dreams. Once in a while, and only once in a while, someone comes along

who truly understands, who has the gift to transfer all those needs and

emotions into music.

"When I was three years old, I watched you"-she looked back up at

Brian-"all of you, go out on stage. I didn't know about things like

harmony or rhythms or riffs. All I saw was magic. I still see it,

Johnno, every time I watch the four of you step on stage."

He toyed with the copper column at her ear, then sent it spinning. "I

knew there was a reason we kept you around. Give us a kiss."

Her lips were curved as they touched his. "See you tomorrow. You're

going to knock them dead."

It was dusk when she walked to her car. Sometime during the afternoon

it had rained again. The streets were shiny, and the air was cool

and misty. She didn't want to go home to an empty house. Michael was

working late, again.

When she started the car, she turned the radio up loud, as she liked it

best on aimless drives. She would entertain herself for a couple of

hours, look at houses in the glow of street lights, try to decide if she

wanted the beach, the hills, or the canyons.

Relaxed, she set the car at a moderate pace and let the music wash over

her. She didn't check her rearview mirror, or notice the car that fell

in behind her.

MCHmL STOOD iN FRONT of the pegboard in the conference room and studied

his lists. He'd made another connection. It was slow work,

frustrating, but each link brought him closer to the end of the chain.

Jane Palmer had had many men. Finding them all could be a life's work,

Michael thought. But it was particularly satisfying when he turned one

up whose name was on the list.

She had used Brian's money to move out of her dingy little flat and into

bigger, more comfortable quarters in Chelsea, where she'd lived from

1968 to 1971, until she'd bought the house on King's Road. For the

better part of '70, she'd had a flatmate, a struggling pub singer named

Blackpool.

Wasn't it interesting, Michael thought as he rubbed eyes dead-dry with

strain, that while the McAvoys had been living in the hills of

Hollywood, Jane Palmer had been playing house with Blackpool?

Blackpool who had been at the McAvoys' party that night in early

December?

And odd, wasn't it just a bit odd, that Jane hadn't mentioned the

connection in her book? She'd dropped every name that could have made

the slightest ring, but Blackpool, an established star by the

midseventies, didn't rate a footnote. Because, Michael concluded,

neither of them wanted the connection remembered.

McCarthy stuck his head in the door. "Christ, Kesselring, you still

playing with that thing? I want some dinner."

"Robert Blackpool was Palmer's live-in lover from June of '70 to

February of '71."

"Well, call out the wrath of G.o.d."

Michael slapped a file in McCarthy's hand. "I need everything there is

to know about Blackpool."