You do not know me, though you may know of me. My name is Gideon Chase, and I need your help. I am prepared to reward you liberally for it. Help me and you will be rich — and a star.
Wait in the Baskin-Robbins on the corner of 15th and Madison. You may see a man in there who resembles your second husband. Look well, and not hurriedly. When he comes, he will show you where you may find me. When you do, I may confide the means by which you can become mistress of a small fortune within a year. I may also make you a star.
Tonight. Tell no one.
As she read, she heard the outer door of her apartment close. Hurrying out of her bedroom, she bolted and chained that door for the second time that night; her alarm system, a costly one that was supposed to be the last word in such things, had been switched off — though not by her.
The note had been printed on a computer using the same program hers did, and the paper was, or at least might have been, her own Miracle Magnawhite. He had printed it out on her personal computer, almost certainly. Had he done more?
Ten minutes later, she shrugged and put her computer on SLEEP. If Dr. Chase had left a souvenir of his passing on her hard drive, it was too subtle for her antivirus software. Unfolding his note, she read it again. A small fortune. Stardom. It was not signed and so not provably his, although his fingerprints might well be on it.
She had a friend on the Sun-Tribunal; it was entirely possible that her friend was not yet asleep. Speed dialing made the call easy.
“Hello, Sharon? This is Cassie. I’m terribly sorry about bothering you so late, but this is pretty important. Or it might be.”
“It’s okay.” Sharon sounded drowsy. “I was just lying here thinking about lipstick.”
“Lipstick?”
“I try to name shades from A to Z. You know, Apricot Passion, Bathsheeba Pink, Coral Number Ten. It puts me to sleep.”