In his present mood, neither sweet reason nor an argument would move him. Without a word, Amy slid back down under the covers, letting the warmth of the brandy take hold. For a long time she looked up at the ceiling, aware of the weight of Jed's arm across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Some things, it seemed, you couldn't escape-things like nightmares and panic attacks and, Amy was inclined to believe, Jedidiah Glaze.

"Jed?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm going to go visit my parents."

He was silent, but she sensed he was waiting. Amy took a deep breath. "Do you want to come with me?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Amy realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out in a soft sigh. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"I don't want you to feel obligated or anything."

"I don't feel obligated or anything."

"If you have other plans..."

"I don't have any other plans. I could use the vacation."

"You're sure?"

"Shut up, Amy," he said gently. "I'm sure."

Amy began to relax. She knew it was more than the brandy. She had no choice about going back to the island. Deep down, she had known she'd have to face it at some time. But having Jed along was going to make it a little easier. There was a silent strength in him that she might be able to emulate.

It wasn't just Jed's strength she wanted to study, Amy realized. She also wanted to look into her mother's eyes and try to discover what it took to live with the shadow of murder for twenty-five years. Her mother, apparently, had learned how to do it. Amy needed that secret if she wanted to keep herself from going off the deep end.

Chapter Four.

"Artie, I've had it with waiting. This thing is eating me alive. Jesus, man, it's been eight months since the last try. We've got to get moving."

Daniel Renner gripped the telephone the way he did when he was making a pitch or closing a deal. He sat hunched forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared sightlessly at the gray carpet between his feet. He radiated intense excitement, as well as a deep, restless impatience that he seemed to have been born with. The world couldn't move fast enough for Renner. He was always looking forward to the next Big Deal.

Those restless and intense qualities had translated well into the business of selling. Daniel Renner could project an enthusiasm and a sense of integrity that was completely false but highly believable, which made him a natural salesman. He was twenty-six years old and had sold everything from drugs to securities.

The days of peddling illegal substances were long gone, however. Renner had discovered there was more challenge and prestige to be had dealing artificially hyped stocks and other a.s.sorted but equally shaky securities. The day he started working as an account executive in a small L.A. brokerage firm had been the day he knew he was headed in the right direction.

Typically, he had become impatient with the life of a commissioned salesman almost immediately. He had recently made the decision to open his own brokerage firm in a year or two, and he fully intended to do it in style. As usual, he'd consulted with his old friend from the drug dealing days, Artemus J. Fitzpatrick.

At Renner's urging, Fitzpatrick had also decided to abandon dealing dope for the highly profitable and socially acceptable business of selling major investments. The investments were seldom either profitable or advantageous tax shelters, but in the financial world no one seemed to mind those two minor drawbacks. Fitzpatrick had discovered-to his endless wonder and delight-that Renner was right: There were any number of people who would put their money into anything rather than give it to the government. Artemus Fitzpatrick took advantage of a seemingly universal human desire to avoid taxes at any cost while Renner concentrated on selling high risk stocks to gamblers who dreamed of hitting it big with the next IBM.

Renner Securities, Inc., Daniel had explained to Artemus, was not going to be another run-of-the-mill, street-front securities firm. It wouldn't even be located on a street. The very last type of client it would seek to attract was the casual walk-in variety. Who wanted the lobby filled with retirees watching their IBM and General Motors shares moving slowly across the board? That sort of thing was strictly low cla.s.s.

Instead, Renner Securities was to be located a discreet thirty stories up in a gla.s.s and steel high rise that carried a solid gold address on Wilshire Boulevard. Everything would be first cla.s.s, from the hand-polished oak furniture to the hand-picked clientele.

Fitzpatrick was impressed by the plans, but then he'd known Renner since the younger man had discovered the extensive, disposable incomes professional athletes had to expend on recreational drugs.

Even in those days Daniel Renner had sought a high cla.s.s clientele. He had never stood on street corners worrying about getting knifed by an irate client. He had kept his operations discreet and by referral only.

Life hadn't been that easy for Artemus Fitzpatrick. There had been too many occasions when he had had to stand on street corners and worry about what kind of gun the next sleazy client would be carrying.

Renner had gotten him out of that dangerous world and Fitzpatrick was forever grateful. On the other hand, Fitzpatrick had made contacts and learned a few things from his miserable life on the streets that Renner had never had an opportunity to learn.

Eight months ago Daniel Renner had discovered a need for that highly practical and specialized knowledge. He'd turned to Fitzpatrick for help. It was the first time the role of benefactor had shifted from Renner to Fitzpatrick. Fitzpatrick had rather enjoyed that shift. It was good to be the one in the know, the one who had the right contacts, the one Renner needed to carry out his plans.

"Listen, Dan, that d.a.m.n box, if it exists, has been sitting there for twenty-five years, right? It's not going anywhere, so calm down. You haven't had any choice but to wait and you know it. Don't take it out on me. Eight months ago we thought we were going to get lucky with LePage. Looked like an ideal setup when he hit it off with the daughter. But deals go sour all the time, man, you know that. When that fell through there was nothing else to do except wait for the next chance. Another few days and it's next chance time. So just take it easy, pal."

