"I thought we were friends," Avery said, turning up the heat. "Tate and I helped you out of a jam the other night. You owe us a favor."

Fancy chewed on that for a moment, then flipped the key in her palm several times. "Where's it at?" Avery provided her with the address of the post office branch. "Jeez, that's a million miles from here."

"And you said half an hour ago that you were tired of being cooped up in this friggin ' hotel suite. And I believe that's a quote. Now, will you do this for me?"

Avery's demeanor must have conveyed some measure of the urgency and importance of the errand because Fancy shrugged. "Okay."

"Thank you." Avery gave her a hard hug. At the bedroom door, she paused. "Don't make a big deal of leaving. Just go as unobtrusively as possible. If someone asks where you are, I'll cover for you."

"Why so hush-hush? What's the big secret? You're not screwing a postman, are you?"

"Trust me. It's very important to Tateato all of us. And please hurry back."

Fancy retrieved her shoulder bag from the credenza in the parlor and headed for the double door of the suite. "I'll be back," she tossed over her shoulder. No one gave her a second glance.

FORTY-EIGHT.

Fancy lifted her hip onto the stool and laid the small rectangular package she'd taken from the post office box on the polished wood surface of the bar. The bartender, a mustached, muscular young man, moved toward her.

The smile she blessed him with had been designed in heaven for angels to wear. "A gin and tonic, please."

His friendly blue eyes looked at her skeptically. "How old are you?"

"Old enough."

"Make that two gins and tonic." A man slid onto the stool beside Fancy's. "I'm buying the lady's." The bartender shrugged. "Fine with me." Fancy assessed her rescuer. He was a young executive typeainsurance or computers, she would guess. Possibly late twenties. Probably married. Looking for kicks away from the responsibilities he had assumed so he could afford his designer clothes and the timepiece strapped to his wrist.

This was the kind of trendy place that attracted singles or marrieds on the make. It was filled with worthless antiques and glossy, gargantuan greenery. The bar created a vortex during happy hour that sucked in yuppies from their BMWs and Porsches by the scores.

While she was analyzing him, he was analyzing her. The gleam in his eyes as they moved down her body indicated that he thought he'd scored big.

"Thanks for the drink," she said.

"You're welcome. Youareold enough to drink, aren't you?"

"Sure. I'm old enough to drink. Just not old enough to buy." They laughed and toasted each other with the drinks that had just arrived.

"I'm John."

"Fancy."

"Fancy?"

"Francine, if you prefer." "Fancy."

The mating ritual had begun. Fancy recognized it. She knew the rules. Hell, she'd invented most of them. In two hoursapossibly less, if they got hot soonerathey'd be in bed somewhere.

Following her heartbreak over Eddy, she'd sworn off men. They were all bastards. They wanted only one thing from her, and it was the same thing they could buy from the cheapest whore.

Her mother had told her that one day she would meet a guy who truly cared for her and would treat her with kindness and respect. Fancy didn't really believe it, though. Was she supposed to sit around, bored out of her skull, letting her twat atrophy while she waited for Prince Charming to show up and bring it back to life?

Hell, no. She'd been good for three days now. She needed some laughs. This Jim, or Joe, or John, or whatever the hell his name was, was as good as any to give her some.

Like a freaking Girl Scout, she had run Carole's errand, but she wasn't ready to return to the hotel suite and sit glued to the TV set as the rest would be, watching election returns. She would get there eventually. But first, she was going to have some fun.

Finding a parking place anywhere close to the hotel was impossible. Irish finally found one in a lot several blocks away. He was heavily perspiring by the time he entered the lobby. If he had to bribe his way into the Rutledges ' private suite he would do it. He had to see Avery. Together they might figure out what had become of Van.

Maybe all his worries were for nothing. Maybe they were together right now. God, he hoped so.

He waded through the members of an Asian tour group who were lined up to check in. Patience had never been one of Irish's virtues. He felt his blood pressure rising as he elbowed his way through the tourists, all chattering and fanning themselves with pamphlets about the Alamo.

From amid the chaos, someone touched his elbow. "Hi."

"Oh, hi," Irish said, recognizing the face.

"You're Irish McCabe, aren't you? Avery's friend?"

"That's right."

"She's been looking for you. Follow me."

