"Just not yet."

"Right. Just not yet. But soon." Mentally, he counted the days. The senior partners had asked for two weeks to review his situation and come to some sort of agreement with regard to the terms of his leaving the firm to go out on his own. He was giving them that time. One week down, one to go. But after that, he'd start the ball rolling. Soon he'd be saying his good-byes.

"By the way, Mr. Surrogate PI, you can have the night off," Taylor interrupted his thoughts to inform him. "WVNY is supplying me with a taxi home after work."

"Really. What's the occasion?"

"Jack Taft's book of rules." She smiled, going on to explain. "Jack's our program manager. He always sends me home by cab when I work past midnight. It's his way of appeasing his own guilt."

"And tonight's one of those late nights?"

"Definitely. We've got a special college-oriented show we're pre-taping. I'll be lucky if I get out of the studio by one. I'll have door-to-door service to my apartment. And my doorman will take over from there. So go home early and get some sleep. You'll do a better job of working out your dilemma with a rested, if not clear, mind."

Reed nodded. "Okay. But don't leave the building until the taxi is waiting. That way, you won't be alone. Plus, it's supposed to be freezing tonight. Subzero temperatures. So stay inside."

"Gotcha. No isolation and no frostbite."

"Right. And I'll call you tomorrow with the names Rob gives me."

Reed couldn't shake his uneasiness.

CHAPTER 14.

FEBRUARY 4.

6:03 P.M.

WVNY.

The station was its usual lively self when Taylor arrived. Sports Talk had just launched into its second hour, and the broadcast could be heard throughout the station. Taylor smiled as she hurried down the hall, listening to Bill's heated debate with a die-hard fan about a bad call in last week's Super Bowl.

She blew into her recording studio, glancing at Kevin as she shrugged out of her coat. "Early enough?" she teased.

He looked up from the book he'd been reading--a copy of Bad Kids, Worse Parents--and nodded. "Yeah. Bernice Williams isn't here yet. Her publicist called, said she was on her way and would be set to go by seven-fifteen."

"Perfect." Taylor ran a brush through her windblown hair. "That gives me an hour to prep, meet with Laura, and zip through some e-mails. As for Bernice, I suggested she not arrive before then. The last thing she needs is to wait around too long before airtime. Watching us run around like chickens without heads will only stress her out. This way, I'll take her into my booth at seven-fifteen, get her centered and calm, then run through a few format questions to set the stage. Once she's in the zone, she'll be fine."

Kevin rolled his eyes, plopping the book on his desk. "That's why you're the psychologist and I'm the producer. The only zone I can relate to is the one Bill's arguing about right now--the end zone."

Taylor chuckled. "Just don't share that with Bernice."

"I won't." Kevin leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a pen as he scanned the computer screen. There was a definite furrow between his brows.

"What's wrong?" Taylor asked. "You have that look you get when something's bugging you. And you're playing with your pen--not a good sign." A hint of tension crept into her voice. "Is it Romeo? Did he call again?"

"No." Kevin shook his head. "It's Rick."

"Rick?" As soon as she realized her audio engineer was the subject of this conversation, Taylor shut the door. "Did something happen with Marilyn?"

"Oh, I'd say so. He came in a half hour ago a total mess. He'd definitely had a few drinks. He was muttering about separation agreements and lawyers' fees. Mostly, he kept talking about his kids and the what-ifs of Marilyn getting custody. He broke down, started to cry, and beat it out of here. I haven't seen him since. I don't even know if he's coming back to do the show."

"Oh, no." Taylor propped her elbows on the ledge next to Kevin's desk and covered her face with her hands. She'd prayed it wouldn't come to this. Rick and Marilyn had three great kids--an eleven-year-old daughter, a nine-year-old son, and a six-year-old son--all of whom they both adored. Especially Rick.

His kids were his life. If he and Marilyn split up and the judge gave custody to Marilyn . . . well, Taylor didn't know what he'd do.

"I haven't told Jack that Rick left," Kevin continued. "But if he's not back soon, I won't have a choice."

"I know. But wait as long as you can," Taylor replied. "We both know Rick. He needs to be alone when he loses it. He could still be somewhere in the building. But even if he's not, he won't leave us high and dry, no matter how messed up he is. He's too conscientious to ditch us with no backup."

"I agree." Kevin gestured toward the door. "Go downstairs and do your stuff with Laura. I'll buzz you if either Rick or our guest shows up."

