It took several days of clandestine meetings, fraught with impatience and much argument, but at last a plan to catch the leaker and hopefully have him or her confess enough to lead to Tommy Green’s murderer was agreed on. Bringing him to trial would be another matter, and outside of Phil’s ability.
Phil continued to wrack her brain for any detail she might have missed, and any hitch she hadn’t foreseen.
And when she couldn’t put it off any longer, she made another trip downtown to visit Mrs. Toscana.
There was new glass in the windows, the street had been cleared, and only the faintest acrid odor served as a reminder of the bomb that had exploded a few short days before.
She wasn’t welcomed. The woman who answered the door tried to shut it in her face, but Phil managed to get her booted foot inside. After a brief tussle and the appearance of Mrs. Toscana herself, Phil managed to slip into the foyer.
“I’m not here about Tommy’s murder,” Phil said without preamble. “Shall we go into the parlor?”
She didn’t proceed, but waited for Mrs. Toscana to demur and lead the way. She didn’t want to spar with the woman today, or any day, for that matter. But she did want some answers.
Once inside the parlor, Mrs. Toscana didn’t offer Phil a seat. That was fine with Phil. The sooner she could leave, the better.
She crossed to the table of family photos and picked up the one of Mrs. Toscana in her white coming-out party gown.
“Strange,” Phil said, and turned the photograph to face Mrs. Toscana. “When I was at the charity ball Monday night, I was struck by another white gown. White can be so becoming on someone with dark hair, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.” Mrs. Toscana made no move to sit down; she wanted Phil gone.
“Yes, so becoming. I thought so at the time, when Rosalind Chandler entered the ballroom. And I remember thinking, the resemblance was uncanny. Almost as if you were from the same family.”
Mrs. Toscana’s expression didn’t change; only her fingers tightened on the handkerchief she’d been holding. “What do you want?” Her voice was low, venomous.
“Nothing at all. Nothing, at least, that I intend to share. Is Roz Chandler a relative of yours, your daughter, perhaps?” Not getting an answer, Phil plowed on. “Is Tommy her father?”
“No!”
“Good God, not Sam—”
“Never. It was some boy visiting for the summer. He left. The Hastingses wanted to adopt; my father came to an agreement with them.”
Phil swallowed a lump in her throat. “I know how fathers can change our lives. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Toscana took in a rattling breath. “I was fifteen. She was better off with the Hastingses. All the right schools, dances, people. We promised to never tell. They loved her very much.”
“But you named her name. Rosalind. Rose. When did she find out?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“She does, and so does her husband.”
“No, it is impossible. No one but Tommy and my parents, but they are both dead.”
“Well, they know. And Jarvis is furious with her.”
“They will keep it secret if you will keep your mouth shut.”
“I intend to unless absolutely necessary, but you should know. He beats her.”
“No!”
“I’ve seen the bruises.”
Mrs. Toscana had become so quiet, Phil was afraid she had ceased to breathe. “And someone else knows. Samuel Trout. He’s the one who told them, he must be. It makes perfect sense. He’s holding it over Jarvis’s head, I’m sure.”
“That devil,” Mrs. Toscana said, in a whisper that sent chills through Phil’s blood. “I will kill him. I will kill them both.”
“Please, Mrs. Toscana. If you kill either of them, you will go to prison, then who will be there for Rosalind?”
Mrs. Toscana brought her handkerchief to her lips. “I can never be her mother, not even her friend. It would ruin her. When I die, she will be rich, and then it won’t matter so much.”
“Perhaps she would rather have you living, than your money once you are gone.”
“No. Impossible.”
“That is up to you and Roz. But just know that if I figured it out and Jarvis and Trout know, people will invariably learn the truth.”
Phil held up a preemptory hand. “Not from me. I have no interest in causing either of you further pain. I just thought you should know. I don’t expect our paths to cross again. I wish you the best.”
On that, Phil turned and left, not looking back.
She’d done her duty. Roz and Mrs. Toscana must choose the rest.
At last, New Year’s Eve came. Everything was as planned as possible, though Phil knew full well that the chances of everything going according to that plan were a fool’s dream.
Still, the waiting was the hard part. Which was what she was doing now, trying not to fidget as she sat while Lily dressed her hair for the New Year’s Eve celebration at the New York Times building.