They navigated the congested lobby. Irish was led through a set of doors toward a service elevator. They got inside; the gray doors slid closed.

"Thanks," Irish said, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. "Did Avery. . ."In the middle of his question, it occurred to him that her correct name had been used. He glanced across the large cubicle. "You know?"

A smile. "Yes. I know."

Irish saw the pistol, but he wasn't given time to register the thought that it was actually being aimed straight at him. Less than a heartbeat later, he grabbed his chest and hit the floor of the elevator like a fallen tree.

The elevator stopped on the lowest level of the hotel. The lone passenger raised the pistol and aimed it toward the opening doors, but didn't have to use it. No one was waiting.

Irish's body was dragged down a short hallway, through a set of swinging double doors, and deposited in a narrow alcove that housed vending machines for hotel employee use. The space was lit from overhead by four fluorescent tubes, which were easily smashed with the silencer attached to the barrel of the pistol.

Covered with shards of opaque glass and stygian darkness, Irish McCabe's body was left there on the floor. The assassin knew that by the time it was discovered, his death would be obscured by another.

Prime time had been given over solely to election returns. Each of the three television sets in the parlor was tuned to a different network. It had turned out to be a close presidential raceastill too close to call. Several times, the network anchors cited the senatorial race in Texas between the newcomer, Tate Rutledge, and the incumbent, Rory Dekker, as one of the closest and most heated races in the nation.

When it was reported that Rutledge was showing a slight edge, a cheer went up in the parlor. Avery jumped at the sudden noise. She was frantic, walking a razor's edge, on the brink of nervous collapse.

All the excitement had made Mandy hyperactive. She'd become such a nuisance that someone from the hotel's list of baby-sitters had been hired to keep her entertained in another room so the family would be free to concentrate on the returns.

With her mind temporarily off Mandy, Avery could devote herself to worrying about Tate and wondering where Irish and Van were. Their disappearances didn't make sense. She had called the newsroom three times. Neither had been there, nor had their whereabouts been known.

"Has anyone notified the police?" she had asked during her most recent call. "Something could have happened to them."

"Listen, if you want to report them missing, fine, do it. But stop calling here bugging us. Now, I've got better things to do."

The phone had been slammed down in her ear. She wanted to drive to the station as quickly as she could get there, but she didn't want to leave Tate. As the hours of the evening stretched out, there were two certainties at play in her mind. One was that Tate was about to win the Senate seat. The other was that something dreadful had happened to her friends.

What if Gray Hairhadbeen stalking her, not Tate, as Van had suggested. What if he'd noticed her interest in him? What if he'd intercepted Van this morning as he reported to work? What if he'd lured Irish away from the TV station?

It made her nauseated with fear to know that a killer was in the hotel, under the same roof as Tate and Mandy.

And where was Fancy? She had been gone for hours. Had something happened to her, too? If not, why hadn't she at least phoned to explain her delay? Even with Election Day traffic, the round trip to the post office shouldn't have taken much longer than an hour.

"Tate, one of the networks just called the thing in your favor!" Eddy announced as he came barreling through the door. "Ready to go downstairs?"

Avery whirled toward Tate, holding her breath in anticipation of his answer. "No," he said. "Not until it's beyond a shadow of a doubt. Not until Dekker calls and concedes."

"At least go change your clothes."

"What's wrong with these clothes?"

"You're going to fight me on that to the bitter end, aren't you?"

"Till the bitter end," Tate replied, laughing.

"If you win, I won't even care."

Nelson walked over to Tate and shook his hand. "You did it. You accomplished "everything I expected of you."

"Thanks, Dad," Tate said a bit shakily. "But let's not count our chickens yet." Zee hugged him against her petite frame.

"Bravo, little brother," Jack said, lightly slapping Tate on the cheek. "Think we ought to try for the White House next?"

"I couldn't have done anything without you, Jack." Dorothy Rae pulled Tate down and kissed him. "It's good of you to say that, Tate."

"I give credit where credit's due." He stared at Avery over their heads. His expression silently declared just how wrong she had been. He was surrounded by people who loved him. She was the only deceiver.

The door opened again. She spun around, hoping to see Fancy. It was one of the volunteers. "Everything's all set in the ballroom. The crowd's chanting for Tate and the band's playing. God, it's great!"

