by Nora Roberts
Michael read through the rest of the article. It contained only the bare facts, but suicide was hinted at. Swearing, he tossed the paper aside. He grabbed a jacket and signaled McCarthy.
“I need an hour. There’s something I have to take care of.”
McCarthy put a hand over the phone receiver he held at his ear. “We got three punks in holding.”
“Yeah, and they’ll hold. An hour,” he repeated and strode out.
He found her at the beach. It had only been a few days since she had come back into his life, but he knew her habits. She came there every day, to the same spot. Not to surf. That was just an excuse. She came to sit in the sun and watch the water, or to read in the shade of a little blue and white cabana. Most of all she came to heal.
Always she set herself apart from the others who sunned or walked along the beach. She wasn’t seeking company but was comforted by the fact that she wasn’t alone. She wore a simple blue tank suit, no flighty bikini or spandex one-piece cut provocatively at the thigh. Its very modesty drew eyes toward her. More than one man had considered an approach, but one look from her had them passing by.
To Michael it was as if she had a glass wall surrounding her, thin, ice-cold, and impenetrable. He wondered if within it she could smell the coconut oil or hear the jangle from the portable radios.
He went to her. Her trust in him allowed him to get closer than most. But she’d built a second line of defense that held even friends at their distance.
“Emma.”
He hated to see her jolt, that quick, involuntary movement of panic. She dropped the book she’d been reading. Behind her sunglasses fear darted into her eyes, then subsided. Her lips curved, her body relaxed. He saw it all, the change from serenity to panic to calm again, in a matter of seconds. It made him think that she was becoming much too used to living in fear.
“Michael, I didn’t expect to see you today. Are you playing hooky?”
“No. I’ve only got a few minutes.”
He sat beside her, in the partial shade. The breeze off the water fluttered his jacket so that she caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster. It was always a shock to remember what he did for a living. He never looked like her image of a detective. Even now when she could see the weapon snug against his USC T-shirt, she couldn’t quite believe he would ever use it.
“You look tired, Michael.”
“Rough night.” She smiled a little. He could see that she thought he was speaking of a heavy date. There was no use telling her he’d spent most of it dealing with four young bodies. “Emma, have you read the paper today?”
“No.” She had deliberately avoided newspapers and television. The troubles of the world, like the people in it, were on the other side of her glass wall. But she knew he was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. “What is it?” When he took her hand, the anxiety quickened. “Is it Da?”
“No.” He cursed himself for not coming straight out with it. Her hand had turned to ice in his. “It’s Jane Palmer. She’s dead, Emma.”
She stared at him as though he were speaking in a language she had to translate. “Dead? How?”
“It looks like she overdosed.”
“I see.” She withdrew her hand from his, then stared out to sea. The water was pale green near the shore, deepening and changing as it stretched toward the horizon. There it gleamed a deep, gemlike blue. She wondered what it would be like to be that far from everything. To float, completely alone.
“Am I supposed to feel anything?” she murmured.
He knew she wasn’t asking him so much as herself. Still he answered. “You can’t feel what isn’t there.”
“No, you can’t. I never loved her, not even as a child. I used to be ashamed of that. I’m sorry she’d dead, but it’s a vague, impersonal kind of sorrow, the kind you feel when you read in the paper that someone’s died in a car wreck or a fire.”
“Then that’s enough.” He took her braid, a habit he’d developed, and ran his hand up and down it. “Listen, I’ve got to get back, but I should have things wrapped by around seven. Why don’t we take a drive up the coast? You and me and Conroy.”
“I’d like that.” When he stood she reached out a hand for his. The contact was fleeting. Then she turned and looked back out to sea.
Drew arrived at the Beverly Wilshire just after three. It was the first hotel he checked. It both pleased and disgusted him that Emma was so predictable. It was the Connaught in London, the Ritz in Paris, Little Dix Bay in the Virgin Islands, and always the Wilshire in L.A.
He strolled in, an easy, personable smile on his face. He knew his luck was in when the desk clerk was young, female, and attractive. “Hi.” He flashed the smile at her and watched her polite expression turn to recognition, then delight.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Latimer.”
He put a hand over hers, and lifted the other to place a finger to his lips. “Let’s keep that between us, shall we? I’m joining my wife here, but I’m afraid I’ve been careless and forgotten what room she’s taken.”
“Mrs. Latimer’s staying with us?” The clerk lifted a brow.
“Yes, I had some business to take care of before I joined her. You’ll find her for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Her fingers skipped over the keyboard. “I have no Latimer registered.”
“No? Perhaps she checked in under McAvoy.” He held back his impatience while the computer clicked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Latimer, we have no McAvoys.”
He wanted to grab the clerk by her slender throat and squeeze. With an effort, he fixed a puzzled frown on his face. “That’s odd. I’m almost sure I haven’t mixed the hotels. Emma wouldn’t stay anywhere but the Wilshire.” His mind jumped from possibility to possibility. Then he smiled. “Ah, of course. I don’t know how I could be so addle-brained. She stayed here with a friend for a bit, probably kept the room in her name. You know how it is when you’re trying to slip away for a few days. Try Marianne Carter. It’s more than likely on the third floor. Emma’s twitchy about heights.”