“Madam, are you sure you don’t want Mr. Preswick and me to go with you?”
“Absolutely not. I want the two of you to find a perfect place for viewing la grande descente, and tell me all about it in the morning.” Phil turned her head left, then right. “And now I am perfectly coifed and you must go find your warmest coat and hat. Preswick, too.”
At ten o’clock a taxi left her off a block from Times Square. She hadn’t taken into account the crowds that had gathered to see the Times ball bring in the new year, and she became so impatient that she’d gotten out of the taxi and walked the last block.
She just hoped it hadn’t deterred any of the other guests. She had one chance. And if she failed? She wouldn’t. Everyone was depending on her.
They were all there when Phil walked into the reception hall. She couldn’t have hoped for a better attendance, almost as crowded as Tommy’s wake. How fitting that his murderer should be caught—but she wouldn’t jinx the situation by predicting its outcome prematurely.
The guests were a veritable who’s who of pomp, respectability, and potential criminal intent mingling with the day-to-day employees of The New York Times.
The first one she spotted was Sydney, golden boy with the ladies, politicians, and denizens of high-class after-hours clubs—and possible newspaper snitch and real-estate fraud conspirator. He was standing near the entrance—ready to make a run for it?—talking to Imogen Trout and Mrs. Abernathy.
He seemed thoroughly engaged, except for the giveaway flitting of his eyes every time anyone entered the room.
Harriet was back from her holiday, looking as wan as when she’d left. Eddie stood stalwartly by her side, though Harriet seemed to be purposely ignoring him. Two partners in crime trying to appear innocent?
As Phil watched, Marty stopped to say a few words to them. Just a few, Phil instructed silently. Just enough before passing on. Marty passed on.
A few minutes later, Phil saw her laughing with Sydney Lord. Three down. The three most likely to pass the word on or take the bait themselves.
Samuel Trout was standing with several men who were either politicians or businessmen—any of whom could be privy to the scheme to monopolize the real estate around Union Square. Phil would be keeping a close eye on them all, but Trout especially. And if he needed a nudge, she would be ready.
Atkins was standing with Carr Van Anda, Charlie Miller, and another man she didn’t recognize. She gradually made her way over to them to say hello.
They saw her coming. Well, really, how could anyone miss the dress she was wearing, a gold charmeuse with a belted tunic of crocheted net of metallic thread? She was pleased with the effect. It quite made her feel like one of King Arthur’s knights, if there had been lady knights. The fact that its light skirt was easily tucked up in the belt if she was required to do any sprinting for her life was reassuring. Not to mention the loaded derringer inside her evening bag.
Charlie Miller took her hand. “Lady Dunbridge, thank you for coming, you look stunning.”
He sounded so stilted that Phil was afraid Atkins might laugh. She gave her full attention to the man he was introducing.
“… our distinguished colleague from Paris. Monsieur Jean Bonheur, editor of Le Matin. He’s especially interested in seeing our New Year’s Eve surprise.”
“Enchanté.” Monsieur Bonheur—exquisitely dressed and perfectly coifed, down to his precise goatee—bowed over Phil’s hand.
Their eyes met briefly as he straightened.
And Phil marveled at how he had managed it. Did Miller really think he was a French editor, or was he privy to more than Phil was?
And what about Carr Van Anda, the only person she felt was above suspicion, and who kept casting her looks that hopefully would be taken for flirtation because of the wine that flowed and not because they shared a secret in catching a killer?
“We’re very excited about this new venture,” Van Anda said, just as Samuel Trout came up to the group. Phil prayed that the editor wouldn’t be tempted to cast her a knowing look. “One hundred electric bulbs as it gradually comes to rest on the Times parapet at the stroke of midnight. It will be seen as far as Long Island and New Jersey. We hope to make it a Times tradition.”
“Well, I’ll be watching from the comfort of the Knickerbocker Hotel,” Samuel Trout said. “Champagne, lobster, and central heating.”
Everyone laughed politely. Even Phil smiled, though she was thinking, With any luck, you’ll be watching from the back of a Black Maria.
He turned to Phil, his eyes inviting, challenging. “Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
“Perhaps,” Phil said, practically purring. “But first there’s a little business I need to complete after the reception breaks up. It shouldn’t take long.” She smiled and excused herself, not daring to look back at either Trout or her partners in catching a criminal.
