Nothing more she could do. Outside it was still dark. She let her head drift back and closed her eyes.

“Hutch,” said Marla. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve a call from Eric.”

Eric Samuels was the Academy’s public relations director. He held the job primarily because he had an engaging smile and a reassuring manner. Everybody liked Eric. When he was in front of an audience, you knew things were going to be okay. He was about average size, black hair, blessed with the ability to sound utterly sincere no matter what he was saying. Curiously, his private manner was at contrast with the public persona. He was a worrier, his gaze tended to drift around the room, and you always got the feeling the situation was headed downhill. His subordinates didn’t dislike him, but they didn’t like working for him. Too nervous. Too excitable. “Do you really think it blew up?” he asked.

“I hope not, Eric. We just don’t know yet.”

“Have we started notifying the families?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? The families would assume the worst no matter what they were told. “No,” she said. “When do you plan to talk to the media?”

“At ten. We can’t wait any longer than that. I understand the story’s already gotten out.”

Moments later she had another call. “Cy Tursi,” Marla said. Tursi did the science beat for the Washington Post. “Wants you to get right back to him. And hold on, there’s another one coming in. Hendrick, looks like.”

Hendrick was Newsletter East. “Refer them to Eric, Marla. And get me the commissioner.”

“He’s not in his office yet.”

“Get him anyway. And I need to see the passenger manifest for the Heffernan. And a next-of-kin list for them and for Abdul.”

Asquith’s voice broke in on her: “What is it, Priscilla?” He always used her given name when he was annoyed with her.

“The story’s getting out. We need to notify the families.”