Jim Hillyer's detainment in London had both Sydney Chen and Agnes Ramirez scrambling -- routing routine work and problems with clients to the other partners, frantically sending transatlantic faxes and e-mail attachments to the London office, and generally just trying to keep things going.

This particular morning -- the morning after his grilling by Detective Jane Berkowitz -- Lucien had phoned in "sick," and it was the day he was supposed to be directing at a commercial shoot at a photographer's studio on West 24th Street for Chewy-Crumbly Cookies. Agnes Ramirez said she'd deal with Hillyer's phones if Sydney wanted to go down to the studio and help Lucien's assistant art director out.

They were going to do a series of full-color print-ads -- spreads for national magazines -- that depicted a group of children eating Chewy-Crumbly chocolate chip and oatmeal-raisin cookies. When Sydney arrived in the photographer's beautiful loft-like space, though, she clearly understood why they'd said they needed her help. The elevator opened and Sydney was hit with a wall of loud wailing coming from a group of 14 cranky, uncomfortable four-year-olds. These kids were supposed to be professionals? she thought. And it was only 9:30.

Sydney quickly stepped off the elevator onto the polished wood floor of the loft, in one motion took off her Banana Republic polished-cotton raincoat-of-the-moment, and threw it on a chair. Walking over to Samantha Brooks, Lucien's airhead assistant, she asked what she could do.

"Oh hi, Sydney," Samantha answered wielding a clipboard in one hand and a cup of decaf in the other. "We're okay. It's gonna be a long day, though. We've got to get a total of five ads shot, and we're using all the kids -- then we're going to see which ones come out best." "Isn't that a little work-intensive?" Sydney questioned. "Tell me about it. We had to get releases on all the kids, and we're payin' 'em all, too -- although we'll only actually use five. Meanwhile, we've turned Karen's studio into a pre-school. Every time I manage a shoot with kids, it makes me want to have my tubes tied, know what I mean?" Samantha was a smart-aleck. "Yeah, I know what you mean," Sydney smiled -- although, truth to tell, she loved kids.

Let's get some work done! I mean, how many personal crises and international intrigues can we have going here before somebody realizes that this agency's gotta make some money! If the firm's clients only KNEW what a back seat their marketing imperatives were taking! Thank goodness for Sydney's work ethic.

"Sydney," Samantha went on, becoming more officious and less chatty, "what I really need help with is just managing the kids. These stage mothers are going to be the death of me -- can you just go over and see if you can quiet some of the kids down? Play with them or something?"

"Oh sure," Sydney said, mentally adding child day-care to the job description on her resume. "No problem."

"Okay, people, let's do it!" Karen Goodman, the photographer, shouted, from the other end of the studio. She'd been fiddling with a light meter for the past twenty minutes and was ready for the first child.

"Coming! Coming! Jeremy's coming!" shouted one of the mothers as her little darling was coming out of hair and makeup. There was something inherently disturbing, Sydney thought, about a four-year-old with pancake makeup and lipstick. This business was too weird sometimes.

"Hi Jeremy," Karen was saying to the little boy as she adjusted the tripod which held her vintage Nikon, and the food stylist adjusted the cookies on the plate and poured a combination of Elmer's Glue and water -- representing milk -- into a glass. Actual milk photographs as yellow. The "set" for the ad was a kitchen table at which the child was supposed to be sitting, enjoying his Chewy Crumblies with cold milk.

"Okay honey," Karen went on soothingly to the child, "sit right over there." Samantha guided the child -- who seemed to have an attitude of disdain toward the whole endeavor -- to the chair.

"All right, Jeremy," Karen instructed patiently, "all you have to do is hold the cookie in your right hand, look straight at me, and smile, okay? That's it. Just be really happy!"

Jeremy wasn't happy. He frowned and looked at his mother, who clearly had dreams that her son would be the next Macauley Culkin.

"What is it, sweetie?" she called to him, already feeling competitive and embarrassed in front of the other mothers.

"I hate these cookies! They taste like doodie!"

A representative from the client had been sitting in a director's chair in a far corner of the studio making calls on a cellular phone, and he perked up his ears noticeably at the child's untoward comment. Sydney winced as she sat on the floor coloring with a four-year-old girl dressed head to toe in Gap Kids.

Jeremy's mother blanched, and walked gingerly onto the set and over to her progeny.

"Jeremy, honey," she said. "No, those are the other cookies you hate. You love Chewy Crumbly cookies, remember? Remember? You just love them!"

Yuck. The truth? Chewy-Crumbly Cookies suck.

"I do not!" Jeremy screamed, and, still holding the chocolate-chip cookie that had been carefully placed in his hand, threw it across the studio, beaning Sydney Chen on the head with it. Cookie crumbs scattered everywhere, and, unfazed and brushing crumbs out of her hair as what was becoming a tantrum unfolded, Sydney said weakly, "Gee, they really are crumbly." Weak laughter followed -- from everyone except Karen Goodman. "He's outta here! Eighty-six Jeremy! History! Next!" Karen -- no Anne Geddes -- had no time for nonsense, even though she charged for her professional services by the hour. At this point, mother number two had already swooped in with "Justin" -- what is it with these names, Karen thought -- and the food stylist was attacking the plate of Chewy Crumbly cookies with a horsehair brush, trying to make them look as perfect as possible.

As Jeremy was being carted away, he began to cry. Loudly. So loudly that virtually everyone's attention was momentarily diverted from Justin, now seated at the kitchen table in front of the large glass of pretend milk.

Hungry from an hour of waiting on the sidelines, he reached for the plate of Chewy Crumbly chocolate-chip cookies and took a big bite of one, dropping crumbs all over the front of his Oilily sweater. As his mother -- and indeed all the mothers -- stared at the still-shrieking Jeremy, being rapidly carted away, Justin reached for the glass in front of him and took a big, satisfying drink.

He still had the Elmer's Glue solution in his mouth as his mother glanced over, saw him, and screamed. "Justin! Justin! Don't drink that! Oh my God!!!"

"Break!" bellowed Karen Goodman.

In London, the promising Nicholas Hammond lead had come to absolutely nothing. Hammond had returned home the night he'd supposedly disappeared. He'd been visiting his sister and her husband in Manchester. Oh, he still had a bizarre obsession with Meg Townsend, and was convinced she was in love with him. It was clear, though, that he was living in a fantasy world of his own devising, and, after questioning him, Inspector Montague felt sorry for the poor bloke. He had nothing to do with Meg Townsend's disappearance.

Back to square one.