Let them speculate.
Even if Trout came after her personally, she knew the unlikelihood of him being arrested. He could probably shoot her on top of the Times building on New Year’s Eve with all the city watching and nothing would happen to him. He had the protection of Tammany and of Sergeant Becker.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have included Detective Sergeant Atkins in her plan. It could make his life in the police department that much harder if they were able to catch the killer.
It might even be dangerous to his life. And what about Phil’s own life? Becker was obviously willing to do what he thought needed to be done, as far as she was concerned. And unless she was wrong, Trout was more than willing to see the deed completed.
Not if she moved first.
At eleven thirty, Charlie Miller began to guide the guests toward the elevators. There were only a few stragglers left when Phil began to prepare for her solitary trip to the storage room.
She made a show of looking into her bag. Taking out the key, in case anyone was watching. If the word had leaked out. Though any one of the people she expected to linger had left the room. Hanging out in the shadows or nearby rooms to take her unawares?
She hoped so.
“I still think you should let me go with you,” Marty said, coming up to her as she left the reception room.
“We discussed this,” Phil said. “Plans only work when they’re adhered to.” Phil smiled to the Abernathys. “If I don’t see you downstairs, happy New Year.”
The Abernathys returned the good wishes and joined the others taking the elevator down to the street.
There were only a few people left. She didn’t see Sydney anywhere. The Trouts had left earlier, and unless he planned on sneaking back upstairs in the next ten minutes, he would not be giving himself away this year.
Jarvis and Roz had never even made an appearance. Word was that Roz was under the weather and had decided to stay home for the celebrations. Or was nursing a new set of bruises, Phil thought, and felt a shot of pure anger.
There were quite a few of the newspaper people still milling about, finishing off the canapés and liquor. Eddie and Harriet seemed to be arguing about something over the punch bowl.
“Go help Mr. Van Anda get them into elevators,” Phil told Marty. “And keep your eyes open for anyone who cuts away from the group, but don’t confront them.”
“I’ve got it,” Marty said. “You be careful.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
As the last holdouts were herded toward the door, Phil joined them.
In a few minutes all but one of the elevators would shut down. Carr and the “journalist from Paris” had gone down to the editorial floor sometime earlier, and were hopefully waiting to take their positions. Atkins was somewhere about.
It could be any of them, Phil thought despondently. Had she played this too close to home? There was only one way to find out.
As the last of the guests crowded in, Phil took the opportunity to slip away and climb the stairs to the storeroom.
She took in every dark corner, listened for the slightest noise, and let herself into the storeroom with the key she’d just taken out of her purse. Tommy’s key was where she always kept it. In her bodice.
She stopped just inside the door, listening, in case the leaker was already inside and waiting for her.
They were. Two of them. Phil froze as two shadows stepped out from the bank of lockers.
They’d beaten her here. How was that possible?
She thought of her derringer, in her purse and totally useless. She stepped back, thinking furiously. Groped behind her for the light switch, hoping to catch whoever it was off guard with the unexpected light.
She felt for the knob, pushed; the light flickered, and Eddie and Harriet stood blinking like two guilty schoolchildren in the sudden light.
Of course. Eddie had a key. But Phil hadn’t really suspected these two of being the killers.
For an eon they stared at her, their faces frightened masks.
“Well,” Phil said, feeling just as unsettled but hopefully hiding it better.
“We thought you could use some help,” Harriet stammered. Phil let out a sigh, not of relief but of chagrin. That’s all she needed; two enthusiastic, frightened irregulars.
“Thank you, but you should go.” But what if they ran into the villain on his way in? Everything would be ruined, and they might be hurt.
“We want to help,” Eddie said. “You shouldn’t be here alone at night. Should we hide? I brought a wrench I found in the mail room.”
“Okay.” Phil looked quickly around. “Go hide behind that row of lockers. Don’t come out until I give you the word.”
“What word?” Harriet asked as Eddie trundled her out of sight.
“I’ll call your name. Until then don’t make a move.”
There was no time to wait to see them safely stowed away. Phil hurried to the locker and was just unlocking it when she heard the click of the door behind her. She lifted out the packet of notes and turned as the door opened and Sydney Lord stepped into the room.
“You, Sydney.” This had better not be another false alarm.
“What? I have no idea what you mean.”
