“I’m looking for Caitlyn James,” the Boss said. He looked around the busy apartment with interest bordering on alarm. There were, at rough count, about a thousand people crammed into the nine-hundred-square-foot apartment. He’d never seen such a fire hazard in his life. And he’d been at fires. The newest Beyoncé CD was on the stereo, and the whir of blenders kept punctuating the air. “I’m her supervisor.”

Stacy blinked at the man, who was exactly her height and had the most evil eyes she had ever seen. Also the most expensive suit and the palest eyebrows. She was instantly captivated. “Hi,” she said, sticking her hand out. The Boss shook it, then dropped it. “I’m Stacy Gwen.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen pictures.” He paused, then added somewhat awkwardly, “They don’t do you justice.”

“Thanks. I think. It’s nice of you to come to the party.”

“I wasn’t exactly invited,” he said, weirdly compelled to tell the truth to Stacy Gwen, whose surveillance photos, driver’s license photo, and government file did not convey a tenth of the woman’s charm.

“Yeah, I know. Which is quite a trick, for one of these parties. Um, Caitlyn’s around here somewh—”

“Who’s this?” Dara cried, bouncing up to them like Tigger after one too many margaritas. “Oooh,” she said, fingering the Boss’s lapel. “Great suit!”

“This is Caitlyn’s new boss. The one she’s been, um, talking so much about. The postmaster general of Minnesota.”

The Boss rolled his eyes as Dara looked suitably impressed. “Is that like being a military general?” she asked, letting go of the Boss’s spotless lapel. “Or is it more like being, like, a civilian?”

“No, and no. I’m here to see Caitlyn.” Then, as Dara shrugged and turned away, he said to Stacy, “Postmaster general?”

“Well, you know. She took that civil service exam and all. That was during her ‘I’d better have something to fall back on in case Mag doesn’t work’ phase. And even though you said she could tell everybody she’s like, Super Alias, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

The Boss took a closer look at Caitlyn’s friend. “That was fast thinking.”

“Oh, I’ve had, like, a week to come up with it. It wasn’t fast at all.” She grinned, showing perfectly straight teeth, the results of an adolescence spent in the heartbreak of braces. She looked good, which was par for the course, and she was just drunk enough to not be intimidated by the guy, who was old enough to be her uncle but dressed way better. “Drink?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, we got margaritas and margaritas.”

“I’ll have the latter.”

“So, you’re here about the dead guys, I bet,” Stacy said, shooing three Delta Delta Delta fraternity fellows away from the blenders. “We saw them in the paper this morning. It’s okay if we talk about this, right?” she nearly shouted, desperate to be heard over the din.

“It’s fine. Nobody’s paying any attention to us. And yes, I’m here about the dead guys. We could use your friend’s help.”

“Oh, dude. That’s not why you’re here, is it?” Stacy’s mussy hair seemed to stand up in horror. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? Don’t you think you should have, like, a team of Alias types on this? Instead of dumping it on Caitlyn?”

“She’ll have support,” he said defensively. “Thank you.” His tongue darted out, snakelike, and licked some of the salt off the rim of his glass. “Don’t you think she owes it to her country?”

“Dude, don’t get me started, okay?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means drink up.” They drank in silence, broken by Stacy after a minute, “So, you’re like, the head of this super-secret government agency, huh?”

“Something like that. And you’re a real estate agent as of fifteen days ago.”

“Yeah, well. So, do you like your job?”

“I love my country,” he said robotically.

“Uh-huh. Listen, do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I can’t. I have to talk to Caitlyn.”

“Well, listen. Take some advice from a gal who has known Caitlyn lo these many years.”

He snickered. “Lo?”

“If she sees you here, crashing her party just to bug her about her patriotic duty—so not the button to push, BTW—she’ll just get her back up. But you know what she spent the day doing?”

“Yes. I’m sure there’s a file somewhere.”