"Or if time gets too close and you have to alert Jack."

"Yeah, then, too."

As it turned out, Rick and Bernice arrived one after the other.

Taylor was back in the studio, standing at Kevin's desk as he reached for the phone to reluctantly clue Jack in to what was going on, when Rick walked in.

"Hey." His eyes were red. From drinking? Taylor wasn't sure. But his shoulders were slumped. "Sorry to cut it close. But I've got more than enough time to set things up and do a voice check on our guest."

"Don't worry about it. She's not even here yet." Taylor laid a hand on his arm. "Rick, are you okay?"

He gave her a tormented look. "No. But I can do the show, if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't. I know you can do the show. I'm just concerned about--"

"Look, Taylor, I appreciate your concern." He cut her off, shrugging his arm free. "But there are some things even you can't fix. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want your compa.s.sion. I just want to do the f.u.c.king show and then be alone somewhere with a bottle of bourbon."

There wasn't time for her to answer. The door flew open and Jack led Bernice Williams in. "Our guest has arrived," he announced.

"Ms. Williams--welcome." Taylor extended her hand to the plump, middle-aged woman whose eyes were darting around like a frightened sparrow's. "You remember my producer, Kevin Hodges, and my audio engineer, Rick Sh.o.r.e?"

"Yes, of course." The author nodded, practically vibrating with anxiety as she shook everyone's hand. "And, please, call me Bernice. I'll feel calmer if we're on a first-name basis."

"Great. The same applies to all of us. We're a very informal bunch here." Taylor gave her program manager the okay signal with her eyes.

Jack took the cue. "I'm leaving you in capable hands," he a.s.sured Bernice, although he did cast a puzzled look in Rick's direction. The normally friendly engineer had said a brief h.e.l.lo, then gone over to his control panel. "So relax and enjoy yourself."

"I will."

Jack hesitated. "Hey, Rick, you look beat. It's going to be a long night. If you need a break, give a holler. I'll send Dennis in."

"Thanks." Rick's tone was cordial but his body language was tense. "I'm fine. Besides, I can do this job with my eyes closed by now."

"I know you can." Jack shot a quick glance at Kevin, whose slight nod said he had things under control.

"Okay, then." Jack moved toward the door. "I'll check in with you later. Have a great show."

9:45 P.M.

EAST EIGHTY-SIXTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY.

Jonathan lay back on his bed, his arms folded behind his head, cushioning it as he stared at the ceiling.

The entire day had sucked.

Everything had gone wrong, from his disagreement with Douglas, to that obnoxious lunch with Reed, to being shut down by Taylor, to an afternoon of scrambling around, trying to fix things.

He'd tried getting through to Douglas since four o'clock. But he was in meetings all afternoon, after which he'd left for some business dinner where he couldn't be reached. Great. Jonathan had left a message at Douglas's Upper East Side brownstone, hoping he'd spend the night there rather than telling his driver to head all the way back to the Hamptons. In either case, Jonathan sure as h.e.l.l wasn't calling the East Hampton estate. With his luck, Adrienne would answer the phone. And there was no way he was making small talk with that s.l.u.t tonight.

What Douglas saw in her was beyond him. Other than the obvious, of course. The woman had a face and body to die for. But everything beneath it was trashy and shallow.

As opposed to Taylor, who had substance as well as beauty.

The comparison made Jonathan's jaw tighten. He couldn't stop thinking about Taylor--and the fact that she was falling for Reed. If he'd only had a little more time, things could have been different. But Reed had taken that time away. Plus, he was holding a loaded gun, one that could blow Jonathan's entire world apart.

He'd have to take a more aggressive stand. He'd have to move fast, accelerate his entire plan.

So be it. That's what he'd do.

He yanked his laptop toward him, dashing off a high-priority e-mail to Douglas. That should cover his last remaining base, no matter where Douglas was spending the night. The man checked his BlackBerry regularly. At the latest, he'd read it first thing in the morning. Then he'd call and Jonathan would get things on track.

Fidgeting, he glanced at the digits on his clock radio. They told him it was nine fifty-five.

Nine fifty-five?

With a muttered curse, Jonathan rolled toward the night table and clicked on the radio.

Taylor's voice filled the room immediately, responsive and intense.

