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

overdose. 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 pa.s.sing by.

To Michael it was as if she had a gla.s.s 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 sungla.s.ses 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 u:we 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