“Right, well, do you know what it means?” Stacy asked patiently. “She spent the day explaining to me, in great and dull detail, why it’s not her job to go after your rogue-killer dude. And she explains why she shouldn’t do something only when she’s just about made up her mind that she’s gonna do it. So if I were you, I’d just let Caitlyn come to you.”

“Mmmm.”

“So, I repeat: do you want to get out of here?”

The Boss studied her. “I really shouldn’t. It’s—it’s not like me. And I don’t like to leave unless I’ve gotten what I want.”

“Well, maybe you just didn’t know what you wanted exactly.” Stacy refilled his glass. “You know what I mean?”

“No. Why don’t you explain it to me? And may I say, that is a lovely blouse.”

“It’s the new black, dude.”

“So I hear.”

“Oh, dude!” Stacy rolled over, tried to find her bra amid the pile of coats, gave up, and flopped back.

“Ditto. That was—”

“Quick. But nice,” she added hastily. “Look, I usually ask this question before nudity rears its ugly head, but in all the excitement, I forgot.”

“Two hundred thirty thousand a year.”

“Not that. But good to know, BTW. What’s your name?”

“Uh…”

“And don’t make something up either, because I have, like, a total sixth sense about this stuff.”

“Well, everybody just calls me the Boss,” he said cautiously, running his knuckles down her bare arm.

“I know that. What’s your mama call you?”

“I never had a mother.”

“What’s the name on your birth certificate?” she asked, exasperated.

“Baby Boy Tyler.”

“Oh. Uh, never mind. But damned if I’m going to call you Boss. How about Fred?”

He grinned in the dark. “Do not call me Fred.”

“Marty?”

“Pass.”

“Bill?”

“Do I look like a Bill?”

“I dunno what you look like,” she said. “A scary white guy is what I thought. But you’re all hype.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Damn, where’s my underpants?”

“Under my—there.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re leaving?”

“No, I just like to know where my underwear is. Besides, you did a pretty good job jamming the door closed with Caitlyn’s office chair; I don’t think anybody’s gonna barge in on us.” She giggled. “God, she’s going to die when I tell her I nailed the Boss.”

“I thought I nailed you.”

“Dude, we kind of nailed each other. God bless the margarita.”

“You’re not drunk,” he said with total certainty.

“Naw. But I never would have had the guts to even talk to you without one or two of those suckers in me.”

“Really? But you’re so beautiful.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve been blessed with good skin and great hair,” she said in a jaunty shampoo-commercial voice, which made him laugh, “and never mind what Caitlyn says about my roots.”

“Seriously. I wouldn’t think someone like you would be nervous about talking to anybody.”

“Well, I am. But thanks.” Then, “Someone like me?”

“Oh, you know. You look like an escapee from a Glamour photo shoot, not like a real person. And when you talk to people, you’re really good at putting them at ease.”

“Well, thanks. You’re good at—um—”

“Never mind.”

There was a long, comfortable silence, broken by his halting “Gregory. It’s Gregory.”

“Well, all right. It’s better than Marty, God knows.”

“That’s true.” He paused again, then said, “I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.”

“All right, ya weirdo. Uh, listen, Gregory…” Now it was her turn to struggle with words. “I…I gotta…um…”

“Oh, dear. You’re breaking up with me already?”

She snorted, then wrenched it out. “Thanks for saving my friend, okay? I mean, bottom line, she’s alive because of your guys, what you told them to do. And—and I don’t know what I would have done, you know?”

“No, I guess I don’t know. Not like I know the weight of light or the twenty-ten budget.”

“Light has weight?” she said, appalled. “That’s so lame!”

“No, it’s science. Anyway. I don’t have any friends,” he said, “but I have a vivid imagination. It doesn’t sound very nice. So, you’re welcome.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve figured out where my bra is?”

“It’s in my front left pants pocket. I was, uh, planning on taking it home.”

“Oh. That’s kind of cute. No, creepy. No, cute.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.