"Any beer?"
"Might not be very cold."
Diane unslung the heavy leather bag from her shoulder and let it clunk to the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, kicked her boots off, and leaned back tiredly.
"Beer's fine . . . even warm beer."
"Why the hell did you come back tonight? And how'd you get from the bus terminal this time of night?"
"Phoned for a cab and waited at the terminal until they scared one up for me."
Kinsman took the four steps to his kitchenette and bent down to open the refrigerator. The beer bottles seemed fairly cold to his touch.
"That terminal's not a good place to hang around," he said, peering into the shadowy shelves above the sink for a clean glass. "Especially at night."
"There were a couple of cops. I talked with them while I waited. They recognized me from my videos. They even encouraged the taxi company to find a cab for me."
Handing her the bottle and a glass, Kinsman said, "It pays to be beautiful."
"And famous," she added immediately.
"But . . . why?" he asked, sitting on the floor beside the bed. "What was so important about getting back here?"
She took a swallow of beer from the bottle. "That was a pretty heavy message you laid on me this afternoon."
"Yeah, I guess it was. Have you had a chance to see Neal?"
"Not yet."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. I mean, later today—right after his commit- tee hearings."
"Good."
"But I've got to know something, Chet. That's why I'm here."
"I can't go into the details, Diane. They're classified. But it's damned important that Neal realizes what's at stake."
