by Nora Roberts
“All right. But understand this. I’m not going to wait forever.”
“Neither am I.”
Chapter Forty
Straining for patience, Michael propped his feet on his desk and studied the ceiling. The high, excited voice in the phone receiver rambled on and on. They would haul the little weasel in as a material witness sooner or later, he knew. He just wanted it to be sooner.
“Listen, pal,” he interrupted at length. “I got the impression Springer was your friend. Yeah, well, talk’s cheap. He may have been a worthless two-bit bagman, but once we get the stiff, we take a personal interest.” He paused, listened to another moment of babbling. No one was more uncooperative than a jumpy witness with a fistful of priors.
“That’s fine. You don’t want to come in, we’ll find you.” He glanced up as the sergeant dropped a load of files and mail on his desk. “Take your chances on the street. We’ve always got room for one more at the morgue.” He listened as he pushed through the files. “Good choice. Ask for Detective Kesselring.”
Michael hung up and scowled at the paperwork. He’d hoped for five minutes to call Emma, but the odds were against it. Resigned, he tuned out the noise of the squad room and went for the mail first.
“Hey, Kesselring, we need your ten bucks for the Christmas party.”
Michael decided if he heard the word “Christmas” again, he’d shoot somebody. Preferably Santa himself. “McCarthy owes me twenty. Get it from him.”
“Hey.” Hearing his name, McCarthy wandered over. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“In your wallet,” Michael told him.
“Still sulking ’cause his lady’s going to spend Christmas in London? Lighten up, Kesselring, the world’s full of blondes.”
“Kiss off”
McCarthy put a hand over his heart. “Must be love.”
Ignoring him, Michael studied the manila envelope. It was odd when he was thinking such dark thoughts about London that he would get a letter from that city. A law firm, he mused, skimming the return address. What would a London law firm want with him? When he opened it, he found a cover letter and an envelope in shades of pink and blue. Turning the envelope over, he saw another return address in fancy script. Jane Palmer.
Though he wasn’t a superstitious man, he stared at the envelope for several minutes, thinking about messages from the dead. He slit it open and studied the cramped handwriting. Within five minutes, he was standing in his father’s office watching Lou read the letter.
Dear Detective Kesselring,
You investigated the death of Brian McAvoy’s son. I’m sure you remember the case. I remember it also. If you’re still interested, you should come to London and talk to me. I know all about it. It was my idea, but they made a mess of it. If you will pay for information, we can work out a deal.
Yours truly,
Jane Palmer
“What do you think?” Michael demanded.
“I think she might have known something.” Lou adjusted his glasses and read the letter through again. “She was six thousand miles away when it went down, and we could never tie her to it. But …” He had always wondered.
“The first postmark’s just a few days before her body was found. According to the lawyers the letter bounced around because of the incomplete address, then ended up with the rest of her papers. Over eight months,” Michael said in disgust.
“I’m not sure it would have made a difference if it had been eight days. She’d still have been dead.”
“If she was telling the truth and knew who killed the kid, someone could have gotten to her. Someone who didn’t know she’d send off a letter. I want to see the report, talk to the investigating officer.”
Lou turned the letter over in his hand. There wasn’t any purpose in reminding Michael that the letter had been addressed to the investigating officer on the case. “It’s possible. It’s the first lead we’ve had on this in nearly twenty years.” He remembered the police photograph of a little boy, and looked up at his son. “I guess you’re going to London.”
Emma rolled out cookie dough and tried to put her heart into it. She’d always loved Christmas. This year, for the first time since childhood, she would be spending it with her family. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and brown sugar, carols were playing through the speakers, and Bev was measuring out ingredients for plum pudding. Outside, a light snow was falling.
But her heart wasn’t in it. She was afraid it was six thousand miles away, with Michael.
As Emma pressed the cutters into the dough, Bev slipped an arm around her. “I’m so glad you’re here, Emma. It means everything to me, and your father.”
“And to me.” She scooped up a cookie in the shape of a snowflake and laid it on the baking sheet. “You used to let me do this when I was little. If Johnno was around, he’d come in and pinch a few before they were even cooked.”
“Why do you think I sent him off with Bri?” She watched Emma sprinkle colored sugar over the tops. “You miss Michael, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know I would. Not this much.” She carried the tray to the oven. “It’s silly. It’s only two weeks.” After setting the timer, she walked back to ball the dough together and roll it again. It felt good to do something with her hands, to feel competent. In charge. “It’s probably good for me to get away. I don’t want to get too involved too quickly.”
“Katherine says you’re making wonderful progress.”
“I think I am. I’m grateful to her for staying on with me in L.A. for the last couple of months. I wasn’t always,” she added with a smile. “But talking things out helped.”
“You’re still having nightmares.”
“Not as often. And I’m getting back to work, finally pushing through with the book.” She paused with a cookie cutter in her hand. “A year ago, Christmas was a nightmare. This year, it’s almost perfect.” She glanced over as the kitchen door swung open. The cookie cutter clattered to the floor. “Michael?”