“Yes, here it is. Suite 305.”
“That’s a relief.” Behind his smile, his teeth ground together. “I’d hate to think I’d lose my wife.” He waited for the key, struggling to keep his breathing calm and steady. “You’ve been a big help, luv.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Latimer.”
Oh no, he thought as he headed for the elevators, it was going to be his pleasure. His great pleasure.
He wasn’t disappointed that the suite was empty. In fact, he decided it was that much better. From his bag, he took a small tape recorder and a belt of rich, supple leather. He drew the drapes snug at the windows, then lighting a cigarette, settled down to wait.
“Kesselring.” A young detective opened the door of the interrogation room where Michael and McCarthy were working in tandem to wear down a suspect. “You got a call.”
“I’m a little busy here, Drummond. Take a message.”
“Tried. She says it’s an emergency.”
He started to swear, then thought it might be Emma. “Try not to miss me,” he said to Swan as he started out. He sat on the edge of his desk and picked up the phone. “Kesselring.”
“Michael? This is Marianne Carter. I’m a friend of Emma’s.”
“Sure.” Annoyed by the interruption, he shoved a hand in his pocket for a cigarette. “You in town?”
“No. No, I’m in New York. I just got into the loft. I—somebody, somebody wrecked it.”
He pressed his fingers to his tired eyes. “I think you might be smarter to call the local police. I can’t get there for a few hours.”
She wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm. “I don’t give a damn about the loft. It’s Emma I’m worried about.”
“What does she have to do with it?”
“This place has been torn apart. Everything’s slashed, cut up, broken. It was Drew. I’m sure it was Drew. He probably has Emma’s key. I don’t know how much she’s t
old you, but he’s violent. Really violent. And I—”
“Okay. Calm down. The first thing you do is get out, go to a neighbor’s or a public place and call the police.”
“He’s not here.” She hated herself for being so scattered she was unable to make herself clear. “I think he knows where she is, Michael. She left a message on the machine this morning. If he was here when she called, or he played it back, then he knows. I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer.”
“I’ll take care of it. Get out of the loft and call the cops.” He hung up before she could respond.
“Kesselring, if you’ve finished talking to your sweetheart—”
“Let’s move.” Michael interrupted his partner’s complaint and started for the door at a run.
“What the—”
“Move,” Michael repeated. He was already peeling out when McCarthy jumped in the car.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Emma walked into the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire, it was nearly four. During her long afternoon on the beach, she’d made one decision. She was going to call her father. He would have heard about Jane’s death, and Emma had no doubt he would have tried to contact her.
It wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but a necessary one. It was time she told him that she had left Drew. Perhaps it was also time to take advantage of the press that was always so eager for gossip. Once the separation was made public, she might break out of her perpetual daze. Maybe she’d stop being afraid.
As she walked down the hall toward her room, she dug in her bag for her key. Her fingers brushed the warm metal of the gun. She was going to stop carrying it, she told herself. She was going to stop looking over her shoulder.
She opened the door of the suite, and frowned. The drapes shut out all but the faintest light. She hated the dark, and silently cursed the maid. Pushing herself forward, she let the door close behind her as she went toward the lamp.
Then the music started. Her fingers froze on the switch. That eerie, unmistakable intro that haunted her dreams. The murdered Lennon began to sing in a crisp staccato.
Across the room the light flashed on. She could only whimper and stumble back. For a moment a face floated into her mind, blurred, but almost, almost recognizable. Then she saw Drew.
“Hello, Emmy luv. Have you missed me?”
She broke out of her trance and raced for the door. He was quick. He’d always been quick. One sweep of his hand knocked her aside and sent her bag flying. Still smiling, he turned the security lock and fixed the chain.
“We want our privacy, don’t we?”
His voice, pleasant, quietly loving, sent ice skidding up and down her back. “How did you find me?”
“Oh, we have our ways, Emma. Let’s say there’s a bond between you and me. Didn’t I tell you I’d always find you?”
Behind her the music kept playing. It was a nightmare. She wanted to believe it. She had them often, the music, the dark. She would wake up, sweating cold as she was sweating now. And it would be over.
“Guess what I received, Emma? A petition for divorce. Now, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Here I’ve been worried sick about you for two weeks. Why, you might have been kidnapped.” He grinned. “You might have been murdered like your poor little brother.”
“Don’t.”
“Ah, it upsets you to talk about him, doesn’t it? The music upsets you, too. Shall I turn it off?”
“Yes.” She’d be able to think if he turned the music off. She’d know what to do.
“All right, then.” He took a step toward the recorder, then stopped. “No, I think we’ll leave it on. You have to learn to face things, Emma. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
Her teeth had begun to chatter. “I am facing them.”
“Good. That’s good. Now, the first thing you’re going to do is call that fancy lawyer of yours and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”
“No.” Fear was storming through her system so that she could only whisper. “I’m not going back with you.”
