Private Scandals

sleeping and went downstairs alone to eat breakfast with the early news. He winced over the weather report, though a glance out the window had already told him it wasn’t promising. The drive from Brooklyn Heights to the studio in Manhattan was going to be a study in frustration. He bundled into a coat, pulled on gloves, put on the Russian-style fur hat his youngest son had given him for Christmas.
    The wind was up, tossing the nasty wet snow into his face, letting it sneak under the collar of his coat. It was still shy of seven, dreary enough that the streetlights still glowed. The snow muffled sound and seemed to smother the air.
    He saw no one out in the tidy neighborhood but an unhappy cat scratching pitifully on his owner’s front door.
    Too used to Chicago winters to complain about a February storm, Lew trudged to his car and began to clean the windshield.
    He paid no attention to the fairy-tale world forming behind him. The low evergreens with their frosting of white, the pristine carpet that coated winter grass and pavement, the dancing flakes that swirled in the dull glow of the streetlamps.
    He thought only of the drudgery of scraping his windshield clean, of the discomfort of snow on his collar, of the nip of the wind at his ears. Of the traffic he had yet to face.
    He heard his name called, softly, and turned to peer through the driving snow.
    For a moment he saw nothing but white and the snow-smothered beam of light from the streetlamp.
    And then he saw. For just an instant, he saw.
    The shotgun blast struck him full in the face, cartwheeling his body over the hood of his car. From down the block a dog began to bark in high, excited yips. The cat streaked away to hide in a snow-coated juniper.
    The echo of the shot died quickly, almost as quickly as Lew McNeil.
    “That was for Deanna,” the killer whispered, and drove slowly away.
     
    When Deanna heard the news a few hours later, the shock of it overshadowed the envelope she’d found on her desk. It said simply:
    Deanna, I’ll always be there for you.

Chapter Nineteen
    D eanna lounged in Finn’s big tub with steaming water whirling and pulsing around her, her eyes half closed and a frothy mimosa in her hand. It was the middle of a Saturday morning, and she had more than an hour before Tim O’Malley, her driver, would be by to pick her up for an appearance in Merrillville, Indiana.
    She felt as lazy and smug as a cat curled in a sunbeam.
    “What are we celebrating?”
    “You’re in town; I’m in town. And not counting your afternoon across the state line today, it looks like it could stay that way for a week.”
    From the opposite end of the tub, Finn watched her tension ease, degree by degree. She’d been wound tight as a spring for weeks. Longer, he thought, sipping the icy drink. Even before Lew McNeil’s random and senseless murder, she’d been a bundle of nerves. In the weeks following Lew’s death her feelings had shifted from remorse to anger to guilt to frustration over a man who had done his best to sabotage her show for his own ends.
    Or Angela’s ends, Finn theorized.
    But now she smiled, and her eyes were heavy with pleasure. “Things have been a little chaotic lately.”
    “You flying off to Florida, me chasing presidentialcandidates from state to state. Both of us trying to put together a show with press and paparazzi dogging our heels.” He shrugged, rubbing his foot up and down her slick, slippery leg.
    It hadn’t been easy for anyone on her staff, or his, to work with the continued and pesky attention the media had focused on their relationship. For reasons neither of them could fathom, they had become the couple of the year. Just that morning, Deanna had read about her wedding plans in a tabloid some helpful soul had tucked under the front doormat.
    All in all it made her uneasy, unsure and far too distracted.
    “Do you call that chaotic?” Finn asked, and drew her attention back.
    “You’re right, just another day in the simple life.” Her sigh was long and sumptuous. “And at least we’re getting things done. I really liked your show on Chicago’s decaying infrastructure, even if it did make me start to worry that the streets are going to crumble under my car.”
    “Everything was there—panic, comedy, half-crazed city officials. Still, it wasn’t as gripping as your interview with Mickey and Minnie Mouse.”
    One eye opened. “Watch it, pal.”
    “No, really.” His grin was wicked. “You’ve got