most of it dealing with four young bodies. "Emma, have you read the
paper today?"
"No." She had deliberately avoided newspaper 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 Dad?"
"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."