by Nora Roberts
“That bloody music put a roof over your head.”
“Da.” With the stuffed dog clutched in her arms, Emma stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and frightened, her lower lip trembling. She had heard the angry voices, smelled the hot odor of liquor before she stepped into the room.
“Emma.” A bit unsteady, Brian walked over to pick her up, careful not to jar her arm with the cast. “What are you doing down here?”
“I had a bad dream.” The snakes had come back, and the monsters. She could still hear the echo of Darren’s cries.
“Hard to sleep in a strange bed.” Liam got to his feet. His hand was awkward, but it was gentle as he patted her head. “Your grandda will fix you some warm milk.”
She sniffled as he took out an old, dented pan. “Can I stay with you?” she asked her father.
“Sure.” He carried her to a chair and sat with her on his lap.
“I woke up, and I couldn’t find you.”
“I’m right here, Emma.” He stroked her hair, studying his father over her head. “I’ll always be here for you.”
Even there, Lou thought. Even at such a time. He studied the grainy tabloid pictures of Darren McAvoy’s funeral. He’d seen the paper at the checkout of the supermarket when he’d picked up the whole wheat bread Marge had sent him out for. Like anything that had to do with the McAvoys, it had caught his interest, and his sympathy. He’d been more than a little embarrassed to have bought it, in public, from Sally the checker.
In the privacy of his own home, he felt even more like a voyeur. For a few pieces of loose change he, and thousands of others, could witness the intimacy of grief. It was there on all the faces, though they were blurred. He could see the little girl, her arm in a cast and sling.
He wondered how much she had seen, how much she would remember. The doctors he had consulted had all claimed that if she had witnessed anything, she had blocked it. She could remember tomorrow, five years from tomorrow, or never.
DEVASTATION AT GRAVESITE
There had been other headlines, dozens of others. Lou already had a drawerful.
DID EMMA MCAVOY WITNESS HER BROTHER’S
HORRIBLE DEATH?
SON’S DEATH ROCKS DEVASTATION
CHILD MURDERED DURING PARENTS’ ORGY
RITUAL KILLING OF ROCKER’S BABY:
ARE MANSON FOLLOWERS RESPONSIBLE?
Garbage, Lou thought. It was all garbage. He wondered if Pete Page managed to shield the McAvoys from the worst of it. Frustrated, he rested his head in his hands and continued to stare at the picture.
He couldn’t pull himself away from the case. He was bringing his work home with him now, and bringing it home with a vengeance. Files, photos, notes littered his desk in the corner of Marge’s tidy living room. Though he had good men assigned with him, he double-checked all their work. He had personally interviewed everyone on the guest list he’d been given. He’d pored over the forensic reports, then had gone back again and again to comb through Darren’s room.
More than two weeks after the murder, and Lou had absolutely nothing.
For amateurs, they certainly covered their tracks, he thought. And they had been amateurs, he was certain. Professionals didn’t end up smothering a child that might have been worth a million in ransom, nor would they made such a poor attempt to give the illusion of a break-in.
They had been in the house. They had walked right through the front door. That was something else Lou was sure of. That didn’t mean their names were on the list Page had managed to compile. Half of Southern California could have walked into the house that night—and been given a drink or a joint or whatever party drugs had been available.
There hadn’t been any fingerprints in the boy’s room, not even on the hypodermic needle. There were only fingerprints of the McAvoys and their nanny. It seemed that Beverly McAvoy was an excellent housekeeper. The first floor had shown the disorder expected in the aftermath of a party, but the second floor, the family floor, had been clean and ordered. Marge would have approved, he thought as he imagined the rooms. No fingerprints, no dust, no signs of struggle.
But there had been a struggle, a life-and-death struggle. Sometime during it a hand had clamped over Darren McAvoy’s mouth and, perhaps inadvertently, his nose.
That struggle had occurred sometime between the time Emma had heard her brother cry—if indeed she had—and when Beverly McAvoy had gone up to check on her son.