“The housekeeper said I should just come back.”
She didn’t think. She didn’t need to. With a cry of pleasure, she raced into his arms. Before he could speak again, her mouth was on his.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulled back, laughed, and began to dust him off. “I’ve got flour all over you.”
“I’m sure I can find a dozen things to do.” Bev wiped her hands on a cloth and slipped out the door.
“You said you couldn’t come,” Emma began.
“I had a change in schedule.” He drew her close again, wanting another taste. Desire rippled through him as her mouth moved warm under his. “Merry Christmas.”
“How long can you stay?”
“A couple of days.” He glanced over toward the stove. “What’s that noise?”
“Oh, my cookies.” She dashed over to turn off the timer and rescue them. “I was thinking of you when I made these. And wishing you weren’t so far away.” Turning, tray in hand, she looked at him. “I’ll go back with you if you want.”
“You know I want.” He ran a hand down her braid. “I also know that you need time with your family. I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”
“I love you.” The words went through her heart to her mind so quickly it stunned her. The tray clattered as she dropped it on the rangetop.
“Say it again.”
His eyes were so dark and intense she lifted a hand to his cheek to soothe. “I love you, Michael. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get it out.”
Saying nothing, he pulled her close and held her. For a moment, everything he’d ever wanted was within the circle of his arms.
“I knew when I saw you in New York, at my showing. As soon as I saw you, I knew.” With a combination of relief and pleasure she turned her face into his throat. “It scared me. It seems I’ve been scared for years. Then when you walked in the door just now, it all fell into place.”
“You won’t be able to shake me off now.”
He made excuses. Michael didn’t enjoy lying to Emma, but he felt it best that the business that had brought him to London remain his for a while longer. He found his British counterparts polite and tidy. He also discovered that British red tape was every bit as convoluted as American.
It took him two hours to be told he would have to come back the next day for a look at the files.
It was time well spent. Emma was thrilled at the opportunity to show him London, steering him from the Tower to Piccadilly, to the changing of the guards to Westminster Abbey. Though he’d been easily persuaded to stay in the McAvoys’ home, he’d kept his hotel room. After the frantic tour, they spent hours in bed.
The files were little help to him. A standard investigation had ultimately ruled death by misadventure. Forensics had turned up no prints other than Jane’s, her former maid’s, and those of the dealer who had found the body. Both his and the maid’s alibis were airtight. The neighbors had nothing good to say about the deceased, but they hadn’t seen anything or anyone on the night of her death.
Michael skimmed through the police photographs. And people called him a slob, he mused as he studied the filth in which Jane had lived and died. Frustrated that the scene had long since been cleaned out, he went over the pictures again with a magnifying glass.
Inspector Carlson, who had been in charge of the Palmer investigation, looked on patiently.
“It was a bit of a sty,” he pointed out. “To be frank, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Or smelled anything like it. The old girl had cooked for a couple of days.”
“No prints but hers on the syringe?”
“No. She did the job herself.” Carlson removed his horn-rims to polish the lenses. “We debated suicide, but it simply didn’t fit. As it says in the report, it appears that she obtained the heroin, was too strung out to remember to cut it down, and took a quick last ride.”
“Where’d she get the horse? This guy Hitch?”
The inspector pursed his lips. “He’s small-time. Doesn’t have the connections to deal anything that pure.”
“If not him, then who?”
“We’ve never been able to ascertain. We assumed she’d made the buy herself. She was a bit of a celebrity in her day and had a number of connections.”
“You’ve seen the letter she sent to my department.”
“That’s why we’re willing to reopen the case, Detective. If indeed we’ve had a murder here that connects with a murder in your country, you’ll have our complete cooperation.” He settled the horn-rims comfortably on his hooked nose. “It’s been nearly twenty years, but none of us has forgotten what happened to Darren McAvoy.”
No, no one had forgotten, Michael thought as he sat in Brian’s oak-paneled office and watched the man read his ex-lover’s letter.
There was a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth across the room. Easy chairs were placed cozily in front of it. Awards and plaques and photographs lined the shelves and walls. There were a few cardboard boxes, a testament to the fact he’d only moved in weeks before. His desk looked more like an executive’s than a rock star’s. Glossy and piled with files and papers. Against the wall was a Yamaha keyboard and synthesizer, along with a huge reel-to-reel tape recorder. There was only mineral water and soft drinks in the bar. Michael waited until Brian looked up.
“My father and I discussed it. We thought you should know.”
Shaken, Brian groped for a cigarette. “You think it’s genuine.”
“Yes.”
He rumbled with his lighter. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk—still sealed. It was a test to himself. In the six weeks and three days since he’d tipped a bottle, he’d never wanted a drink more.
“Sweet Jesus, I thought I knew what she was capable of. I can’t understand this.” He dragged in smoke like a drowning man sucks air. “If she was—why would she have wanted to hurt him?” He buried his face in his hands. “Me. She wanted to hurt me.”
