Public Secrets

thought well on his feet, accepted the long, often monotonous hours of legwork and stakeouts, and had a healthy enough respect for his life not to be trigger-happy.
“I got shot at yesterday,” he said conversationally to Conroy. The dog began, disinterestedly, to scratch for fleas. “If that pervert had gotten lucky, you’d be out in the cold, pal. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that slut would take you in.”
Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.
“One trip to the vet,” Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. “Just one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over.” Pleased that he’d had the last word, Michael opened the paper.
There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in terrorism. Some routine bitching about the economy. Beneath the fold in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP and axed his lover.

“Here’s the guy,” Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy’s perusal. “Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and screaming for Jesus. See, here’s my name. Detective Michael Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it’s supposed to be my name. If you’re not interested in current events, why don’t you do something useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch.”
Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back to the paper and wasn’t paying attention. Scratching his bare chest, Michael turned to the Entertainment section.
His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared at the picture.
It was Emma. She looked—God, he thought, she looked outrageous. That shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her shoulders in thick, wild waves.
There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma’s face long enough to stare at the man.
Drew Larimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too. Positively fucking beaming, Michael thought. He shifted back to Emma, studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy came in and dumped a slobbery pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn’t move.
Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.
R OCK P RINCESS E MMA M C A VOY
M ARRIES H ER P RINCE
In a secret ceremony two days ago, Emma McAvoy, daughter of Devastation’s Brian McAvoy and author Jane Palmer, married Drew Larimer, twenty-six, lead singer and guitarist for the rising rock group, Birdcage Walk. The newlyweds met on Devastation’s recent European tour.
Michael didn’t read any more. Couldn’t. “Jesus, Emma.” He closed his eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. “Oh, Jesus.”

E MMA WAS THRILLED to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the loft.
It hadn’t mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew’s new album. She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the transition from bride to wife.
She had the limo driver take them through midtown so she could show Drew the lights, the people, the majestic tree in Rockefeller Center, the carnival of Times Square.
It delighted her to arrive at the loft knowing she was alone. Finally alone, with no Sweeney in residence downstairs.
“It feels like years since I’ve been here.” She knew Marianne’s father had complained bitterly over their refusal to sublet, but she was glad, so glad to know that no one had lived there in her absence.
“Well?” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “What do you think?”
“It’s quite a space.” He skimmed over the plaster walls, the bare floors, the kitschy china owl Emma had discovered in a neighborhood thrift shop. “A bit … spartan.”
“Wait until I start decorating for Christmas. Marianne and I collected some truly awful decorations.” She fumbled in her bag for a tip when the driver deposited their luggage with a discreet cough. “Thank you.”
He pocketed the twenty. “Thank you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” She tossed off her coat and raced to the windows. “Drew, come look at the