Chapter One
Mitch Berger was sprawled on his living room sofa at two in the
afternoon watching The Manchurian Candidate and devouring his
fourth Krispy Kreme honey-dipped of the day when the woman he
worked for buzzed his apartment.
For Mitch to be home in the middle of the day watching an old
movie on TV was not unusual. He was the lead film critic of the
most prestigious—and therefore the lowest paying—of the three
New York City daily newspapers. And while he did have a desk in
midtown alongside of the paper's other eminent culture vultures, he
generally worked at home. His books were here. His VCR was
here. His lair was here.
But for his editor to show up at his apartment unannounced was
most unusual indeed. Shocking, even.
Lacy Mickerson was a tall, edgy tuning fork of a woman in her
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