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  "Yeah. Sure. But it also minimizes our chances of making the book profitable."

  Lori started to ask something, but Malzone went on before she could frame the words.

  "We print a small number of copies, we don't spend money an advertising or promotion. The book flops and we lose money on it—or break even, at best."

  "But it's up to your sales people to sell the book," Jack Drain pointed out.

  Malzone made a sour grin. "Sure. They've got a hundred-some books per season to push, and you expect them to spend any effort on an also-ran? A book the editorial department thinks so little of that they only print a couple thousand copies? Come on! My people ain't stupid, for chrissakes. They're not going to waste their time on a book after you've convinced 'em it's going nowhere."

  "But it's a good novel," Lori insisted.

  "Doesn't matter," replied Malzone. "What's inside the covers doesn't really matter at all. Not when my sales people are out here trying to get the wholesalers and bookstore managers to order the title. None of those people read! They take a look at he cover and ask how many copies we've printed. If we don't show any faith in the book, they sure as hell don't buy it in any quantity."

  "But . . ."

  "And how in hell can you sell books that haven't been printed?" Malzone went on with some heat of passion coloring his lean cheeks. "Suppose your author gets on all the TV talk shows and a zillion people go rushing to the bookstores for his novel. And the stores only have a couple thousand copies of the book because that's all we've printed. You think those customers are going to wait six weeks—or six months—while we make up our minds to go back to press? The hell they will!"

  "So the book bombs," said Lori, "and the writer gets blamed for writing an unsuccessful book."

  "Hey, it's not our fault if a book doesn't sell! Why don't you . . ."

  At that moment the door opened again and Mrs. Bunker entered, accompanied by Scarlet Dean. The argument ended like a light being switched off. Everyone snapped to their feet.

  Mrs. Bunker was all in white, as always: she had bowed to the new slutty look only to the extent that her hair had been frizzed and her silk suit jacket had no blouse beneath it. Pearls adorned her throat, wrists, and earlobes.

  Smiling, she said in her tiny voice, "I'm sure I really don't need to introduce Scarlet Dean. Even those few of you who haven't met her before know of her fine work at Webb and elsewhere. We're truly fortunate to have her join our team."

  Still standing, the assembled editors gave their new chief a smattering of applause. Carl, noticing that Ralph Malzone smacked his hands together along with the rest of them, clapped a few times also.

  Scarlet Dean was a vision in red. Tall and leggy, like a fashion model, her hair was flame, her eyes the green of a deep forest. She wore a sheath of fire-engine red adorned with spangles; Carl immediately thought of a circus trapeze artist. A rope of carnelians lay over her slim bosom. Her face had a slightly evil cast to it, the eyes darting from one person to another, the thin red lips twitching slightly in what might have been an attempt at a smile.

  "Thank you," said Scarlet Dean. "Please—let's sit down and get to work." Her voice was low, sultry, suggestive. Despite himself, Carl felt a thrill of excitement stir him. He felt strangely stimulated and guilty, at the same time.

  "I think the first order of business," the new editor-in-chief was saying, "is to let Mr. Lewis show us his wonderful new invention."

  Suddenly all heads swiveled toward Carl. Feeling a flush of unexpected stage fright, Carl grasped the electro-optical reader in both his hands and got to his feet.

  This time it was different. The device worked perfectly. Carl showed them pages from half a dozen different books. They oohed and aahed. Carl passed it around the table so that each editor could see for him- or herself how easy it was to use the device. Mrs. Bunker was smiling happily at him. All the editors beamed approvingly, now that they knew how the Boss felt about the subject. Lori, of course, was radiating delight and satisfaction. Even Ralph seemed to be pleased with the demonstration.

  But Carl found himself ignoring all of them. He found that he was not looking at Mrs. Bunker, or any of the editors, not even Lori. His eyes were locked on Scarlet Dean, as if he were powerless to look elsewhere. She was smiling at him, a beguiling, bewitching little smile that perked the corners of her mouth and opened her lips just enough for the tip of her pink tongue to peek out at Carl. And her eyes were telling him that she would love to meet with him, alone, just the two of them with no one else.