“No? You’re not here to possibly get a look at these?” Phil held up the packet of Tommy’s notes. Sydney’s eyes flashed, giving his intentions away. “That’s very disappointing, Sydney.”
“Just shut up and give me the notes.”
The door banged open and Marty burst into the room.
Phil could brain her. Her carefully made plan was unraveling quicker than she could catch the killer.
“Give me those.” Marty snatched the notes out of Phil’s hands, and Phil had a terrible moment of wondering if Marty and Sydney were in on this together. It only lasted a second.
“Sydney, how could you?” Marty screamed.
“Just give me the notes, Marty. You can have whatever assignment you want, just name it. But give me the notes.”
“You’re disgusting.” She spat out the words and held the notes tighter.
“Look, I need Tommy’s notes. I’m in deep to some people. You gotta help me. All I did was sell one measly piece of information to The Sun. I just needed a little extra cash. You wouldn’t believe what they pay news editors.”
“Oh, stop whining. Nobody makes any money in this business. You should have gone into something that pays better and where you don’t have to be honest.”
“Just give me the papers.”
“No.” Marty held them out of reach. “You sold out your friends, colleagues, and journalism just to become part of this real-estate extortion scheme.”
“I didn’t want to. I just needed to make some extra cash. I leaked a few stories. Ran a few errands. Then it got out of hand. They threatened me.”
“You killed Tommy, you bastard.”
“What? No!”
“You vermin!”
“I didn’t kill Tommy. I was just supposed to get his notes and turn them over.”
“How?” Phil’s voice fell cool and, she hoped, dispassionately into the fray.
Sydney snorted. “From Harriet. Stupid girl, she didn’t even know she was blabbing. Then Tommy caught her out. Useless.” He lunged toward Marty and the notes.
She tossed them to Phil.
“Please. You’re never going to stop these guys. Tammany, the police, they’re all in each other’s pockets.”
“Who?” asked Phil.
“I can’t tell. They’ll kill me. Please, just give me the notes. No one is going to print them anyway.”
“Samuel Trout?” Phil persisted.
Sydney’s eyes flashed toward the packet she was holding. Phil stepped out of the way, but Marty wasn’t as quick, and he grabbed her and pulled her against him. Held her there with one arm across her chest and the other around her neck.
“Give me the damn papers.”
Marty shook her head minutely.
“Or you’ll do what?” Phil asked.
Marty opened her mouth and bit his wrist.
Sydney yowled and let go.
“Who killed Tommy Green?” Phil asked.
He was holding his wrist and rocking with pain. “I can’t.”
“You will,” Marty said, and stepped toward him.
He cowered back. “If I tell you, will you give me the notes?”
The door swung open—again.
Now what? Had Miller and Van Anda gotten worried and jumped the gun? No, neither Atkins nor Mr. X would have let that happen.
They all turned toward the door as Jarvis Chandler stepped inside. He was holding a pistol, one much larger than Phil’s, which was still in her purse that was hanging uselessly from her elbow. Close, but not close enough.
“What are you doing?” Sydney blurted. “I said I would get them. Did he send you?”
Marty looked as if she were ready to jump him, and Phil silently willed her to stay put.
Jarvis hadn’t been at the reception. Had Trout sent him to see what was taking so long? Or had he come on his own behalf? And he’d come armed.
“Where are they?”
“Wait,” Sydney said. “What the hell’s going on?”
“This … is what’s going on,” Jarvis said, waving the pistol in Sydney’s direction.
“You’re going to kill me, too? Then Marty and Lady Dunbridge? When is it going to stop?”
“Shut up. Just shut up!”
“You killed Tommy?” Marty said. “Why? Just because you facilitated Trout’s real-estate swindle? Nobody would have touched you if you hadn’t murdered Tommy. But you did. And now us? And then who? How many people are you going to—”
“Marty, shut up!” Sydney cried.
“Yes, Mr. Chandler. How many?” Phil said. “They say after the first one, it gets easier. How many people have you killed? How many more will have to die?”
“A man can only hang once.”
“Or in your case, the electric chair,” Phil said.
Marty and Sydney had moved closer together and were staring at Phil as if she’d lost her mind. Perhaps she had. She just needed to get a confession out of him in front of witnesses.
His face crumpled. “No, I’m not like that.”
