looked at what had been done to Darren, the more certain he was that

there were. "I don't know. I'm trying to find out. That's my job, to

find out."

Having a cop for a father had never stopped Michael from embracing the

television image of justice at work.

"How do you find out?"

"By talking to people, studying the evidence. Thinking a lot."

"Sounds boring." But he couldn't take his eyes off the picture.

"It is, mostly-l'

Michael was glad he'd decided to be an astronaut. He looked away from

the picture and spotted the tabloid his father had just brought home. He

had a sharp mind, and put it together quickly. "That's Brian McAvoy's

little boy. Somebody tried to kidnap him or something but he died

instead. All the kids're talking about it."

"That's right." Lou slipped the picture of Darren back into a folder.

"Wow. Wow! You're working on that case. Did you get to meet Brian

McAvoy and everything?"

"I met him."

His father had met Brian McAvoy. Michael could only stare in a kind of

dazed awe. "That's boss, really boss. Did you meet the rest of the

group? Did you talk to them?"

Lou shook his head as he began to tidy his papers. How simple life was

when you were eleven. And how simple it should be, he added as he

ruffled Michael's dark, untidy hair. "Yes, I talked to them. They seem

very nice."

"Nice?" Michael goggled. "They're the best. The very best. Wait until

I tell the guys."

"I don't want you to tell anyone about this."

"Not tell?" Michael pushed a hand through his tousled hair. "How come?

The guys'll just about fall over dead. I've got to tell them."

"No. No, you don't. I want you to keep this to yourself, Michael."

"But why?"

"Because some things are personal." He glanced back at the glaring

headlines. "Or should be personal. This is one of them. Come on." He

took the football, fitted it to his hand. "Let's see if you can catch

my bomb."

P.M. WATe14ED THE sea roll up on the sand. Even after a month, it

still surprised him that this house was his. The Malibu beach house,

his Malibu beach house, had everything the real estate broker had

promised. High, soaring ceilings, a giant stone fireplace, acres of

gla.s.s. In the bedroom upstairs where his lover still slept were twin

skylights, another fireplace, and a balcony that roped around the second

story.

Even Stevie had been impressed when he'd pa.s.sed through. It had given

P.M. a wonderful sense of accomplishment to show off the rooms, the

tasteful furniture, the up-to-the-minute stereo unit he'd had built in.

But now Stevie was in Paris. Johnno was in New York. Brian was in

London. And P.M. felt very much alone.

There was still talk about a tour when the new alb.u.m was released that

spring, but P.M. wasn't sure Brian would be up to it. It was nearly