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light post, looking bored, until Avery walked by. He gave her a carnivorous once-over. The orange-haired woman spun around, propped her hands on her hips, and shouted at Avery, “Hey, bitch, keep your ass outta his face or I’ll kill you.”
    Avery ignored them all as she walked past, moving along the sidewalk toward the booth. When she drew even with it, she knocked on the window. Van Lovejoy looked up from his chocolate milk shake, spotted her, and grinned. He indicated the other bench of the booth. Avery angrily and vehemently shook her head no and sternly pointed down at the grimy sidewalk beneath her black satin shoes.
    He took his sweet time. She impatiently followed his unhurried progress through the restaurant, out the door, and around the corner, so that by the time he reached her, she was simmering with rage.
    “What the hell are you up to, Van?” she demanded.
    Feigning innocence, he curled both lanky hands in toward his chest.
“Moi?”
    “Did we have to meet here? At this time of night?”
    “Would you rather I had come to your room—the room you’re sharing with another woman’s husband?” In the ensuing silence, he casually lit a joint. After two tokes, he offered it to Avery. She slapped his hand aside.
    “You can’t imagine the danger you placed me in by speaking to me tonight.”
    He leaned against the plate glass window. “I’m all ears.”
    “Van.” Miserably, she caught her head with her hand and massaged her temples. “It’s too difficult to explain—especially here.” The women at the corner were loudly swapping obscenities while the man in leather cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. “I slipped out of the hotel. If Tate discovers that I’m gone—”
    “Does he know you’re not his wife?”
    “No! And he mustn’t.”
    “How come?”
    “It’ll take a while to explain.”
    “I’m under no deadline.”
    “But I am,” she cried, clutching his skinny arm. “Van, you can’t tell anybody. Lives would be put in danger.”
    “Yeah, Rutledge just might be pissed off enough to kill you.”
    “I’m talking about Tate’s life. This isn’t a game, trust me. There’s a lot at stake. You’ll agree when I’ve had a chance to explain. But I can’t now. I’ve got to get back.”
    “This is quite a gig, Avery. When did you decide to do it?”
    “In the hospital. I was mistaken for Carole Rutledge. They had done the reconstructive operation on my face before I could tell them otherwise.”
    “When you could, why didn’t you?”
    Frantically, she groped for an expeditious way to tell him. “Ask Irish,” she blurted out.
    “Irish!” he croaked, choking on marijuana smoke. “That cagy son of a bitch. He knows?”
    “Not until recently. I had to tell somebody.”
    “So that’s why he sent me on this trip. I wondered why we were covering Rutledge like he was fuckin’ royalty or something. It was you Irish wanted me to keep an eye on.”
    “I guess. I didn’t know he was going to assign you this detail. I was stunned when I saw you in Houston. It was bad enough when I answered the door that day at the ranch and you were standing on the porch. Is that when you first recognized me?”
    “The day you left the clinic, I noticed how Mrs. Rutledge’s mannerisms in front of a camera were similar to yours. It was spooky the way she wet her lips and made that movement with her head just like you used to. After that day of taping at the ranch, I was almost convinced. Tonight I was so sure of it, I decided to let you know that I was in on your little secret.”
    “Oh, Lord.”
    “What?”
    Over Van’s shoulder Avery had spotted a patrolman approaching them on foot.
    * * *
    “Okay, what is it?” Tate asked his brother irritably.
    Jack closed the door to his hotel room and shrugged out of his formal jacket. “Drink?”
    “No thanks. What’s up?”
    The moment they entered the lobby of the Adolphus, Jack had cupped Tate’s elbow and whispered that he needed to see him alone.
    “What, now?”
    “Now.”
    Tate didn’t feel like holding a closed-door session with his brother tonight. The only one he wanted to speak with privately was his wife, who had been behaving strangely since their arrival at Southfork. Before that, she had been fine.
    Over dinner, she had mentioned a gray-haired man—obviously someone from her past who had inconveniently showed up at the banquet. Whoever he was, he must have confronted her when she had gone to the ladies’ room,