Public Secrets

recorder and a belt of rich, supple leather. He drew the drapes snug at the windows, then lighting a cigarette, settled down to wait.

“K ESSELRING .” 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 damn 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 up before she could respond.
“Kesselring, if you’ve finished talking to your sweetheart—”
“Let’s move.” Michael interrupted his partner’s complaint and started for the door at a run.
“What the—”
“Move,” Michael repeated. He was already peeling out when McCarthy jumped in the car.

Chapter Thirty-Six

W HEN EMMA WALKED into the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire, it was nearly four. During her long afternoon on the beach, she’d made one decision. She was going to call her father. He would have heard about Jane’s death, and Emma had no doubt he would have tried to contact her.
It wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but a necessary one. It was time she told him that she had left Drew. Perhaps it was also time to take advantage of the press that was always so eager for gossip. Once the separation was made public, she might break out of her perpetual daze. Maybe she’d stop being afraid.
As she walked down the hall toward her room, she dug in her bag for her key. Her fingers brushed the warm metal of the gun. She was going to stop carrying it, she told herself. She was going to stop looking over her shoulder.
She opened the door of the suite, and frowned. The drapes shut out all but the faintest light. She hated the dark, and silently cursed the maid. Pushing herself forward, she let the door close behind her as she went toward the lamp.
Then the music started. Her fingers froze on the switch. That eerie, unmistakable intro that haunted her dreams. The murdered Lennon began to sing in a crisp staccato.
Across the room the light flashed on. She could only whimper and stumble back. For a moment a face floated into her mind, blurred, but almost, almost recognizable. Then she saw Drew.
“Hello, Emmy luv. Have you missed me?”

She broke out of her trance and raced for the door. He was quick. He’d always been quick. One sweep of his hand knocked her aside and sent her bag flying. Still smiling, he turned the security lock and fixed the chain.
“We want our privacy, don’t we?”
His voice, pleasant, quietly loving, sent ice skidding up and down her back. “How did you find me?”
“Oh, we have our ways, Emma. Let’s say there’s a bond between you and me. Didn’t I tell you I’d always find you?”
Behind her the music kept playing. It was a nightmare. She wanted to believe it. She had them often, the music, the dark. She would wake up, sweating cold as she was sweating now. And it would be over.
“Guess what I received, Emma? A petition for divorce. Now, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Here I’ve been worried sick about