How long had it taken? Five minutes, ten. Certainly no longer. According to the coroner, Darren McAvoy had died between two and two-thirty A.M. The ambulance call for Emma had been logged in at two-seventeen.
It didn’t help, Lou thought now. It didn’t help to have the times correlated, to have reams of notes and neatly labeled file folders. He needed to find just one thing out of place, one name that didn’t fit, one story that didn’t jibe.
He needed to find Darren McAvoy’s killers. If he didn’t, he knew he would forever be haunted by the boy’s face, and his young sister’s tearful question.
Was it my fault?
“Dad?”
Lou jolted, then turned to see his son standing behind him, tossing a football from hand to hand.
“Michael, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t.” Michael rolled his eyes when his father turned around again. If he slammed doors and walked through the house like a normal person, he was being too noisy. If he tried to be quiet, he was sneaking. A guy couldn’t win.
“Dad,” he said again.
“Hmmm?”
“You said you’d pass me a few this afternoon.”
“When I’m finished, Michael.”
Michael shifted from foot to foot in his scruffy black sneakers. In the past few weeks “When I’m finished” had been his father’s standard answer. “When will you be finished?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll be finished faster if you don’t bother me.”
Hell, Michael thought, wisely keeping the oath in his mind. Nobody had time for anything anymore. His best friend was at his stupid grandmother’s, and his second best friend was sick with the dumb flu or something. What good was a Saturday if you didn’t get to fool around?
He tried, really, to take his father’s advice. There was the Christmas tree to look at, and all the presents stacked beneath it. Michael picked up one with his name on it, the one wrapped in the paper with goofy elves dancing all over it. He shook it, carefully. The rattle was only slight but brought tremendous satisfaction.
He wanted a remote-controlled plane. It had been first on his Christmas list and written in capital letters, then underlined three times. Just so his mom and dad knew he was serious. He was sure, dead sure, it was inside that box.
He set it down again. It would be days before he could unwrap it, days before he could take it outside and make it do loops and dives.
He needed something to do now,
There were baking smells in the kitchen, which pleased him. But he knew if he wandered in there, his mother would rope him into rolling out cookie dough or decorating gingerbread men. Girl stuff.
How was he ever supposed to play wide receiver for the L.A. Rams if nobody passed him the stupid football, for crying out loud?
And what was so interesting about a bunch of dopey papers and pictures anyway? Wandering back toward the desk, he ran his tongue over the tooth he’d chipped the week before while practicing wheelies on his three-speed. He liked the fact that his dad was a cop, and bragged about it all the time. Of course, when he bragged he had his dad shooting from the hip and locking up crazies like Charlie Manson for life. It would be a sad state of affairs if he had to tell the gang that his father typed out forms and studied files. Might as well be a librarian.
Tucking the football under his arm, he leaned over his father’s shoulder. He had an idea that if he made a pest of himself, his father would push the papers aside and come outside. Then his gaze fell on the picture of Darren McAvoy.
“Jeez. Is that
a dead kid?”
“Michael!” Lou turned, but the lecture dried on his tongue as he looked into his son’s shocked and fascinated eyes. Going with instinct, he put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Yes.”
“Wow. What happened? “Did he get sick or something?”
“No.” He wondered if he should feel guilty for using the tragedy of one child as a lesson to another. “He was murdered.”
“He’s just a little kid. People aren’t supposed to murder little kids.”
“No. But sometimes they do.”
Staring at the police photo, Michael faced his own mortality for the first time in his whirlwind eleven years. “Why?”
Lou remembered telling Emma that there were no monsters. The longer he looked at what had been done to Darren, the more certain he was that there were. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. That’s my job, to find out.”
Having a cop for a father had never stopped Michael from embracing the television image of justice at work.
“How do you find out?”
“By talking to people, studying the evidence. Thinking a lot.”
