Sergeant Eberhart wasn't exactly sure what a television production manager did, but from the evidence of Leila Hudson's office it took a lot of paper to do it. The office was small and cramped, but it did have a window. One wall was covered with title graphics, another held a series of sketches of living room settings. Leila saw him looking at the sketches and said, "You have a measly fifteen-by-twenty-foot space to work with, a budget that keeps shrinking with each new memo from the accounting office, and instructions to create the interior of a Rockefeller-type mansion. What would you do?" He laughed. "Hire a wizard." "I wish I could," she sighed. "My designer hates me. There's a chair under that pile of transparencies if you want to sit down." Eberhart made himself a seat. "How long have you been doing this kind of work?" "About eight years," she said. "I've been with this production company only two, though." "I've got to ask you a question." She nodded. "Didn't think you were here to make small talk." "Has Leon Walsh asked you for money lately?" She leaned back in her chair and gave him a long look.