"I've been taking it easy for eight months and I've had it." Renner drummed his fingers on the surface of the coffee table in front of him. "It's June already, Artie. I want to get moving."

"You've got time. The Slaters are scheduled to leave for Europe next week, right? Everything's under control. Once they're off the island, we'll have all the time we need. Stop chewing your nails. Why the h.e.l.l are you so nervous?"

"Because things went wrong last time and I've got no guarantee they won't go wrong this time!" Renner exploded. He rose from the couch and began pacing the steel gray carpet. "LePage was a professional, right? He was supposed to know what he was doing, right? He was a good diver, you said. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty, if necessary. Didn't mind the rough stuff. And he knew his way around a gun.

h.e.l.l, he was supposed to be a professional mercenary. Nothing was going to go wrong last time, but it did. The guy fell on his head in a pool of water and drowned. What kind of professionalism is that?"

Fitzpatrick sighed with the weary patience of one who had suffered unjust accusations all his life and had risen above them. "He wasn't my man. I hired him for you on the recommendation of an acquaintance whose business is making such arrangements. LePage supposedly had excellent credentials.

Unfortunately, something went wrong. Maybe he proved unreliable or maybe he wasn't as good as he claimed. I'm told that cave diving is extremely hazardous."

"You said he was an expert!"

"Even experts have problems, I've learned. Cave diving is dangerous, especially for a man diving alone.

That's why he demanded so much up front, if you'll recall." Fitzpatrick was trying to be patient.

"And that money is gone. Vanished. Who knows what the h.e.l.l he did with it before he took that swim?"

"Calm down and stop rehashing it. It's over, Dan. This is hardly the sort of thing one can take to the Better Business Bureau."

"I don't want any mistakes this time."

"Since you're planning to manage the next attempt yourself, I'm sure there won't be any problems,"

Fitzpatrick said soothingly. "Just be patient a few more days. When the Slaters leave, you'll have half the island to yourself. No one will pay any attention to you. You'll be able to take your time and do it right.

I've made sure you have good men this time. Real pros."

"What if the two guys you've hired aren't any more reliable than LePage?"

Fitzpatrick sighed again. "I've hired the best I could find, Dan. Guthrie and Vaden come highly recommended. They've been around and they honor contracts. There are no guarantees in this sort of thing. We're paying them well and they understand that the bulk of the commission isn't to be deposited to their accounts until the box is retrieved. This time you'll be on site to supervise. That's all we can do to guarantee their, uh, professionalism."

"We aren't paying them well, I'm paying them well." Renner paused in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment. The smog was as thick as mola.s.ses outside his window. "It's got to work this time, Artie. It's got to work."

Fitzpatrick paused and then asked bluntly, "What if there's nothing in the box after all these years, Dan?

Have you thought of that?"

"I've thought of it."

"And?"

"And it doesn't matter. I've got to know."

"You know what your problem is, pal? You never learned that sometimes it's better not to know all the answers."

"Give me a for instance," Renner challenged.

There was another pause and then Fitzpatrick admitted, "Offhand I can't think of any."

Renner nodded. "That's because there aren't any. It's always better to know the answers. And Artie, this answer could be big. Very, very big."

"Don't forget that twenty-five years ago people had a different idea of what const.i.tuted big money,"

Fitzpatrick advised blandly.

"My mother," Daniel Renner stated, "knew what const.i.tuted big money in any decade. And she was even better at figuring the value of gemstones."

Fitzpatrick sucked in his breath. "You really believe the payoff was in emeralds?"

"My father was a certified genius, Artie. I checked into it. Michael Wyman was no fool. My mother's diary says he made the deal for stones, not cash. I believe it." Renner was aware of a strange sense of pride in the unknown man who had been his father. His old man had made a deal to end all deals. Big time. Talent definitely ran in the family. The emeralds const.i.tuted Wyman's legacy to the son he had never seen and who did not bear his name. Renner wished, not for the first time, that his mother had used Wyman's name instead of her own when she named her son.

"s.h.i.t. Have you any idea what those rocks might be worth today?" Fitzpatrick's question was rhetorical.

His voice contained an element of wonder.

"I know, Artie, I know. And that's not all that's in the box. The emeralds are only part of the prize.

According to my mother's diary, when I have that box in my hands, I'll have a rising young politician named Hugh Slater in my hip pocket. There are pictures in that box, Artie. Compromising photos of Hugh Slater's father meeting with a known Russian agent."

"But that meeting, if it took place, would have happened over twenty-five years ago."

"So? You think the threat of exposing his father as a man who tried to sell secrets to the Russians wouldn't be enough to keep Hugh Slater in line? Come on, Artie. It doesn't matter how long ago it happened. It's potent stuff. A political career couldn't take it. With those photos I'll probably even have a handle on Slater Aero, too. Just think of it, Artie. With those emeralds, a company like Slater Aero and a guy who will probably be a senator some day in my palm there won't be anything I can't do."

