by Nora Roberts
draining out of her and didn’t want to frighten her again. “All right. I know places where you can go and talk to someone else, to other people who know what it’s like.”
Did he really believe there was anyone who knew what it was like? “I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m not going to have strangers reading about—about all of this over their morning coffee. This isn’t your concern.”
“Do you think that?” he said quietly. “Do you really think that?”
She felt wretchedly ashamed now. In his eyes was something she needed, needed badly if she only had the courage to ask for it. He was only asking for her trust. But she had trusted once before.”
“I know it’s not. This is my problem, and I’m handling it.”
He could see that one nudge too many would cause her to shatter. So he backed off. “All right. I’d just like you to think about it. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“He took all of my self-respect,” she said quietly. “If I don’t do this alone, I’ll never get it back. Please just take me to the hotel. I’m very tired.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
SO THE BITCH figured she could just walk away, Drew thought. She thought she could walk out the door and keep going. He was going to fix her good when he found her. And find her he would. He bitterly regretted that he hadn’t beat her more vigorously before she’d gone to Florida.
He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight, should have known he couldn’t trust her. The only women a man could trust were hookers. They did their job, took the money, and that was that. There was a world of difference between an honest hooker and a whore. And his sweet, delicate-faced wife was a whore, just as his mother had been.
He was going to give her a beating she’d never forget.
Imagine her having the nerve to take off. The fucking gall to transfer her money and cancel the credit. He’d been humiliated at Bijan when the clerk had taken back the cashmere duster Drew had decided to purchase, with the cool comment that his credit card had been canceled.
She was going to pay for that.
Then to have that snotty lawyer serve him with papers. So she wanted a divorce. He’d see her dead first.
The New York lawyer hadn’t been any help. Some bullshit about a professional courtesy to another firm. Mrs. Latimer didn’t want her whereabouts known. Well, he was going to find her whereabouts all right, and he was going to kick ass.
At first he’d been afraid she’d gone to her father. With the benefit coming up and all Drew’s plans to go solo about to bear fruit, he didn’t want someone as influential as Brian McAvoy coming down on him. But then Brian had called about Emma’s old lady dying. Drew was pleased that he’d been able to cover himself so quickly. He’d told Brian that Emma was out for the evening with a couple of her girlfriends. And he was certain he’d had just the right tone of sympathy and concern in his voice when he’d promised to tell Emma the news.
If McAvoy didn’t know where his bitch of a daughter was, then Drew figured none of the other band members knew, either. They were all as thick as bloody thieves. He’d thought of Bev, but he was nearly sure that if Emma had gone to London, her old man would’ve gotten wind of it.
Or maybe they were all playing with him, laughing at him behind his back. If that was the case, then he’d pay her back, with interest.
She’d been gone for over two weeks. He hoped she’d had herself a high flying time because she was going to pay for every hour.
He hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind as he walked. The leather jacket kept out the worst of the early spring chill, but his ears were ringing from the wind. Or maybe it was fury. He liked that idea better and grinned a little as he crossed the street to the loft.
He’d taken the subway, something he found degrading but safer than a cab under the circumstances. He would more than likely have to do something…unpleasant to Marianne. Unpleasant for her, anyway, Drew thought with a laugh. It would be a great pleasure for him.
Emma had lied to him. Marianne had been at the funeral. He’d seen the pictures of them together in the paper. As sure as God made hell, Marianne had been in on the whole thing. She’d know where Emma was hiding. And when he got through with her, she’d be damn delighted to tell him.
He used the key he’d gotten from Emma months before. Inside, he punched in the security code to unlock the elevator. As the doors closed him in, he rubbed the knuckles of one hand against the other. He hoped she was still in bed.
The loft was silent. He moved quietly across the floor and up the stairs with his heart pounding happily. There was disappointment when he saw the empty bed. The sheets were tangled, but cool. The disappointment was so great, he compensated by trashing the loft. It took him nearly an hour to vent his frustration, ripping clothes, breaking glassware, hacking cushion after cushion in the sectional with a knife he’d taken from the kitchen.
He thought of the paintings, stacked up in the studio. Knife in hand, he started up when the phone rang. He stopped, jumping at the sound. He was breathing hard, sweat rolling into his eyes. There was a trickle of blood from his lip where he’d gnawed through while slashing the sofa.
On the fourth ring, the machine picked up.
“Marianne.”
Drew bolted down the steps at the sound of Emma’s voice. He’d nearly yanked up the receiver before he caught himself. “You’re probably still in bed, or up to your elbows in paint, so call me later. Try to make it this morning. I’m going to the beach later to practice my surfing. I can stay up for more than ten seconds. Don’t be jealous, but it’s going to hit ninety in LA. today. Call soon.”
L.A., Drew thought. Turning, he stared at the mural of Emma on the plaster wall.
WHEN MARIANNE PHONED an hour later, Emma was on her way out the door. She closed it, locked it again before she answered.
“Hi there.” Marianne’s voice was drowsy and content.
“Hi, yourself. You just getting up? It must be nearly noon in New York.”
“I’m not up yet.” She snuggled back against the pillows. “I’m in bed. The dentist’s bed.”
“Having a tooth capped?”
“Let’s just say that he’s got talents that extend beyond dental hygiene. I called my machine for messages and got yours. So, how are you?”
“I’m doing okay. Really.”
“Glad to hear it. Is Michael going to the beach with you?”
“No, he’s working.”
Marianne wrinkled her nose. If she couldn’t be around to look after Emma, she counted on the cop to do so. She could hear the shower in the next room and wished lazily that her new lover would come back to bed instead of heading off to fight plaque. “Tooth decay or bad guys, I guess a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Look, I’m thinking of coming out in a couple of weeks.”
“To check up on me?”
“Right. And to finally meet this Michael you’ve been keeping to yourself all these years. Have a good time hanging ten, Emma. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
MICHAEL LIKED BEING out in the field. He didn’t have any real gripe with paperwork, or the hours it sometimes took talking on the phone, going on door-to-doors. But he liked the action on the streets.
He’d had to ignore a good deal of ribbing in the early years. The captain’s son. Some of it had been good-natured, some of it hadn’t, but he’d weathered it. He’d worked hard for his gold shield.
In the station now he stole a doughnut from a nearby desk, eating it standing up, while paging through the paper an associate had left next to the coffee maker.
He went straight for the comics. After a night like he’d put in, he needed all the laughs he could get. From there, he went looking for sports, turning the page with one hand and pouring coffee with the other.
JANE PALMER DIES OF OVERDOSE
Jane Palmer, forty-six, ex-lover of Devastation’s Brian McAvoy, and mother of his daughter, Emma, was found dead in her London home, apparently a victim of a drug overdo
se. The body was discovered by Stanley Hitchman late Sunday afternoon.
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 told you, but he’s violent. Really violent. And I—”
“Okay. Calm down. The first thing you do is get out, go to a
