward Saks, she studied how the store windows on Fifth Avenue lighted the March gloom.

The five o’clock crowds pouring from office buildings were a reassurance to her that at the end of the day, New Yorkers, like people all over the world, hurried to go home.

I’m ready to go home too, she decided as she reached for her jacket. It’s been a long day, and it isn’t over yet. She was scheduled to be on air at 6:40 to give an updated report of Molly Lasch’s release from prison. After that she could go home. She already loved her apartment on Second Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street with its views of both the midtown skyscrapers and the East River. But returning to the still-unpacked boxes and crates, knowing that eventually she had to sort out the contents, was disheartening.

At least her office was in order, she thought with some comfort. Her books were unpacked and within easy reach on the shelves behind her desk. Her plants relieved the monotony of the standard office furniture she’d been given. The insipid beige walls were brightened with colorful reproductions of Impressionist paintings.

When she and Ed Ahearn had arrived back at the office this morning, she’d checked in with Gus Brandt. “I’m going to give it a week or two, then try to set up a meeting with Molly,” she’d explained after she discussed with him Molly Lasch’s unexpected statement to the press.

Gus had chewed vigorously on the nicotine gum that was giving him absolutely no relief in his personal antismoking campaign. “What are the chances she’ll open up to you?” he’d asked.

“I don’t know. I stood to one side when Molly made her statement, but I’m pretty sure she saw me. Whether or not she recognized me is something else. It would be great to have her cooperation on the story. Otherwise I’ll have to work around her.”

“What did you think of that statement?”

“In person, I’d say Molly was very convincing when she suggested there was someone else in the house that night, but I think she’s whistling in the dark,” Fran said. “Of course, some people will believe her, and maybe her real need is to create that sense of doubt. Will she talk to me? I just don’t know.”

But I can hope, Fran thought, remembering that conversation as she raced down the hall to the makeup room.

Cara, the makeup artist, snapped a cape around her neck. Betts, the hairdresser, rolled her eyes. “Fran, give me a break. Did you sleep in your ski cap last night?”

Fran grinned. “No. Just wore it this morning. Perform a miracle, the two of you.”

As Cara applied base makeup and Betts turned on the curling iron, Fran closed her eyes and thought of her lead sentence: “At 7:30 this morning, the doors of Niantic Prison opened and Molly Carpenter Lasch walked down the driveway to make a brief but startling statement to the press.”

Cara and Betts worked with lightning speed, and a few minutes later, Fran was deemed camera ready.

“A new me,” she confirmed as she studied the mirror. “You’ve done it again.”

“Fran, it’s all there. It’s just that your coloring is monochromatic,” Cara told her patiently. “It needs accentuating.”

Accentuating, Fran thought. That was the last thing I ever wanted. I was always accentuated. The shortest kid in kindergarten. The shortest kid in the eighth grade. The peanut. She’d finally grown all in a spurt, during her junior year at Cranden, and she’d managed to reach a respectable five five.

Cara was taking off the cape. “You look great,” she pronounced. “Knock ’em dead.”

Tom Ryan, a seasoned newsman, and Lee Manners, a brightly attractive former weather girl, were the anchors of the six o’clock news. At the end of the show, as they unsnapped their mikes and stood up, Ryan commented, “Good piece on Molly Lasch, Fran.”

“Call for you, Fran; pick up on four,” a voice from the control room directed.

To Fran’s surprise, it was Molly Lasch. “Fran, I thought I recognized you at the prison this morning. I’m glad it was you. Thanks for the report you just did. At least you sound as though you may have an open mind about Gary ’s death.”

“Well, I certainly want to believe you, Molly.” Fran realized she was keeping her fingers crossed.

Molly Lasch’s voice became hesitant. “I wonder, do you think you’d be interested in investigating Gary ’s death? In exchange, I’d be willing to let you make me a subject for one of the news feature programs on your network. My lawyer tells me that just about every one of the networks has called, but I’d rather go with someone I know and feel I can trust.”

“You bet I’m interested, Molly,” Fran said. “In fact, I was planning to call you about exactly that.”

They agreed to meet the next morning at Molly’s house in Greenwich. When Fran replaced the receiver, she raised her eyebrows at Tom Ryan. “Class reunion tomorrow,” she said. “This should be interesting.”

The corporate headquarters of Remington Health Management Organization was located on the grounds of Lasch Hospital in Greenwich. Chief Executive Officer Dr. Peter Black always arrived at his office there at 7 A.M. sharp. He claimed that the two hours of work he got in before the staff arrived were the most productive of his day.

Uncharacteristically on that Tuesday morning, Black had turned on the television to NAF.

His secretary, who had been with him for years now, had told him that Fran Simmons had just started working for the network, and she had reminded him of who Fran was. Even so, it had been a surprise to see that she was the reporter covering Molly’s release from prison. Fran’s father’s suicide had occurred only weeks after Black accepted Gary Lasch’s offer to join the hospital, and for months the scandal had been the big story in town. He doubted that anyone who had lived in Greenwich at the time had forgotten it.

Peter Black had been watching the news program this morning because he’d wanted to see his former partner’s widow.

Frequent glances at the screen to be sure he did not miss the segment he was awaiting had finally forced him to put down his pen and take off his reading glasses. Black had a thick head of dark brown hair, prematurely gray at the temples, and large gray eyes, and conveyed a friendly demeanor that newly hired members of his staff found comforting-that is, until they made the serious mistake of crossing him.

At 7:32, the event he’d been anticipating began. With somber gaze he watched Molly walk beside her lawyer’s car to the gate of the prison. When she spoke into the microphones, he pulled his chair closer to the set and leaned forward, intent on taking in every nuance of her voice and expression.

As soon as she began to speak, he raised the volume on the set, even though he could hear her words perfectly. When she was finished, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. An instant later he picked up the phone and dialed.

“ Whitehall residence.”

The maid’s slight English accent always annoyed Black. “Put me through to Mr. Whitehall, Rita.” He deliberately did not give his name, but there was no need to-she knew his voice. He heard the phone being picked up.

Calvin Whitehall did not waste time in greetings. “I saw it. At least she’s consistent about denying she killed Gary.”

“That’s not what worries me.”

“I know. I don’t like having the Simmons woman in the picture either. If necessary, we’ll deal with it,” Whitehall said, then paused. “I’ll see you at ten.”