lane were posted next to driveways that led back to homes shielded from view by thick evergreens or high stone walls. Each driveway occurred at an interval Gurney estimated to be no less than a quarter mile from its nearest neighbor. The final address on the lane was
Kim turned in to the elegant Belgian-block driveway and drove slowly ahead through a virtual tunnel of massive rhododendrons. Then the tunnel opened, the driveway widened, and they were in front of Rudy Getz’s home-an angular glass-and-concrete affair, hardly homey.
“This is it,” said Kim with nervous excitement as she came to a stop in front of cantilevered concrete steps leading up to a metal door.
They got out of the car, climbed the steps, and were about to knock when the door opened. The man who greeted them was short and stocky, with pale skin, thinning gray hair, and hooded eyes. He was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, and an off-white linen sport jacket. He held a colorless drink in a short, fat glass. He reminded Gurney of a porno-film producer.
“Hey, nice to see you,” he said to Kim with the cordiality of a drowsy Gila monster. He eyed Gurney, his mouth stretching into an emotionless grin. “You must be her famous detective adviser. Pleasure. Come in.” He stepped back, gesturing them into the house with his glass. He squinted at the gray sky. “Fucking inclement weather, you know?”
The interior of the house was as aggressively modern and angular as the outside-mostly leather, metal, glass, cold colors, white oak floors.
“What are you drinking, Detective?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing. Right. And for you, Ms.
“Maybe just some water?”
“Water.” He nodded, repeating the word as though it were an interesting comment she’d made, rather than a request. “So. Come in, sit down.” He gestured with his glass toward a seating area in front of a cathedral-size window. As he spoke, a young woman in a skintight black leotard flew across the expansive room on eerily silent Rollerblades and disappeared through a doorway in the far wall.
Getz led the way to a set of six brushed-aluminum chairs around an oval acrylic coffee table, his mouth widening into a smile-like expression, shocking in its lack of warmth.
After they’d seated themselves at the low table, the Rollerblader flew back across the room, disappearing into another doorway. “Claudia,” Getz announced with a wink, as though revealing a secret. “She’s cute, eh?”
“Who is she?” asked Kim, who seemed taken aback by the display.
“My niece. She’s staying here for a while. She likes to skate.” He paused. “But we’re here for business, right?” The smile evaporated, as though the time for small talk had passed. “So I have some great news for you.
Kim looked more confused than pleased. “Polling? But how did you-”
Getz interrupted her. “We have a proprietary system for evaluating program concepts. We create a representative slice of the show, expose it via podcast to a statistically representative audience sample, and get real-time online feedback. Turns out to be super predictive.”
“But what material did you use? My interviews with Ruth and Jimi?”
“Slices. Representative slices. Plus a little surrounding info to set the scene.”
“But those interviews were shot on my amateur cameras. They weren’t intended-”
Getz leaned forward over the table toward Kim. “Fact is, the so-called amateur look in this case turns out to be perfect. Sometimes the zero-production-values look is exactly right. It says honesty. Just like your personality. Earnest. Open. Young. Innocent. See, that’s another thing our test audience told us. I shouldn’t tell you this, but I will. Because I want you to trust me. They love you. They absolutely love you! So I’m thinking we have a future in front of us. What do you think of that?”
Kim was wide-eyed, her mouth open. “I don’t know. I mean… they just saw a slice of an interview?”
“Wrapped in a little blanket of explanation, perspective-like we’d do in the actual show. The testing vehicle on the restricted podcast is put together like a one-hour show, composed of four program concepts-thirteen minutes each. So in this case we included yours, plus three other programs we’re considering. This testing vehicle is called
Gurney smiled. “Obviously they got it all wrong.”
Getz pointed a finger at him, like a teacher drawing attention to a bright student. “Obviously! News is life, life is emotion, emotion is
“Clear as crystal,” said Gurney mildly.
“So that’s why we call the show where we test our ideas
Kim blinked, swallowed. “And…
“Big thumb, way up!”
Kim started to ask another question, but Getz cut her off, continuing along his own train of thought. “Way up! Which I find personally gratifying. Karma, full circle! Because it was our original coverage of the Good Shepherd murder spree that catapulted RAM News to the top. Where we belong. The idea of coming back to it now, exactly ten years later-that has the perfect vibe. I feel it in my bones! Now, how about a fantastic lunch?”
On cue, Claudia reappeared, balancing a large tray, which she placed on the coffee table. Her gel-spiked hair, which Gurney had originally taken for black, he now noted was a deep blue-a blue just a bit darker than her eyes, which met his momentarily with a disturbing frankness. He doubted she was out of her teens. She pirouetted on the tip of one blade, then cruised languidly across the room, looking back once before gliding out of sight.
There were three plates on the tray. On each there was an elaborate, delicately arranged display of sushi. The colors were beautiful, the shapes intricate. None of the ingredients were familiar to Gurney-nor, apparently, to Kim, who was studying the display with alarm.
“Another Toshiro masterpiece,” said Getz.
“Who’s Toshiro?” asked Kim.
Getz’s eyes glinted. “He’s the prize I stole from a hot sushi restaurant in the city.” He took one of the bright little chunks from the plate nearest him and popped it into his mouth.
Gurney followed suit. It was unidentifiable but surprisingly delicious.
Kim, who appeared to be calling on her reserves of courage, tried a piece and visibly relaxed after a few seconds of chewing. “Lovely,” she said. “So now he’s your personal chef?”
“One of the rewards.”
“You must be very good at what you do,” said Gurney.
“I’m very good at recognizing what people will connect with.” Getz paused, then added as though the idea had just dawned on him, “My talent is the ability to recognize talent.”
Gurney nodded blandly, intrigued by the man’s shameless self-regard.
Kim seemed eager to move the conversation back to