“Of course you are. You belong with me. You’ve had your little snit, Emma, don’t make it harder on yourself.” When she shook her head, he let out a long, gusty sigh. Then his hand snaked out, quick as a whip, and smashed across her face. Blood filled her mouth as she slammed into a table, sending a lamp crashing to the floor.
Through a haze of pain she saw him coming toward her. And she began to scream. He kicked her full in the stomach, cutting off the screams and her air. When she tried to curl up, he began to hit her, slowly, methodically.
This time, she fought back. Her first blow glanced off his chin, but surprised him enough to give her time to crawl away. She heard pounding on the door, a demand to open it. She managed to struggle to her feet and take a watery step toward the sound, when he caught her again.
“So you want to play rough, Emma?” He began to tear at her clothes, raking his nails down her skin. Her struggles only drove him on. She would be punished this time, in a way she would never forget.
Emma heard someone pleading, begging, promising. She wasn’t aware it was her own voice. She hardly felt the blows as he continued to beat her. This time he used his fists, forgetting everything but the need to pay her back.
“Did you think you could walk out on me, bitch? Did you think I’d let you ruin everything I worked for? I’ll kill you first.”
Her body was a jelly of pain. Even the effort to breathe cut through her like dozens of dull-edged knives. It had never been this bad before. Even at its worst, it had never been this bad. Groggy, she grabbed a chair leg and tried to haul herself up. Wet with her own blood, her fingers slipped off.
She stopped fighting. There was no strength left to hold him off. She felt him lift her, then send her flying. Something snapped in her chest and she screamed again against the sickening pain. Half conscious, she lay sprawled.
“Bitch. Whore bitch.” He was panting as he started for her again. Dimly she saw that blood was running from his nose. His eyes were glazed and wild. She knew, looking at his face, that he had crossed some line. This time a beating wouldn’t be enough. He would pound on her until she was dead. Weeping, she tried to crawl.
The snap of his belt made her flinch. Her sobs rose up into wails as she pulled herself across the rug. He continued to snap the belt, snap it to the beat of the music as he stalked her. She collapsed. The jolt screamed through her ribs until her vision wavered.
She heard someone calling for her, shouting her name. Splintering wood. Was that the sound of splintering wood or was her body just breaking in two? The first slash of the belt across her back had her arm flinging out. Her fingers brushed metal. Blindly, she closed her hand around the gun. Choking on sobs, she pushed herself over. She saw his face as he raised the belt again.
She felt the gun jerk up in her hand.
Michael broke in the door in time to see Drew stagger back, a look of puzzlement on his face. Weaving, he lifted the belt again. Michael’s weapon was drawn, but before he could use it, Emma fired again, and again. She continued to press the trigger long after it clicked uselessly, long after he was sprawled at her feet. She held the trigger down, aiming at empty air.
“Good Jesus,” McCarthy said.
“Keep those people out.” Michael moved toward her. Peeling off his jacket, he wrapped it around her. Her clothes were torn to bits and soaked with blood. She didn’t move, only continued to fire the empty gun. When he tried to take it, he found her hand convulsed on it.
“Emma. Baby. It’s all right now. It’s over now.” Gently he brushed at her hair. He had to fight to keep his rage buried. Her face was a mass of blood. One eye was already swollen shut. The other was glassy with shock. “Give me the gun now, baby. You don’t need it anymore. You’re okay.” He shifted so that she could see his face. Taking a scrap of what had been her blouse, he dabbed at the blood. “It’s Michael. Can you hear me, Emma? It’s Michael. It’s going to be okay.”
Her breath began t
o hitch violently. Shudders wracked her. He gathered her close, rocking while her body shook. Her hand was limp when he slipped the gun from it. She didn’t cry. Michael knew the sound she made as he held her couldn’t be called grieving. She moaned, low animal moans that died into whimpering.
“Ambulance is on its way.” After a cursory check of Drew’s body, McCarthy crouched beside Michael. “Messed her up pretty good, didn’t he?”
Michael continued to rock her, but he turned his head and studied Drew Latimer for a long time. “Too bad you can only die once.”
“Yeah.” McCarthy shook his head as he rose. “The sonofabitch is still holding the belt.”
Brian watched the clouds race across the sky as he sat beside Darren’s grave. Each time he came to sit in the high, sweet grass, he hoped he would find peace. He never had. But he always came back.
He’d let the wildflowers grow where his son was buried. He preferred them to the small marble marker that carried only a name and two dates. The years were pitifully close.
His parents were buried nearby. Though he had known them for decades, he remembered his son with more clarity.
From the cemetery he could see plowed fields, spaces of rich brown cutting through the rich green. And the spotted cows grazing. It was early in the day. Mornings in Ireland were the best for sitting, dreaming. The light was soft and pearly, as he’d never seen it anywhere but Ireland. Dew was glittering on the grass. The only sounds he could hear were the bark of a dog and the distant hum of a tractor.
When Bev saw him, she stopped. She hadn’t known he would be there. Through the years she’d been careful to come only when she knew Brian was elsewhere. She hadn’t wanted to see him there, beside the grave where they had both stood so many years before.
She nearly turned away. But there was something in the way he sat, his hands resting lightly on his knees, his eyes looking out over the green hills. He looked too much alone.