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 addlebrained.

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. Thy 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, luy."

"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 d.a.m.n 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

neighbor's or a public place and call the police."

"He's not here." She hated herself for being so scattered she was unable

to make herself clear. "I think he knows where she is, Michael. She

left a message on the machine this morning. If he was here when she

called, or he played it back, then he knows. I tried to call her, but

she didn't answer."

"I'll take care of it. Get out of the loft and call the cops." He hung