Hosts

When all ten were done, he folded them once and buttoned them inside his shirt, then returned to the workstation.

Now… what to do with the Identi-Kit file? His first instinct was to delete it. But what if he needed to come back to it, maybe revise it? He didn't want to have to start from scratch all over again. He decided to label it GPM and leave it in the Identi-Kit folder. That way it would have no co

Sandy gri

He headed for the exit, gliding like a dancer through the maze of empty desks. A little shut-eye, then he'd be up early to catch the morning edition with his first byline. Maybe a call to the folks to make sure they picked up The Light so they wouldn't miss seeing how all those years of tuition were finally bearing fruit, even if he was working for a sleazbloid.

And then later tomorrow… starting the search.

Only problem was, he wasn't the least bit tired. In fact he was still totally wired. He wished he could drop into a bar where all his friends hung out and hoist a few beers while he blew their minds with his story of the subway ride to hell and back.

Trouble was, he didn't have a gang of friends. Not even one good friend, to tell the truth. Hell, he didn't even have a roommate. He still lived alone in the co-op his parents had bought in Morningside Heights when he'd entered Columbia. They still owned it and had been letting him live on there rent free since graduation—a great perk for him and a solid investment for them with the relentless rise in West Side property values.

Most of the time he didn't mind not having close friends. Acquaintances were perfectly adequate. But tonight… tonight he wished he had one person—just one—he could share this with. That film student, for instance. Beth. What was her last name? He could kick himself now for not getting her phone number. And the least he could have done was to have found her and said good-bye before he'd dashed back to The Light.

Typical me, he thought. A brown thumb with relationships.

And face it, what did he have to offer? Not as if he was setting the world on fire like some of the guys he'd known in undergrad. A few of his fellow English majors had gone on to brokerage houses and investments banks and mega-bonuses—English majors without a single business course to their names! And don't mention the computer geeks who spent every waking moment of their college years playing Ultima Online and then joined dot-coms in the Flatiron District to haul down six figures plus stock options. The market collapse had stifled their brags, but financially they remained light years ahead of Sandy.

When's my turn? he'd asked himself.

Well, he'd got the answer tonight. Sandy Palmer's turn was now. He'd always dreamed of breaking a big story, and now that dream was about to come true.

He kept flashing back to Woodward and Bernstein. Who were they before they co

He tried to rein in the fantasies—never paid to get your hopes up too high—but he could feel them taking off, soaring in a high, jet-fueled arc.

Fifteen minutes of fame? Screw that. He'd do a network hour with Charlie Rose, be on all the talk shows. He'd be the man to know, the guy to be seen with, his name would pop up in gossip columns, his face a regular on "The Scene" page of New York Magazine as he's spotted attending film premieres, gallery openings, and literary receptions, and don't forget parties in the Hamptons where his dalliances would be mentioned in the "Sunday Styles" section of the Times.

Dalliances… oh, yeah. Those models and starlets just throw themselves at famous writers and journalists. No more worrying about relationships, everybody will want to know Sandy Palmer.

But first he'd have to find the guy.

That sobering reality brought him back to earth. This was not going to happen by itself. He had some work ahead of him. Hard work.

Out on the street Sandy flagged a cab. He'd already decided to splurge on a taxi home. He didn't think he could handle another subway ride tonight.

7

Jack knew it was her the moment she stepped through the door.

He'd been sitting in the Chelsea's intimate, marble-tiled lobby on an intricately carved sofa situated between the equally intricately carved fireplace and a metallic sculpture of some sort of jackal sitting atop an undersized elephant. He'd spent the waiting time admiring the vast and eclectic array of art festooning the walls.

The Chelsea had been a fabled haunt of artists and entertainers for decades, and nowadays most of them seemed to own clothes of only one color: black. So when this woman in beige linen slacks and a rose sweater set stepped through the door she stood out among the leather and lingerie habitues as much as he did. Her head was down so he didn't see her face at first, but the style of her curly honey blond hair and mature figure jibed with the voice on the phone.

Then she looked up and their eyes met and Jack's heart stuttered and missed a beat or two.

Kate! God, it was Kate!

Her voice, that little laugh—now he knew why they'd sounded familiar. They belonged to his sister.

Kate looked as stu

"Kate!" he called as she started to turn away. "My God, Kate, it's me! Jack!"

She turned toward him again and now her face was more composed but hardly full of the joy one might expect at seeing her younger brother for the first time in a decade and a half.

Jack hurried up and stopped within a foot of her, staring.

"Jackie," she said. "I don't believe this."

Jackie… Christ, when had he last heard someone call him that? The word sundered an i

Most of all Jack remembered this face, these pale blue eyes, the faint splash of freckles across the cheeks and nose, the strong jawline. Her hair was shorter and faintly streaked with gray; her skin had aged a little with a hint of crows feet at the corners of her eyes; and her face was a bit fuller, her hips a tad wider than he remembered, but her figure wasn't that much different from the one that had kept the boys calling all through high school. All in all his big sister Kate hadn't changed much.

"I don't believe this either," he said. "I mean, the odds are…"

"Astronomical."

He felt they should kiss, embrace, do something other than stand here facing each other, but they'd never been a huggy clan, and Jack had dropped out of his family and never looked back. Hadn't spoken a word to Kate in fifteen years. Until tonight.

"You look great," he said. And it was true. Even with very little make-up she did not look like a forty-four-year-old mother of two. She'd always been fair haired, but now she was a darker shade of blonde than he remembered. What a mane she used to have. "I see you've stopped straightening your hair. I still remember watching you use Mom's iron to flatten out your waves."