  He barely heard Mrs. Bunker when she announced that P. T. would definitely see him at five o'clock this afternoon, at the Bunker house.

  MURDER FOUR

  Homicide Lieutenant Jack Moriarty knelt over the expired body of Nora Charleston, a grim look on his lean, weatherbeaten face.

  "That's how they found her, Lieutenant," said the uniformed sergeant. "Musta been dead a couple days, at least."

  Moriarty was glad of the head cold that had stuffed his sinuses so completely that he could smell nothing. Straightening painfully, his arthritis reminding him of his age, he asked, "Forensics been through the apartment yet?"

  "They've finished with the living room, here. They're doin' the bedroom and bath now."

  Moriarty surveyed the apartment. Once it had been very posh, but time had withered it all. The furniture was tattered, the carpeting threadbare. The old lady lying facedown on the living room rug was wearing what had once been an elegant robe. Now it looked frayed and hopelessly old-fashioned, like a faded photo from a high school yearbook.

  "What do you think, Sergeant?" he asked the younger cop. "Burglary? Drugs?"

  The sergeant pulled a long frown. "Nothing taken that we can see. No sign of forced entry. No struggle."

  "Who called it in?"

  "The super. He let himself in when he realized he hadn't seen ler in a couple of days. Called the apartment on the intercom and got no answer. So he let himself in and found her layin' here."

  Moriarty looked back to the frail body of Mrs. Charleston.

  "Thought it was natural causes, at first," the sergeant continued. "She was ninety-nine years old, after all."

  "Sonofabitch couldn't let her live out the full hundred," Moriarty muttered.

  "She musta let him in. Door was shut when the super came in, but the inner locks weren't locked. She let him in, he conked her on the head, and walked out. No noise. No struggle. No fuss."

  "We had another old lady knocked off for no discernible reason," said Moriarty. "Last month, down in Gramercy Park."

  The sergeant said nothing.

  "Wonder if there's any connection?" Moriarty made a mental note to check the homicide computer for similar recent murders and see if there was any common thread to them. Might be a nut case knocking off old ladies.

  He glanced down at the body again. "Couldn't let her live out the full one hundred. Damned shame."

  TWELVE

  Scarlet Dean managed to seat herself in the limousine exactly opposite the young inventor from MIT.

  Her instructions from her former boss, P. Curtis Hawks, had been explicit: find out everything there is to know about the man and his invention. Although Hawks had not revealed his strategy to her, Scarlet had a good idea of what it was. If young Tom Edison's invention is actually as good as it appears to be, Webb Press will buy out Bunker Books, thereby acquiring the electronic book in the process. Failing that, they would buy out the inventor himself.

  There were four of them in the limousine: herself and Mrs. Bunker side by side on the limo's ultraplush rear seat, and on the jumpseats facing them, the slightly exotic-looking young editor who had discovered the handsome inventor and the young man himself. He looked distinctly uncomfortable locked into the car with three attractive women gazing fondly at him.

  Scarlet glanced at the editor and then at Mrs. Bunker. Mrs. Bee's eyes had dollar signs in them; she saw Carl Lewis as a way to make money for Bunker Books. The editor, Lori Somet
hing-or-other, was smiling admiringly at the man. Were they romantically involved? No matter, she would put an end to that quickly enough. If nothing else worked she could always fire the editor.

  She probed Carl Lewis's eyes with her own. He blushed slightly and looked away. He's vulnerable, Scarlet told herself. He can be had.

  She began to consider various possibilities. Of course, Bunker does not want to sell his company. Hawks may be planning an unfriendly takeover, but Bunker himself owns virtually all the stock. There are only a few shares outside the family, and the people who own them are not quick to sell. She knew; she had ordered her broker to quietly buy up as much Bunker stock as could be found. Result: none available. Not one share.

  "The few percent that Bunker and his family don't personally own are held mostly by retirees," the broker had told her. "Old friends of Bunker's father and mother. They just won't sell."

