Public Secrets

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.”

Chapter Eleven

P . M. WATCHED 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 glass. 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 passed 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 album was released that spring, but P.M. wasn’t sure Brian would be up to it. It was nearly two months since that horrible night, and Brian was still in seclusion. He wondered if Brian knew that “Love Lost” was topping the singles charts and had gone gold. He wondered if it would matter to him.
P.M. knew the police were no closer to finding out who had killed Darren. He made it a point to stay in touch with Kesselring. It was the least he could do for Brian, and for Bev.

He thought of Bev, how pale and stricken she had looked on the day of the funeral. She hadn’t spoken a word, not to anyone. He’d wanted so badly to comfort her. He hadn’t known how, and the fantasy he’d had about taking her to bed, tenderly loving her until her grief passed, had shocked him so much he’d been unable to do more than pat her cold, rigid hand.
Angie Parks came down the circular stairs in a pink T-shirt that barely covered her hips. She’d taken the time to add a bit of makeup—a little mascara, a touch of lip gloss. She’d brushed out the knots sleep and sex had tied in her long blond hair, then had carefully arranged it to give it a tousled, bedroom look.
The best way to get what you wanted from a man was with sex. And she wanted quite a bit from P.M.
She glanced around the big, glass-walled living room. It was a nice start, she decided. A very nice start. She’d like to keep it as a weekend place once she’d talked P.M. into Beverly Hills. That was where stars lived, and she had every intention of being a star.
P.M. was her stepping-stone. Her romantic liaison with him had already led to a handful of commercials and a nice supporting role in a TV movie. She wanted better things, bigger things, and was willing to keep P.M. happy to get them.
She was grateful to him. Without the interest that had come her way since the press had picked up on their affair, she might have had to take a turn doing some porno flicks. A girl had to pay the rent. Angie flexed her wrist so that the light caught the diamonds and sapphires in the bracelet P.M. had given her. She wouldn’t have to worry about rent any longer.
She turned toward the glass doors and saw him standing on the deck. As he stood in the early sunlight she thought he looked almost handsome. And lonely. Even a heart as naturally ambitious as Angie’s could feel some pity. He hadn’t been the same since the little boy had died. She was sorry about it, really, but the