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 gla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e, 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."