Private Screening by Richard North Patterson

settlement.”
    Lord glanced at Christopher. He had picked up the ball and begun bouncing it. “Did he mention a time?”
    â€œNoonish.”
    â€œTry to make it morning, all right? I’d like to keep the afternoon free.”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œBe firm with him,” he smiled. “Just leave a message with the sitter.”
    â€œEnjoy the party,” she said dryly, and hung up.
    Christopher was throwing the ball at an angle, trying to make it ricochet off the wall up into the Chinese lantern that Lord had hung for him. “What happens if you get it in?” Lord asked. “It’ll be stuck there.”
    Christopher’s eyes danced. “That’d be delightful.”
    â€œDelightful?” Lord grinned now. “Where’d you hear that?”
    â€œThat’s what you said when the toilet stuck.” Turning, Christopher got ready to throw. “Let’s make a rule—you have to stay here till I get the ball in.”
    Lord leaned against the wall, smiling. “But by then I might be very old.”
    â€œNot too old.…”
    â€œTony?” Marcia called. “The sitter’s here.”
    â€œJust one sec.” He scooped up Christopher and kissed him. “Got to run now.”
    â€œBut we didn’t get to play.”
    â€œYou’re going to need your rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
    As they left, Lord watched him in the rearview, waving through the screen door. Their home was tucked into a hillside, with trees surrounding it and a deck overlooking the Noe Valley district; idly, Lord reflected that this was the only house his son had ever lived in. “You look nice,” he said to Marcia.
    â€œI try to. Actually, I’m looking forward to meeting James Kilcannon. He certainly comes across on television.”
    Lord adjusted the rearview. “With or without makeup?”
    â€œThat’s mean, Tony. I really do like what he stands for.”
    When Lord did not answer, Marcia turned on the radio.
    10
    S POTTING faces at the party, Stacy guessed the lives they led.
    She and Jamie stood in the living room, chatting with guests brought over by Alexis or Jamie’s aides. Around them, people drank and talked until their turn arrived. Nat Schlesinger hovered on Jamie’s left, murmuring the names of those with money to give, then easing them to Stacy before they used up too much time. Like the lead in a drawing-room comedy, Jamie made his role look effortless; no one but Stacy knew that he was working hard at something he disliked. But for her, watching people was a distraction from twenty thousand other people, waiting. Her stomach was empty.
    â€œThis must be so different for you,” the overdone blonde in front of her condescended.
    Smiling, Stacy answered, “That’s what makes it interesting,” and then the aging coquette stared up at Jamie.
    â€œOh, Senator,” she trilled, “I must think of something clever to say to you .”
    Jamie laughed, taking her hand. “Just be nice to me.”
    Amused despite her edginess, Stacy looked around the room.
    Teeth flashed; heads bobbed; mouths moved that made no sound; waiters served champagne and drinks from silver trays. No one really stood out. For sport, Stacy guessed that the pinstripes and alert, attentive looks belonged to lawyers or investment bankers; the continental suits, affected languor, or young faces without character to real estate speculators, and those with an inheritance; the silk handkerchiefs and bright-eyed animation to restaurateurs and decorators and younger entrepreneurs; the blue or gray suits and added bulk to older self-employed businessmen or local politicians. One of these, a man whose red hair was cropped to bristles on a pink fleshy neck, talked to a blond man in a tan linen suit who studied him with keenness but without respect.
    This man, Stacy decided, didn’t look like the others.
    He