"The thing I've always admired about you, Dan, is your modest ambition."

Renner laughed with the sheer excitement of the deal. He felt hot, powerful, bursting with energy.

Making deals was better than s.e.x or cocaine any day of the week. "Let's meet at the club and play some racquetball. I need to work out. Winner buys the drinks."

"Since you always win, that sounds like a pretty good deal. See you in half an hour."

Renner tossed the phone back into its cradle and headed for the door of his apartment. It was going to work this time. It had to work. All his life he'd been waiting for the first big break, the one that was going to boost him right to the top of the Southern California power crowd. When he'd found his mother's diary in her safe deposit box after her death he'd known he held his future in his own hands.

It was too bad he had found out in a scuba diving course he'd taken the year before that he wasn't cut out for the sport. Oh, he could get by in shallow water where there was plenty of visibility, but the thought of diving in the confined environment of a cave was too much. He just couldn't do it. He'd go nuts and he knew it. That meant he had to hire pros who didn't ask too many questions and who didn't mind a little rough stuff if it became necessary.

Renner decided he didn't really mind the idea of the rough stuff. It gave him a nice jolt of power to know he was in a position to pay others to handle it for him.

The island was as deceptively serene and inviting as ever. Amy watched from the window of the small twin engine plane as the dark smudge on the horizon crystalized into a lush green emerald set in a turquoise sea. There was very little sign of civilization to mar the Pacific island paradise. Commercial jets only landed there twice a week. Amy and Jed had booked seats with a small, island hopping airline service based in Hawaii. Orleana Island was a typical Pacific volcanic formation. The steep sides of the ancient crater were shrouded in a cloak of verdant foliage. Dazzling white beaches were scattered carelessly around the skirts of the island. As the plane made its approach the small town on the southern tip came into view.

'Talk about an unspoiled tropical paradise." Jed leaned across Amy to peer out the window. "You weren't kidding. If it weren't for that little village at the tip, the place would look uninhabited. Where's your parents' house?"

"The other end of the island. You can't see it from this angle." Amy pressed back against the seat so Jed would have a better view. His shoulder brushed hers and she was deeply aware of his warm, male scent.

There was a casual intimacy about the way he was leaning across her. His forearm grazed her breast and his wide hand rested lightly on her thigh. She had a sudden impulse to run her fingers through his dark hair, but she resisted. The truth was, she didn't know quite where she stood with Jed now.

There had been no repeat of the pa.s.sionate lovemaking that had taken place on the couch in her living room three nights before. The next morning Jed had been as easygoing and undemanding as ever. He had teased her about serving him oatmeal again, taken over the task of making the plane reservations and then gone home. He had some laundry to do, he explained. Not knowing how to interpret his casual att.i.tude, Amy had given him one more opportunity to back out of the trip to Orleana Island, but Jed had ignored it.

Another bird cage had been sold while he'd been out of the country, and that, Amy declared, was cause for celebration. She'd bought champagne and invited him to dinner again before they left Caliph's Bay.

He'd accepted, but after dinner he'd gone home.

The relationship was definitely back to normal. Well, Amy decided silently, almost normal. Amy didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed. Part of her insisted it was best this way. She had enough problems without trying to figure out how to have an affair with a man like Jedidiah Glaze. But another part of her wanted nothing more than to entangle herself completely in his life.

The problem, of course, was that Jed wasn't the kind of man who allowed people to get tangled up in his life. Amy reminded herself that she had been trying to maintain the e kind of distance in her own life. She had no business getting involved in a serious relationship, least of all with Jed Glaze.

Still, there was no denying that things had changed between herself and Jed. The fact that he was sitting beside her as the plane eased down onto the runway was proof of that.

"I'm looking forward to doing some diving," Jed said as the plane taxied to a halt near the small terminal building. "It's been a while since I've had an opportunity. When was the last time you did any?"

Amy kept looking out the window. Her hands twisted tightly in her lap, but she forced herself to relax them. "I did a little the last time I was here. There's plenty of equipment at the house. My mother taught all of us kids how to dive."

"What about your father?"

"He doesn't care for the sport." Douglas Slater had never done any scuba diving as far as Amy knew.

Knowing that, Amy had been forced to realize that he probably wasn't the one who had committed the murder twenty-five years before. The killer had been a good diver, Bob had explained. And Amy's mother was an excellent diver. G.o.d knew she had also had ample motive. All the reasons for murder were locked in a waterproof box that rested far back in a flooded cave.

"I told Dad we'd rent a car and drive to the house," Amy said as she slid out of the seat. The tropical warmth and shatteringly brilliant sunlight hit her in a familiar wave as she preceded Jed off the plane.

"Sounds like a good idea." Jed glanced around at the shabby little terminal and the small crowd that was exiting the plane.

They found their luggage amid the small pile of bags being unloaded by the co-pilot. Jed hoisted his and Amy's.

He started toward the door with a bag in each hand. He'd stopped using his cane the day before, Amy had been pleased to note, but she didn't think he ought to be pushing things quite this fast.