Polly Paget had been a typist in the secretarial pool of Jack Landis’s New York office and, according to Polly, Jack Landis had done a few laps in her end of the pool.

On its own, Neal knew this was not particularly earthshaking. Polly Paget certainly wouldn’t be the first secretary who had typed twenty words an hour and had the job security of a federal employee, and she wouldn’t be the last secretary who did more work on her desk than at it. What started to make Polly Paget exceptional was the fact that she claimed she had been raped.

None of which would have even made the paper, except that the alleged rapist was none other than Jackson Landis himself, the founder, president, and majority owner of the Family Cable Network. Jack was also the devoted husband of Candy Landis, with whom he cohosted the top-rated cable show in the country, “The Jack and Candy Family Hour,” a program so wholesome it made “The Lawrence Welk Show” look like a Tijuana animal act.

Neal didn’t know whether he believed Polly himself.

She fits the part, Neal thought.

“Disiz a cute lihul place yoo got heah,” Polly said as Karen set her suitcase down in the kitchen. “Gawd, izit faw enough away from evryting, or what. Oi mean, we drove an drove an drove an drove and Oi dint see anyting, nevuh moind a mall. An joo have a batroom Oi could use? Oi have really gadda pee.”

Polly Paget was a walking, talking-especially talking-stereotype. Her auburn hair was big-teased, blow-dried, and sprayed into a huge red halo that looked like a sunset over an oil refinery. She had a handsome, long face with a wide slash of mouth and two long incisors that looked just a little like fangs and gave her a slightly predatory look. Her long, thin nose had a slight Roman curve. Neal had to admit to himself that her eyes were sexy. Framed by wide red eyebrows, her green cat eyes sparkled behind the layers of mascara, eyeliner, and fake lashes. Everything about Polly screamed bimbo.