"Bernice, in our final minutes together, I'd like to sum things up. Your opinion, as you express it in your latest book, Bad Kids, Worse Parents, is that most of the negative traits we see in adolescents are caused by their home environment. Not by their schools or their peers, but by their parents."

"Absolutely," the other women replied. "I'm not disputing that those traits are reinforced by their peers or even by the media. But, in my opinion, they originate in the home. No matter how much teenagers deny it--and many will--they ultimately are impacted most by the key adult figures in their lives; specifically, those they live with. It's a delicate balance. But, as you'll read in my book, I believe you rarely find a quote-unquote bad kid, without also finding a worse parent."

"That's a pretty sweeping statement," Taylor noted. "So just to clarify things for our listening audience, what about those parents with problem kids who try everything they can, from personal intervention to professional counseling, and still can't make things right?"

"That's a different scenario, and the statistics bear it out." Bernice paused, probably for a drink of water. "In interviewing parents such as those you describe, you'll find that, most times, they characterize their kids as troubled, difficult, or depressed--even overwhelmed by workload and social pressures. They rarely use the word 'bad.'"

"I see. So you're not lumping all problem kids together."

"Definitely not. What I'm saying is that there's a tendency for parents who are negative about their teens and who want to absolve themselves of all responsibility in helping them transition from adolescence to adulthood to describe their teenagers as bad. Frankly, it's easier to write them off than it is to admit that it's their own parenting skills that are lacking."

Taylor murmured a sound of understanding. "Well, Bernice, you've certainly given us a great deal to think about tonight. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to us, and I'm looking forward to reading the e-mails we receive from our listening audience about this complex issue. Once again, we've been chatting tonight with Bernice Williams, the author of Bad Kids, Worse Parents. You can pick up a copy at your local bookstore; it's fascinating, thought-provoking reading, relevant to both parents and teens. Bernice, thank you so much for being with us."

"My pleasure."

"This is Teen Talk with Taylor Halstead. Have a great night. Tomorrow, we resume our regular format, and I'll be back here at WVNY at eight p.m., ready to take your calls. Until then, stay warm and stay safe. Good night."

The WVNY jingle came on, and Jonathan flipped off the radio. He liked it better when Taylor did her show solo. Then he could just focus on her voice, think about the peace and pleasure it brought him.

As for the author, well, she'd only touched the tip of the iceberg with her concept of bad kids, worse parents. In fact, that phrase was the oversimplification of the century. Try "manipulated kids, depraved parents."

In the end, it didn't matter. It all came down to survival of the fittest.

CHAPTER 15.

10:00 P.M.

WVNY.

The "on the air" light went off, and Kevin signaled Taylor that she and Bernice were free.

Then he turned to Rick. "You did a great job of holding it together. Now I want you to go home.

You taught Dennis more than enough for him to manage an hour of taping. You can run through the drill with him before you take off, if it makes you feel better. But we're not starting for an hour and a half, when the college kids come alive. So go get some sleep."

Rick gave a hollow laugh. "Sleep? Where? I've been on the sofa for so many nights I lost count."

"Go home, Rick."

"I used to go home for my kids. Now who knows how long I'll have that as an incentive?" Rick rubbed his eyes, realizing he was losing it. "You're right. I'm not much good to anyone tonight. And, yeah, the new guy can handle things. He doesn't need a run-through." He glanced through the gla.s.s, saw Taylor and Bernice rising, getting ready to exit the booth. "I'm not up for chitchat with our guest."

"Don't worry about it." Kevin was already picking up the phone. "I'll have Dennis make the backup disk. And Taylor will understand. Just go."

"Yeah, thanks." Unsteadily, Rick stood, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. "It's bourbon time," he muttered.

FEBRUARY 5.

2:15 A.M.

WEST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET.

Taylor was dead asleep.

The recording session had taken longer than usual, since it was Dennis's first time at the helm, which prompted him to be very methodical. But he was also very good, so they only lost about ten minutes. Taylor was home by one-fifteen, in her bed by one-thirty, and in dreamland five minutes later.

The shrill ringing of the phone dragged her awake, cobwebs of exhaustion clouding her mind--although not enough to prevent the knot of apprehension from forming in her gut.

G.o.d, no, not again.

She groped for the phone, crammed it under her ear. "h.e.l.lo?" she managed.

"Taylor, it's me." Rick's voice was slurred, oddly strained, and Taylor sat straight up in bed.

"Rick? Where are you?"