Lucien Brandt put his token in the turnstile and pushed through onto the platform of the IRT subway at Christopher Street. This was the least favorite part of his day. The #1 train to Times Square, then the Shuttle to Grand Central, and then either walk or take the #6 Lexington Avenue Local to 51st St. But it was either endure that routine or a $9.00 cab ride twice a day to the office, and there were only so many of those he could put on his Travel & Entertainment account and get away with it. He'd ridden a bike to the office for about six months, thinking it was kind of cool, but the Madison Avenue buses were a little too aggressive, and his life had passed before his eyes once too often for comfort.

Holding fast with one hand to the metal handle above his head as the noisy train hurtled north through the tunnel beneath Seventh Avenue, Lucien held the morning's advertising section from the Times with the other. Reading was futile, however. And it wasn't the jostling crowds that were distracting him, or the overpowering scent of Calvin Klein's unisex fragrance wafting from the appropriately androgynous woman standing next to him. It was -- as always these days -- Artemis.

Lucien had played it cool -- and pretty successfully so -- with Detective Berkowitz the day before yesterday. Lucien hadn't had to act surprised when the lady detective had told him that Artemis was dead. He had been genuinely shocked. But what was even more shocking was that Lucien, himself, hadn't had to do it. Someone else had. Lucien hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it. At the same time, though, Lucien hadn't known whether Detective Berkowitz believed him when he told her that, yes, Artemis had been in contact with him, but no, Lucien hadn't known why he was in town, and they'd only seen each other once. But the reality was that Artemis clearly had had enemies other than Lucien. Thank god.

The chase is on. Jane Berkowitz knows it's not going to be easy getting the answers -- truthful ones -- out of Lucien Brandt. Consequently, she's not above doing a little footwork to learn more about him. If that means trailing him all day and night, then so be it.

The detective had questioned Lucien for a good hour, and then had made him go with her to Midtown North and identify the body. That was the hardest thing Lucien had ever had to do, for sure -- sad, scary, and gross all at the same time. But afterward, she'd released Lucien, and said she'd be in touch. Since then . . . nothing.

The train screeched to a halt as the incomprehensible but deafeningly loud P.A. voice said "Forty-second Street, Times Square." The doors opened, and Lucien followed the crowd up the steps to the next level, toward the Shuttle leaving for Grand Central. What Lucien didn't notice was the mousy-looking woman in the gray rain coat and scuffed Wallabees following him from about twenty feet behind. It was Detective Jane Berkowitz, and if her eyes were lasers there would have been two holes burned in Lucien's back. There she was, stalking her prey in the middle of morning rush hour. And why not?

Agnes had deliberately come into the office early to meet with Bernadette. Not unreasonably, she was expecting the office to be totally dead at 8:00 -- the phones usually didn't start going insane until about 9:00. Imagine her surprise, then, when, just as she'd stuck her purse in the bottom drawer and was sitting down at her computer, taking the plastic cover off the keyboard that she so carefully placed there each night before leaving, a messenger stepped into the elevator lobby.

"Hamilton Jessup?" the messenger bellowed at Agnes. He was carrying his bicycle tire in one hand -- that was the latest thing among Manhattan's bicycle messengers, who didn't trust their bikes not to be ripped off when they got back downstairs if they merely padlocked them to a mailbox or street sign.

"Hillyer Jones," muttered Agnes. "Close enough." She was used to messengers' casual way with individual and company names. She herself sometimes couldn't remember whether she worked for Hillyer Jones, Hollyer James, or Hamish Jensen. Whatever. She reached for a pen to sign the delivery guy's clipboard and noticed she was the first delivery of the day. She also noticed that she was holding a thick, expensive-looking vellum envelope with an engraved "Attorneys At Law" return address. "Great," she said to herself, assuming, as most people do, that a message from a lawyer is bad news. The letter was addressed to Mr. James Hillyer.

This is all they need. A frivolous lawsuit. But what the hell? The folks at Hillyer, Jones seem to be embroiled in every other kind of crisis imaginable. Why not a legal one?

Screw it, Agnes thought, tearing open the envelope and reading the cover letter. She held it in one hand as she took the plastic cover off the cardboard container of coffee she had bought at the newsstand downstairs. Her eyes scanned the words "Justin McGonagle," "seeking damages," "reckless endangerment," and "three million dollars." This is just what Hillyer, Jones didn't need right now. The parents of the kid who accidentally drank the Elmer's glue solution at the Chewy Crumbly Cookies shoot, thinking it was milk, were suing Hillyer Jones and the client. Unbelievable.

Agnes stared into space, mentally adding this to the two other lawsuits pending -- one from the photographer who was sunburned on a shoot, and one initiated by the media planner who walked through a plate glass door at the Christmas party -- and took her first sip of coffee of the day, knowing that, at this rate, it wasn't going to be her last.

In Hawaii, it was after midnight, and Cy Lefkowitz couldn't sleep. The chirpy clicking of the geckos which were somewhere in the room -- you never saw them but you could always hear them -- didn't usually keep him awake, but tonight they were driving him nuts. He hated the idea of the little lizards skittering here and there in the dark, but everyone said they were harmless and kept down the cockroach population. Sometimes, this place was a little too "Wild Kingdom" for his tastes.

The tiny plantation cottage where he was staying didn't have many creature comforts, but it did have a TV, and he reached over to the bedside table and clicked the set on. It was tuned to CNN, but, since Cy wasn't wearing his glasses he couldn't see very well. As he fished for his prescription horn rims, though, he heard the announcer's voice say, "Hillyer, the CEO of the agency, is cooperating with London police in the search." Cy's head spun back to the TV long enough for him to see his old friend and colleague Jim Hillyer's face flashed on worldwide television, before Linden Soles said, "Now let's take a look at Hurricane Phyllis, from CNN's weather center in Atlanta."

Cy sat up in bed staring at the TV screen, and straightened his glasses. Aloud, to no one, he mouthed, "What the hell...?"

Back in the loop. Cy's been so out of it the last few weeks he wasn't even aware of Jim Hillyer's troubles. Will he jump back into the fray, to help out his old friends? Should he?

Continued Next Episode. Don't dare miss it!









Copyright ©1996, Gauthier & Gilden, Inc. All rights reserved. All characters, settings, and plots
are purely fictional, and intended for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to actual settings, companies, or persons living or dead is unintended and purely coincidential.