"I say it's time to break out the champagne," Nelson said.

When the first cork was popped, Avery nearly jumped out of her skin.

John's arm grazed Fancy's breast. She moved away. His thigh rubbed hers. She recrossed her legs. His predictable passes were getting tiresome. She wasn't in the mood. The drinks no longer tasted good. This wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

I thought we were friends.

Carole's voice seemed to speak to her above Rod Stewart's over-amplified, hoarse sexiness and the din the happy hour imbibers were creating.

Carole had treated her decently in the last few monthsain fact, since she'd come home from the hospital. Some of the things she'd said about self-respect were beginning to make sense. How could she have any self-respect if she let guys pick her up in joints like thisathis was classy compared to some of the dives she'd been inaand do anything they wanted with her, then dispose of her as easily as they threw away a used rubber?

Carole didn't seem to think she was a dimwit. She'd entrusted her to run an important errand. And what had she done in return? She'd let her down.

"Say, I gotta go," she said suddenly. John had leaned over to lick her ear. She nearly knocked him off his stool when she reached for her purse and the padded envelope still lying on the bar. "Thanks for the drinks."

"Hey, where're you going? I thought, well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Fancy said. "Sorry."

He came off his stool, propped his hands on his hips, and angrily demanded, "Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Jerk off, I guess."

She drove toward the hotel with indiscriminate speed, keeping an eye out for radar traps and cruising police cars. She wasn't drunk, but alcohol would show up on a breath analyzer. Downtown traffic made the irregular maze of streets even more of a nightmare, but she finally reached the hotel garage.

The lobby was packed. Campaign posters bearing Tate Rutledge's picture bobbed above the press of people. It seemed that everyone in Bexar County who had voted for Tate Rutledge had come to celebrate his victory.

"Excuse me, excuse me." Fancy wormed her way through the crowd. "Ouch, dammit , that's my foot!" she shouted when someone backed over her. "Let me through."

"Hey, blondie , you gotta wait on the elevators same as everybody else." The complainer was a woman wearing a veritable armor of Rutledge campaign buttons on her chest.

"The hell I do," Fancy called back. "Excuse me."

After what seemed like half an hour of battling through the crowd as alive and working as a bucket of fishing bait, she stood up on tiptoe and was dismayed to find that she still wasn't anywhere close to the bank of elevators.

"Enough of this shit," she muttered. She caught the arm of the man nearest her. "If you can get me into an elevator, I'll give you a blow job you'll never forget."

A sudden hush fell over the room when the parlor telephone rang. All eyes swung toward the instrument. The mood was collectively expectant.

"Okay," Eddy said quietly, "that's him."

Tate picked up the phone. "Hello? Yes, sir, this is Tate Rutledge. It's good of you to call, Senator Dekker."

Eddy raised both fists above his head and shook them like a winning boxer after a knockout. Zee clasped her hands beneath her chin. Nelson nodded like a judge who had just been handed a fair decision from the jury. Jack and Dorothy Rae smiled at each other.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I feel the same way. Thank you. I appreciate your call." Tate replaced the receiver. For several seconds he sat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, then he raised his head and, with a boyish grin, said, "Guess that means I'm the new senator from Texas."

The suite was instantly plunged into chaos. Some of the aides jumped into chairs and began whooping like attacking Indians. Eddy hauled Tate to his feet and pushed him toward the bedroom."Nowyou can go change. Somebody go catch an elevator and hold it. I'll call downstairs and tell them to give us five minutes." He yanked up the telephone.

Avery stood wringing her hands. She wanted to cheer and shout with joy over Tate's triumph. She wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a kiss befitting the victor. She wanted to share this jubilant moment with him. Instead, she shook like Jell-O, congealed with fear.

When she joined him in the bedroom, he was already stripped to his underwear and was stepping into a pair of dress slacks. "Tate, don't go."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"Don't go down there."

"I can'ta"

She grabbed his arm. "The man I told you aboutathe gray-haired manahe's here. I saw him this morning. Tate, for God's sake don't go."

"I have to."

"Please." Tears formed in her eyes. "Please, believe what I'm telling you."

He was buttoning his pale blue shirt. His hands paused. "Why should I?"