Bless Marianne, Emma thought as the plane touched down. She hadn't

asked any questions once she had seen that the answers would be painful.

Instead, she had roused herself barely past dawn, tossed on a blond wig,

sungla.s.ses, and Emma's overcoat and had cabbed it to early ma.s.s at Saint

Pat's. With the guards trailing behind her.

That had given Emma enough time to dash to the airport and catch her

plane to the Coast. As far as Sweeney and his partner would be

concerned, Emma McAvoy would be spending a quiet weekend at home.

Marianne would have to do some fast talking if Brian or Johnno called,

but then Marianne was nothing if not a fast talker.

In any case, Emma decided while she deplaned, the die was cast. She was

here, and she would do what she had come to do.

She had to see the house again. It had been sold all those years ago,

so it was doubtful she could w.a.n.gle her way inside. But she had to see

it.

,,The Beverly Wilshire," she told the cab driver.

Exhausted, she let her head fall back, let her eyes close behind her

dark gla.s.ses. It was too warm for her winter coat now, but she couldn't

find the energy to shrug out of it. She needed to rent a car, she

realized, and let out an annoyed breath. She should have taken care of

that already. With a shake of her head, she promised herself she would

arrange it through the concierge as soon as she had unpacked the few

things she'd tossed into her bag.

There were ghosts here, she thought. Along Hollywood Boulevard, in

Beverly Hills, on the beaches at Malibu and throughout the hills looking

over the L.A. basin. Ghosts of herself as a young girl on her first

trip to America, of her young, heroic father hoisting her on his

shoulders in Disneyland. Of Bev, smiling, a hand laid protectively over

the child she carried in her womb. And always of Darren as he giggled

and ran his tractor over the turkey rug.

"Miss?"

Emma blinked and focused on the uniformed doorman who stood waiting to

help her from the cab.

"Checking in?"

"Yes, thank you." Mechanically, she paid off the driver, walked into the

lobby to registration. She took her key, forgetting for the moment that

this was the first time she had stayed alone.

In her room she opened the discreet Gucci carryon, by habit neatly

folding her lingerie, hanging her clothes, setting out her toiletries.

Once done, she picked up the phone.

"This is Miss McAvoy in 312. I'd like to arrange for a rental car. TWo

days. Yes, as soon as possible. That'll be fine. I'll be down."

There was something else that had to be done, though she was afraid.

Picking up the phone book, she opened it, skimmed through to the Ks.

Kesselring, L.

Emma noted down the address in her neat hand. He was still here.

"j&E YOU GOING TO EAT all morning, Michael, or are you going to cut the

lawn?"

Michael grinned at his father and shoveled in more pancakes. "It's a

big lawn. I need my strength. Right, Mom?"