“But you killed Tommy Green. You slit his throat, didn’t you?”
Chandler looked wildly around the room. For what, Phil couldn’t imagine.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“We’ve heard that before,” Marty said. Then clamped her teeth over her lip.
“He was going to ruin everything.”
“But not your real-estate fraud against the government? That you could have weathered,” Phil said more slowly. “Something a little closer to home. Your home.”
Jarvis stilled, the gun that had been wobbling steadied. And he glared at Phil with such hatred, she was afraid he was going to shoot her on the spot. It was all she could do not to throw herself behind the nearest row of lockers.
“You. You!” His hand was shaking again, and the pistol was jerking so erratically it looked like a live creature.
“You slit his throat while he sat watching a moving picture at the nickelodeon.”
“How did you know that?”
She wasn’t about to tell him she was there. Her life would not be worth the fifteen cents it took to get into the theater. He’d confessed and she needed this to end. Her carefully laid plan would have worked if Sydney had been the killer. He would be in police custody by now.
But they were outside waiting for the killer to run with the notes.
She would just have to help him along and hope they all survived.
“Just tell me what happened and I’ll give you the notes.”
“Phil, no!” cried Marty.
“Tell me.”
Sydney snapped. “Jarvis, you fool. I was getting the papers. I was going to bring them to the Cavalier Club tonight and give them to Trout. Now you’ve implicated us all in murder. You fool.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”
“You couldn’t wait,” Phil said. “Because you didn’t want anyone to see what Tommy might have written, not even your partner in crime, Samuel Trout.”
Tommy and Trout and Mrs. Toscana from the same neighborhood, keeping secrets, holding each other in check by the tenuous balance of their determination. Phil wondered if it would hold now.
“Trout already knows; you killed Tommy for nothing.”
Jarvis’s head snapped from Sydney to Phil, and he turned the pistol on her.
“You—” He straightened the arm holding the pistol.
“No!” yelled Sydney, and lunged at Jarvis. The gun went off in a deafening report, a blast of fire smothered by Sydney’s body, and Sydney fell to the floor.
“Syd!” Marty cried.
From behind the lockers, Harriet screamed.
And in that brief, unexpected distraction, Phil unclasped her purse and grabbed her derringer in an efficient movement that startled her. Jarvis turned toward her, and she fired. The pistol fell out of his hand, and he grabbed his forearm.
For a stunned moment, everyone in the room froze in surprise. Phil was rather surprised herself. She’d actually hit something useful. Those early days of pheasant and skeet shooting must have carried over.
But in her haste, she’d dropped the packet of notes.
Jarvis came to life, snatched up the notes, and ran for the door—and she let him go. After all, there were reinforcements just outside.
“He’s getting away.” Marty started after him.
Eddie and Harriet appeared from behind the lockers.
“Stay here!” Phil ordered. “All of you. Marty, go make sure Sydney’s not going to die on us. We’ll need him as a witness.”
“Jeez,” Marty said, and ran back to kneel beside Sydney.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s good enough.”
“Stay with him and make sure he stays that way.” Phil kicked Jarvis’s pistol toward Marty, jabbed an imperious finger at Eddie and Harriet to stay put, and went out into the hall.
Jarvis was frantically pushing the elevator call button. One of the problems of trying to kill someone twenty-three floors above the ground: getting away.
The elevator doors opened, but instead of rushing inside, Jarvis stumbled back as Carr Van Anda, the “journalist from Paris,” and several other men stepped out.
Jarvis spun on his heel and hurried toward the stairs, grabbed the rail, and nearly fell as an authoritative voice echoed from the steps below. “Jarvis Chandler, I’m arresting you—”
Phil would know the voice of Detective Sergeant Atkins anywhere.
In a blind panic, Jarvis turned and ran up the stairs to the twenty-fourth floor.
Atkins was right behind him. Phil hiked up her gown and ran after them. She could hear other footsteps behind them, and she only stopped at the top stair long enough to free her skirt.
The observatory sat in the middle of the storeroom roof like the tier of a giant wedding cake. There was no escape. The other elevators had been shut down as soon as the reception room was cleared. He would be stuck in the observatory with no way out.
Jarvis swiveled around. The way down was blocked; the way up led only to the smaller lantern room, where six workmen were at the ready to lower the ball to usher in the new year.
