Public Secrets

our complete cooperation.” He settled the horn-rims comfortably on his hooked nose. “It’s been nearly twenty years, but none of us has forgotten what happened to Darren McAvoy.”
No, no one had forgotten, Michael thought as he sat in Brian’s oak-paneled office and watched the man read his ex-lover’s letter.
There was a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth across the room. Easy chairs were placed cozily in front of it. Awards and plaques and photographs lined the shelves and walls. There were a few cardboard boxes, a testament to the fact he’d only moved in weeks before. His desk looked more like an executive’s than a rock star’s. Glossy and piled with files and papers. Against the wall was a Yamaha keyboard and synthesizer, along with a huge reel-to-reel tape recorder. There was only mineral water and soft drinks in the bar. Michael waited until Brian looked up.
“My father and I discussed it. We thought you should know.”
Shaken, Brian groped for a cigarette. “You think it’s genuine.”
“Yes.”
He rumbled with his lighter. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk—still sealed. It was a test to himself. In the six weeks and three days since he’d tipped a bottle, he’d never wanted a drink more.

“Sweet Jesus, I thought I knew what she was capable of. I can’t understand this.” He dragged in smoke like a drowning man sucks air. “If she was—why would she have wanted to hurt him?” He buried his face in his hands. “Me. She wanted to hurt me.”
“We’re still of the opinion that the death was an accident.” Hardly words of comfort, Michael thought. “Logically, kidnapping and the ransom you would have paid were the motives.”
“I was already paying her for Emma.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, then dropped them on the desk. “She would have killed Emma, snapped her neck right before my eyes. She was capable of that in a rage. But to plan something like this.” Lifting his face again, he shook his head. “I can’t believe she could do it.”
“She had help.”
He rose then, all but lunged from the chair to roam the room. It was full of the tangible proof of his success. Gold records, platinum records, Grammys, American Music Awards. Signs that the music he had created was important.
Jockeying for space with them were dozens of photographs. Devastation, yesterday and today, Brian with other singers, musicians, politicians he’d supported, celebrities. There was a framed snapshot among them, of Emma and his lost son, sitting on the banks of a little creek and smiling into the sunlight. He had created them as well.
Twenty years dissolved in an instant, and he was back on the sun-dappled grass, listening to the laughter of his children. “I thought I’d put this behind me.” He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and turned away from the picture. “I don’t want Bev to know, not yet. I’ll tell her when I think the time’s right.”
“That’s up to you. I wanted you to know I’m going to reopen the case.”
“Are you as dedicated as your father?”
“I’d like to think so.”
With a nod, Brian accepted that. Whatever bond had been forged on that horrible night two decades before had yet to be broken. But he had another child to consider. “What about Emma? Are you going to put her through all the questioning again?”
“I’ll do everything I can to keep Emma from being hurt.”
He opened a bottle of ginger ale. A poor substitute for whiskey. “Bev seems to think you’re in love with her.”
“I am.” Michael shook his head at the offer of a drink. “I’m going to marry her as soon as she’s ready.”

Brian stood where he was and drank. The thirst was unbearable. “I didn’t want her involved with Drew. For all the wrong reasons. I’ve had the opportunity to ask myself, If I hadn’t pushed her, if I hadn’t objected so strongly, would she have waited?”
“Larimer wanted you and what you could do for him. I only want Emma. I always have.”
With a sigh, Brian sat again. “She has always been the most constant and beautiful part of my life. Something I made thoughtlessly that turned out perfectly right.” With a ghost of a smile, so much like his daughter’s, he looked at Michael. “You made me nervous the day Emma brought you to that miserable house of P.M.’s in Beverly Hills. I looked at you and thought, This boy is going to take Emma away from me. Must be the Irish,” he said as he drank again.