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“You already lined up an interview?”

“Subject to your approval, of course,” she said, giving him a stroke. “I wanted to get my ducks in a row before I came to you, Howie. I’ve been researching this for a week, talking to pediatricians and psychologists. It’s a timely topic, especially since the death of the Merritt baby.”

“Everybody’s sick of hearing about that.”

“But I’m approaching it from several unique angles.”

This wasn’t just part of the sales pitch. The more she’d researched Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, the more fascinated she’d become by spin-off subjects that were just as interesting and worthy of exploration as the core. As she’d studied, she’d come to realize that a single, ninety-second piece wouldn’t begin to cover them.

Only Howie stood in her way. “I dunno,” he repeated. The ignition key was doing a Roto-Rooter on his other ear as he reread her outline. It was detailed but brief. Surely someone of even his limited mental capacity could comprehend it.

She’d asked for three segments, to air on consecutive nights during the two evening newscasts. Each would focus on a different element of SIDS. She’d proposed that they be heavily promoted well in advance.

Ultimately—of course, this wasn’t in the proposal—a news producer in the viewing audience would appreciate her work and offer to hire her away from the leper colony of broadcast journalism, otherwise known as the WVUE news department.

Howie belched. The key had produced a glob of brown wax, which he wiped on the top sheet of her outline. “I’m not convinced—”

“I’ve got an interview with Mrs. Merritt.”

He dropped the gooey key. “Huh?”

It was a lie, of course. But desperate times… “We recently had coffee together.”

“You and the First Lady?”

“That’s right. At her invitation. During the course of our conversation, I mentioned doing a series. She endorsed the idea and agreed to share her thoughts.”

“On camera?”

Barrie had a sudden vision of Vanessa Merritt trying to hide behind her Ray Bans, holding a forbidden cigarette with shaking hands—a vision of the woman as an emotional wreck.

“Of course on camera,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“You don’t say anything about the First Lady in your outline.”

“I was saving her as a surprise.”

“Okay, I’m surprised,” he said dryly.

She’d never been a good liar, but then Howie wasn’t an exceptionally good judge of character, so she thought she was safe.

He leaned forward across his desk. “If Mrs. Merritt consents to an interview—”

“She will.”

“You still gotta turn out one regular story each day.” With that, he sat back and scratched his crotch.

She weighed the condition, then shook her head firmly. “This deserves my full attention, Howie. I’d really like to devote all my time to it.”

“And I’d really like to fuck Sharon Stone. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Barrie reconsidered. “Okay. Provision accepted.”

* * *

“Barrie Travis.”