The others were closing in, but instead of surrendering, Jarvis sprinted across the room and pushed open the door to the outside observation deck.
“Stay here,” Atkins ordered. “There’s only a parapet preventing anyone from falling five floors to the twentieth floor.”
Phil ignored his order and followed him outside. She wasn’t going to let him go out there to risk his life without her.
Jarvis turned to face them, backed away until he was standing against the parapet. Above them the five-foot ball lit up the sky. Soon it would begin its descent.
“It’s over, Chandler. Just step away from the parapet and come back inside.”
Jarvis glanced over his shoulder at the black space behind him.
“There’s nowhere to go, man.”
Jarvis clutched the packet of notes to his chest, but he didn’t move.
The other men crowded into the doorway. The “journalist from Paris” caught Phil’s eye.
Jarvis took a step back.
Atkins stopped. “Don’t do it, Chandler. Thousands of people are watching.”
Phil glanced down. Times Square was a sea of uplifted faces. Above her head, the ball, lit with a hundred light bulbs, slowly began its descent.
And there was a swell of voices way below them.
“Ten…”
The ball lowered a few feet, jerked, then evened off.
“Nine…”
Jarvis stepped back closer to the edge.
“Eight…”
“Chandler, stay where you are!”
But Jarvis was beyond listening. His back came up against the marble parapet.
“Seven…”
He rebounded slightly, for a moment he seemed to rock forward, then he swayed, his arms waving futilely in the air as his body toppled over the rail.
Atkins lunged for him and managed to grab the sleeve of his jacket.
Phil grabbed Atkins before Jarvis could take him over the side.
“Six…” the crowd below chanted as the ball of light came closer and closer, lighting Jarvis’s mask of terror.
“Five…”
Two of the other men crowded at the parapet, one of them grabbed Atkins to keep him from being dragged over with Jarvis, and Phil quietly moved out of the way.
“Four…”
The other man leaned over to grab something but merely came back with the packet of notes. He tossed it to the ground and tried again.
“Three…”
“Help us, man, give me your hand.”
“Two … One…”
Jarvis suddenly pushed his feet against the wall, snapping the grip of the three men, who barely kept each other from following him over.
And as he plunged through the night, the ball touched the ground, the electric sign of 1908 lit the side of the Times building. The crowd roared “Happy New Year” as a cacophony of noisemakers and horns punctured the night, and confetti filled the air below them.
But on the observation deck, they were all silent. Jarvis Chandler was a mere shadow on the roof below.
Phil stopped Atkins as he ordered his men to the twentieth floor for body retrieval.
He shook his slightly. “I doubt if he survived.”
“You’ll need an ambulance for Sydney. He witnessed Jarvis’s confession. I think he’ll ‘sing,’ I think the expression goes. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Though not the way I would choose to spend a New Year’s Eve.”
“Nor I,” Phil agreed. “And may I just add that I have never in our acquaintance frightened you the way you just frightened me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Atkins looked around. “Where are those notes everyone is trying to get their hands on?”
Phil looked. She didn’t really expect to find them. While everyone was busy trying to save Jarvis Chandler, the “journalist from Paris” had helped himself to Tommy’s notes. She wouldn’t be surprised if she saw news of some significant arrests in the morning paper.
“I believe they’ll find their way to the proper hands,” she said.
Atkins beetled his eyes at her. “I don’t know what you’re up to…”
“I’m going across the street to have a glass—or several—of the Knickerbocker Hotel’s finest champagne to ring in the new year. One less case of extortion in the city, and one less murderer in the world. I don’t suppose you can join us?”
He glanced toward the parapet of the observatory. “Perhaps next year,” he said, and ushered her inside.
“Where have you been?” Bev asked when Phil finally managed to weave through the crush to Bev’s table at the Knickerbocker. “Were you outside in the crowd?”
“Was I ever. What a crush!”
“Wasn’t it the most exciting thing you ever saw?”
“The most exciting,” Phil said. Not that she’d seen much of it. A glass of champagne was thrust into her hand, and she took it gratefully.
“Is Marty coming?”
“A little later. She had news to catch up on.”
“Well, I hope they finally give her a byline.”
“Me, too.”
“A toast, Phil. To a happy new year.”
Lady Dunbridge raised her glass. “To a happy new year.” And to many more missions to come.