“Sounds boring.” But he couldn’t take his eyes off the picture.
“It is, mostly.”’
Michael was glad he’d decided to be an astronaut. He looked away from the picture and spotted the tabloid his father had just brought home. He had a sharp mind, and put it together quickly. “That’s Brian McAvoy’s little boy. Somebody tried to kidnap him or something but he died instead. All the kids’re talking about it.”
“That’s right.” Lou slipped the picture of Darren back into a folder.
“Wow. Wow! You’re working on that case. Did you get to meet Brian McAvoy and everything?”
“I met him.”
His father had met Brian McAvoy. Michael could only stare in a kind of dazed awe. “That’s boss, really boss. Did you meet the rest of the group? Did you talk to them?”
Lou shook his head as he began to tidy his papers. How simple life was when you were eleven. And how simple it should be, he added as he ruffled Michael’s dark, untidy hair. “Yes, I talked to them. They seem very nice.”
“Nice?” Michael goggled. “They’re the best. The very best. Wait until I tell the guys.”
“I don’t want you to tell anyone about this.”
“Not tell?” Michael pushed a hand through his tousled hair. “How come? The guys’ll just about fall over dead. I’ve got to tell them.”
“No. No, you don’t. I want you to keep this to yourself, Michael.”
“But why?”
“Because some things are personal.” He glanced back at the glaring headlines. “Or should be personal. This is one of them. Come on.” He took the football, fitted it to his hand. “Let’s see if you can catch my bomb.”
Chapter Eleven
P.M. watched the sea roll up on the sand. Even after a month, it still surprised him that this house was his. The Malibu beach house, his Malibu beach house, had everything the real estate broker had promised. High, soaring ceilings, a giant stone fireplace, acres of glass. In the bedroom upstairs where his lover still slept were twin skylights, another fireplace, and a balcony that roped around the second story.
Even Stevie had been impressed when he’d passed through. It had given P.M. a wonderful sense of accomplishment to show off the rooms, the tasteful furniture, the up-to-the-minute stereo unit he’d had built in. But now Stevie was in Paris. Johnno was in New York. Brian was in London. And P.M. felt very much alone.
There was still talk about a tour when the new album was released that spring, but P.M. wasn’t sure Brian would be up to it. It was nearly two months since that horrible night, and Brian was still in seclusion. He wondered if Brian knew that “Love Lost” was topping the singles charts and had gone gold. He wondered if it would matter to him.
P.M. knew the police were no closer to finding out who had killed Darren. He made it a point to stay in touch with Kesselring. It was the least he could do for Brian, and for Bev.
He thought of Bev, how pale and stricken she had looked on the day of the funeral. She hadn’t spoken a word, not to anyone. He’d wanted so badly to comfort her. He hadn’t known how, and the fantasy he’d had about taking her to bed, tenderly loving her until her grief passed, had shocked him so much he’d been unable to do more than pat her cold, rigid hand.
Angie Parks came down the circular stairs in a pink T-shirt that barely covered her hips. She’d taken the time to add a bit of makeup—a little mascara, a touch of lip gloss. She’d brushed out the knots sleep and sex had tied in her long blond hair, then had carefully arranged it to give it a tousled, bedroom look.
The best way to get what you wanted from a man was with sex. And she wanted quite a bit from P.M.
She glanced around the big, glass-walled living room. It was a nice start, she decided. A very nice start. She’d like to keep it as a weekend place once she’d talked P.M. into Beverly Hills. That was where stars lived, and she had every intention of being a star.
P.M. was her stepping-stone. Her romantic liaison with him had already led to a handful of commercials and a nice supporting role in a TV movie. She wanted better things, bigger things, and was willing to keep P.M. happy to get them.
She was grateful to him. Without the interest that had come her way since the press had picked up on their affair, she might have had to take a turn doing some porno flicks. A girl had to pay the rent. Angie flexed her wrist so that the light caught the diamonds and sapphires in the bracelet P.M. had given her. She wouldn’t have to worry about rent any longer.