  The thing to do, then, is to get Lewis and his invention away from Bunker. Which means getting him away from this dark-haired editor. That shouldn't be too difficult. In less than a week I'll have him eating out of the palm of my hand—so to speak.

  Then Scarlet Dean had her inspiration. If Carl Lewis is personally attached to me, I can write my own ticket with Hawks and Webb Press. Or any other publishing house in New York! In the world!

  She turned up the wattage on her smile and was pleased to see Lewis squirm a little on the jumpseat.

  The limousine crawled through Manhattan's late afternoon traffic and finally pulled up in front of what had once been a five-story tenement in the Lower East Side. Now it was one of long rows of posh town houses, each with its own marquee and private parking space at curbside. The law banning private autos in Manhattan did not apply to residents of the borough, naturally. Eighty percent of the private cars registered in Manhattan were limousines, which also seemed natural enough.

  A live doorman helped Mrs. Bunker out of the limo and escorted her to the front door of the house. Carl got out next and helped Lori and Scarlet Dean, while the chauffeur slowly strolled around the monstrously long vehicle just in time to close the rear door.

  Mrs. Bunker ushered her three guests up the sweeping marble stairs and into the second-floor parlor, where still another live servant met them with a rolling cart laden with drinks.

  "Please make yourselves comfortable," she said. "I'll go and tell P. T. that you're here."

  Carl had never seen such splendor. The room was huge, richly carpeted, pillared with marble, paneled with rare Mayan tile. On the walls were hologram reproductions of the wonders of the world. Simply by turning around, Carl could look out upon the Sphinx guarding the great pyramids, or snow-capped Mt. Everest, or the original Disneyland romantically shrouded in sunset-pink smog.

  Lori seemed equally impressed. "What a beautiful room," she murmured as the butler—she guessed he was the butler—poured her a diet cola.

  Only Scarlet seemed to take it all in stride. "They found a good decorator," she said, and ordered a martini. Heading for the deep, fur-covered easy chair set before the fireplace hologram, she advised:

  "Better relax and make yourselves comfortable. From what I know of P. T. Bunker, we have a considerable wait in store for us."

  Mrs. Bunker, meanwhile, had gone to the splendid bedroom of their home. The master bedroom and the second-floor parlor were the only two rooms in the huge house that were decently furnished and decorated. The parlor, of course, was to impress visitors. The bedroom was for the two of them. The other rooms of the house were either bare and unused, or furnished with Spartan spareness. P. T.'s office, adjoining the bedroom, contained the same old pine desk that he had started with. Behind it was a magnificent hologram of the New York harbor. When P. T. talked with people by Picturephone, they saw the harbor and little else. And no visitor saw any part of the house other than the second-floor parlor.

  They had intended to furnish the entire house just as sumptuously as the parlor and master bedroom. But running a business twenty-four hours a day saps one's energy and will. After a long, long day of frantic decisions and boring conferences, there just is no time or strength left to deal with decorators and painters.

  Moreover, there was no money. Every cent the Bunkers had was tied up in the business. Being a middling-sized publishing house was a perilous existence. The big houses kept trying to buy out Bunker Books, or squeeze the company into bankruptcy. The smaller houses constantly undersold them.

  Alba checked out her appearance in the full-length mirror next to the big circular waterbed. She frowned slightly. The slutty look was not for her. She had heard a rumor that next week's fashion would emphasize elegance: the Fred and Ginger look, from what she had been able to glean. She looked forward to it.

  With a glance at her gold wristwatch she called through the open door to the office, "Pandro, dear, the guests are here."

  No reply.

  Alba went to the doorway. P. T. Bunker sat alone at the ancient desk of his childhood, an old-fashioned pair of bifocals perched on his nose, one finger running down a long column of computer printout figures, a semidesperate expression on his face. It was still a ruggedly handsome face, despite the years of worry and responsibilities that had carved deep lines into it. Worse, those years of sitting behind a desk and directing the firm had brought about a certain sagging around the jawline. Even his broad shoulders and brawny arms seemed to be withering. And his bulging stomach was stretching the buttons on his sport shirt, she noticed.

  "Pandro, darling, we have guests downstairs."