“We’re still of the opinion that the death was an accident.” Hardly words of comfort, Michael thought. “Logically, kidnapping and the ransom you would have paid were the motives.”
“I was already paying her for Emma.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, then dropped them on the desk. “She would have killed Emma, snapped her neck right before my eyes. She was capable of that in a rage. But to plan something like this.” Lifting his face again, he shook his head. “I can’t believe she could do it.”
“She had help.”
He rose then, all but lunged from the chair to roam the room. It was full of the tangible proof of his success. Gold records, platinum records, Grammys, American Music Awards. Signs that the music he had created was important.
Jockeying for space with them were dozens of photographs. Devastation, yesterday and today, Brian with other singers, musicians, politicians he’d supported, celebrities. There was a framed snapshot among them, of Emma and his lost son, sitting on the banks of a little creek and smiling into the sunlight. He had created them as well.
Twenty years dissolved in an instant, and he was back on the sun-dappled grass, listening to the laughter of his children. “I thought I’d put this behind me.” He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and turned away from the picture. “I don’t want Bev to know, not yet. I’ll tell her when I think the time’s right.”
“That’s up to you. I wanted you to know I’m going to reopen the case.”
“Are you as dedicated as your father?”
“I’d like to think so.”
With a nod, Brian accepted that. Whatever bond had been forged on that horrible night two decades before had yet to be broken. But he had another child to consider. “What about Emma? Are you going to put her through all the questioning again?”
“I’ll do everything I can to keep Emma from being hurt.”
He opened a bottle of ginger ale. A poor substitute for whiskey. “Bev seems to think you’re in love with her.”
“I am.” Michael shook his head at the offer of a drink. “I’m going to marry her as soon as she’s ready.”
Brian stood where he was and drank. The thirst was unbearable. “I didn’t want her involved with Drew. For all the wrong reasons. I’ve had the opportunity to ask myself, If I hadn’t pushed her, if I hadn’t objected so strongly, would she have waited?”
“Larimer wanted you and what you could do for him. I only want Emma. I always have.”
With a sigh, Brian sat again. “She has always been the most constant and beautiful part of my life. Something I made thoughtlessly that turned out perfectly right.” With a ghost of a smile, so much like his daughter’s, he looked at Michael. “You made me nervous the day Emma brought you to that miserable house of P.M.’s in Beverly Hills. I looked at you and thought, This boy is going to take Emma away from me. Must be the Irish,” he said as he drank again. “It seems the lot of us are drunks or poets or seers. I’ve had a chance to be all three.”
“I can make her happy.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He picked up the letter again. “As important as it is to me for you to find who killed my son, it’s more important that you make Emma happy.”
“Da, P.M. and Annabelle have brought the baby. Oh, I’m sorry.” Emma stopped with her hand on the knob. “I didn’t know you were here, Michael.”
“You were shopping when I got back.” He stood, casually taking the letter from Brian and slipping it into his pocket.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Brian came around the desk to kiss her. “I’ve been grilling Michael. It seems he has ideas about my daughter.”
She smiled, on the verge of believing it before she saw her father’s eyes. “What is it?”
“I’ve just told you.” He put an arm around her shoulders and would have led her out, but she turned to Michael.
“I won’t be lied to.”
“I
do have ideas about his daughter,” Michael countered.
She shrugged off the arm around her shoulder and stood firm. “Will you let me see the envelope that’s in your pocket?”
“Yes, but I’d rather do it later.”
“Da, would you leave us alone a moment.”
“Emma—”
“Please.”
Reluctantly he closed the door behind him and left them alone.
“I trust you, Michael,” she began. “If you tell me that the only thing you and Da talked about in this room was our relationship, I’ll believe you.”
He started to. He wanted to. “No, it’s not all we talked about. Will you sit?”
It was going to be bad. She found herself gripping her hands together in her lap as she had done since her school days when she was afraid to hear what she had to hear. Instead of speaking, Michael took the envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Ice prickled along her skin as she saw the name on the back of the envelope. A message from the dead, she thought, and wished she could have laughed at the phrase. She opened the letter and sat in silence reading it.
She was so much like her father, Michael noted. Her expressions, the way grief came into her eyes, the quiet way she held herself as she coped with it. Before she spoke, she folded the letter again and gave it back to him.
“This is why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were dark and wretched when they met his. “I wanted to think you couldn’t stay away from me.”
“I can’t.”
She lowered her head again. It was so difficult to think when the ache came this way, marching hard. “Do you believe this letter?”
“It’s not up to me to believe,” he said carefully. “I’m following it up.”
“I believe it.” Emma had a flash of her last dear image of Jane, standing in the doorway of the dirty house, her face shadowed with bitterness. “She only wanted to hurt Da. She wanted to make him suffer. I still remember the way she looked at him the day he took me away. I was only a baby really, but I remember.”