She turned toward the glass doors and saw him standing on the deck. As he stood in the early sunlight she thought he looked almost handsome. And lonely. Even a heart as naturally ambitious as Angie’s could feel some pity. He hadn’t been the same since the little boy had died. She was sorry about it, really, but the tragedy had made P.M. even more dependent on her. And the press was worth its weight in gold. A smart woman took whatever opportunities came her way and made the most of them.
She ran a hand over her breasts, pleased that they were firm enough to stand without a bra. She walked up behind him, pressed them against his back as she wound her arms around his neck.
“I missed you, honey.”
He lifted a hand to hers, embarrassed that his first thought had been of Bev. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“You know I love it when you wake me up.” She slipped around him, her arms like long, soft ropes. With a little catchy sigh, she closed her mouth over his. “I hate to see you looking so sad.”
“I was just thinking about Bri. I’m worried about him.”
“You’re a good friend, honey.” She played light, quick kisses over his face. “That’s one of the things I love most about you.”
He drew her closer, as always stunned and delighted to hear her say she loved him. She was so beautiful with her big brown eyes and kewpie-doll mouth. Her breathy voice was like music she played only for him.
She only pressed closer when he ran his hands up her legs to knead the firm flesh of her buttocks. Her body was like a dream, long and lush and tanned as golden as a peach. When she shuddered, he felt like a king.
“I need you, Angie.”
“Then take me.”
She let her head fall back, looking at him from under carefully darkened lashes. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she reached down, and taking the hem of her shirt, pulled it up and over her head. In the sunlight, she stood erotically naked, her breasts rosily tipped and as golden as the rest of her. He kept his senses long enough to pull her inside the doors before he lowered her to the floor.
She let him do whatever he liked, enjoying most of it, adding a few calculated groans and cries when she thought it appropriate. It wasn’t that he didn’t excite her. He did, in a mild sort of way. She would have preferred it if he’d been a bit more forceful, put a few bruises on her.
But P.M.’s chunky drummer’s hands were almost rev
erent as they skimmed over her. Even when his breath began to chug and the sweat began to roll, he treated her like fine glass, too considerate to put his full weight on her, too polite, even in passion, to ram himself into her and make her cries sincere.
He took her gently, with a steady rhythm that brought her just inches from full satisfaction. He lay on her only a moment, while he collected himself and she studied the glossy wood of the ceiling. Ever mindful of his weight, he rolled aside and cushioned her head with his arm.
“Oh, that was wonderful.” She stroked his damp, pale chest. Always practical, she knew she could finish herself off when she went upstairs. “You’re the best, honey. The very best.”
“I love you, Angie.” He let his hand linger in her hair. This was what he wanted, he realized. All that crazed, nameless sex had never been for him. He wanted to know, when he went on the road, that there was someone waiting for him, at home, or in those miserable hotel rooms. He wanted what Brian had.
Not Bev, P.M. assured himself on a painful twinge of disloyalty. But a wife, a family, a home. With Angie, he could have it all.
“Angie. Will you marry me?”
She went very still. It was everything she’d hoped for, and it was happening. She could already see the casting agents scrambling for her—and the huge white house in Beverly Hills. The smile lit her face. She nearly laughed with it. Then, taking a deep breath, she shifted. There were tears in her eyes when she looked down at him.
“Do you mean it? Do you really want me?”
“I’ll make you happy, Angie. Look, I know it can’t be easy being married to someone who’s part of what I’m part of. The tours and the fans and the press. But we can make something for ourselves, just the two of us, that’s ours, only ours.”
“I love what you are,” she told him with complete honesty.
“Then will you? Will you marry me, and start a family?”
“I’ll marry you.” She threw her arms around him. A family was a different matter altogether, she thought as he lowered her to the floor again. But as the wife of P. M. Ferguson, her career had no place to go but up.