  He looked up at her, peering over the bifocal rims. "Do you know," he said, "that we've been losing money steadily on every category we publish, except for the self-help books." His voice was a sweet clear tenor, the voice of a born singer, a voice that should have led to the opera rather than conference calls with bankers in Beijing.

  "Self-help books always sell, dear," Alba replied patiently. "The same awful people keep buying them, year after year."

  "Don't the books actually help them?"

  "Heavens, no! If they did, the entire category would have gone down the tubes ages ago."

  Bunker wiped a bead of perspiration from the end of his nose. The office was uncomfortably warm. Windowless, totally underrated except for the hologram view of the harbor, the stuffy little room held nothing but the desk and rows of aged filing cabinets. Despite the computer printouts that he was perusing, and despite the impressive array of electronic hardware on his desk, P. T. Bunker neither used nor trusted computers. Alba understood and sympathized; the poor dear had never learned to type, and it just would not be fair to expect him to embarrass himself trying to learn, since he was such an important and busy man.

  "We shouldn't keep them waiting too long," she urged gently.

  Bunker glanced at the calendar pad on his desk and the notes that his wife had written on it.

  "Do I have to see these people?"

  He had become a borderline agoraphobe, she knew. Over the years of his sweating and struggling to make Bunker Books profitable, he had slowly but steadily withdrawn into his own private, inner fortress. He trusted no one except his wife, and Alba wondered if the day would ever come when even she was shut out of his increasingly desperate broodings. He would much rather remain cooped up in this unhealthy little cell than come out and meet the people who had come to pay homage to him. He hardly ever left the house, and it was getting more and more difficult to get him to see anyone, even in the comfortable security of the downstairs parlor.

  "You know I wouldn't bother you if it weren't important, dear."

  "Why can't I talk to them over the Picturephone?" he asked unhappily.

  "I think they might find that a little strange."

  "We could tell them I'm . . . I'm . . ."His voice trailed off and faded away into silence.

  "It's all right, darling," Alba said soothingly. "I'll be right beside you."

  With an unhappy frown, P. T. Bunker got up from his desk. He wore only a pair of boxer trunks
beneath his stylish open-neck sport shirt. Like a TV newscaster, Bunker had no need to clothe himself below his navel. Not as long as he remained behind his desk.

  Now, however, he walked into the bedroom and began the ritual of showering, shaving, and dressing for company. He had been an impressive figure when Alba had first met him, nearly twenty years earlier. She had been an advertising copywriter for a small agency that still had its office on Madison Avenue. He had just started Bunker Books on the shoestring ten million his father had loaned him. It was love at first sight, a whirlwind courtship and marriage within a week. Never had either one of them regretted an instant of their life together. There had been hard times, businesswise, of course; in fact, the publishing business was always on hard times, it seemed. But Alba and Pandro loved each other with a steadfastness that defied all the strains and pressures of the lunatic world of publishing.

  While he dressed she explained once again about Carl Lewis and the electronic book. Pandro cast her a skeptical look, but said nothing. Alba also reminded him that he would meet Scarlet Dean, their new editor-in-chief. He nodded and grunted as he tugged on his muscle suit.

  It had been years since P. T. had taken the time to play tennis or swim in the four-lane pool they had built in the basement of heir home. His once proud physique, with its flat stomach and powerful shoulders and arms, had slumped into middle-aged flabbiness. He avoided revealing this to the people with whom he did business over the Picturephone by wearing shirts that had impressive shoulder pads built into them.

  But when he had to meet people in person, sterner measures were required. The muscle suit gave him the same athletic physique he had possessed decades ago. Once covered with a tight-fitting sport shirt and even tighter jeans, no one could tell that P. T.'s muscular build was made of plastic foam. He looked better than a matador, in Alba's eyes.

  He complained about putting in his contact lenses, and worried that his toupee might have been askew. His cowboy boots returned the inch or so that had been taken away by years of bending over a desk. All in all, he looked handsome, trim, tanned, and ready to face the world—thanks to a touch of makeup and a constant stream of encouraging chatter from his wife.