Nightrise

drawled the words. "I didn't know you were in L.A."
    "I didn't know I was coming until a couple of days ago."
    Warren had noticed Jamie, who was standing a few steps behind her, trying to keep out of the way. The man frowned briefly, and Jamie was suddenly nervous that he might have been recognized.
    "This is a friend of mine," Alicia said. "His name is David." There was a showcase against the wall, advertising Davidoff cigars. Jamie knew that she had plucked the false name from there and hoped that the security man hadn't noticed it too. She turned to him. "David, this is Warren Cornfield."
    Warren nodded slowly at Jamie, then turned back to Alicia. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

    "I want to see the senator."
    'You want to see the senator?" A slow smile spread across Cornfield's lips. But he wasn't amused. 'You know that's not possible, Alicia. Tomorrow he's talking to ten thousand people. Somehow, I don't think he's got time to see you right now."
    But Alicia stood her ground. "When I left, he said his door would always be open to me."
    "That's not what he told me."
    "Why don't you ask him?"
    "I'm not his assistant, Alicia. You know that. I think maybe you should call back another time and get an appointment."
    Jamie could see that Alicia was struggling to keep her temper. "I'm here right now, asking for an appointment, Warren," she growled. "And you're right. You're not his secretary. So why don't you call up to Elizabeth, who is— and she can ask John if he'll see me."
    'You're wasting your time."
    "We'll see, won't we?"
    Alicia smiled pleasantly but Warren scowled. He didn't like being talked to in this way, but it was clear that Alicia wouldn't be argued with. Warren held up a single finger and walked away, his head cocked, talking into a concealed microphone. To anyone else looking, he could have been arguing with himself.
    "Warren is John's personal security officer," Alicia explained. "He's supposed to liaise with the Secret Service, but half the time he thinks he actually runs it. We never did get along."
    "I can see that."
    "They say he was with the CIA a while ago but got thrown out. Personally, I think…"
    But Alicia didn't finish the sentence. Warren Cornfield was walking back toward her and his whole demeanor had changed. He was like a sulky child. "He says he'll see you," he muttered.
    "Thank you, Warren."
    "Why don't we make that Mr. Cornfield? You're not part of the team anymore…"

    He snapped his fingers like an angry diner demanding a drink. One of the younger Secret Service men came running over. "Show these people up to twelve," he said.
    "Yes, Mr. Cornfield."
    Alicia smiled at him, and she and Jamie went over to the elevator. The security man inserted a key into the lock and pressed the button for the twelfth floor. The doors closed. 'You friends of the senator?" he asked.
    "I used to work for him," Alicia said.
    "He's a good guy," the security man went on. "I might even vote for him myself. Charles Baker is a jerk…"
    There was a silver-haired man in a suit but no tie waiting for them when the elevator arrived. Warren must have radioed up from below. The man knew Alicia at once. "My dear, it's very good to see you.
    How have you been keeping?" He had an Irish accent.
    "It's great to see you, Patrick. Still playing the horses?"
    "Still losing."
    "This is a friend of mine." She indicated Jamie but was careful not to say his name. "Patrick is John's campaign chairman for the state of California."
    "Good to meet you." Patrick smiled and Jamie warmed to him at once. He was obviously puzzled by Jamie's appearance but had decided to ask no questions. "He can't see you for very long, Alicia," he said as he led them down a corridor. "Right now the pressure's on."
    "How is he?" Alicia asked.
    "He's doing a grand job. I just wish the contest wasn't going to be so damned close…"
    There was a set of double doors at the end of the corridor with yet another Secret Service man on guard.
    Patrick showed a pass and led Alicia and Jamie into a large conference room with a single table scattered with notepads and pens, computers, printouts, files, trays of sandwiches, and bottles of mineral water. There were a dozen people sitting around, and from the look of them none had slept very much in recent days. They were busy talking, arguing over a graph of some sort, but as Alicia came in, one of them stood up and with a shock Jamie recognized the man he had seen on posters all over Los Angeles.
    John