Allison (A Kane Novel) (10 page)

“Allison?”

“A refill on my Coke, please.”

As Mike started across the room, I turned to Brent, puzzled by the animosity I felt radiating from Liz.  “Mike was in the process of telling me what’s wrong with the news business when you arrived,” I said, attempting to steer the conversation away from myself.  “Any thoughts on that?”

“A few,” Brent replied.  “For one thing, you have to understand that Mike is a frustrated filmmaker who resents shooting ten-second news clips.  As a result, when it comes to accepting the way things are in the media, he has a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island.  It’s a shame, too, because he’s really good.  UCLA Film School and all that.  Maybe one of these days he’ll make it in the movie biz.  Did he tell you he has a documentary that’s going to be shown at the Telluride Film Festival in September?”

“No.”

“Well, he does.  It’s a huge honor simply having your work screened at a major event like that.”

I decided there was more to Mike Cortese than I had thought.  “You mentioned his not accepting the way things are in the media.  What things?”

Brent grinned.  “He didn’t get that far in his analysis of the woes besetting the industry, eh?  Well, it’s the old journalism-versus-entertainment chestnut that people have been kicking around for years.  You know—the golden age of journalism died when big corporations took over and network bean-counters began evaluating everything based on the financial bottom line.  According to Mike, present-day news coverage is typified by inanity, hype, and crime.  News anchors have become million-dollar celebrities reading scripts off a TelePrompTer, and in an endless scramble for ratings—once more according to Mike—news stations are broadcasting lowest-common-denominator programming, with substance replaced by weather, sports, and happy-talk between correspondents and anchors.”

“That’s not really fair, is it?”

Brent shrugged, absently worrying a thumbnail with his teeth.  “Oh, a bit of it is.  Maybe more than a bit.  But the news has to make money like everything else; otherwise it couldn’t exist.  So we give viewers what they want.  And when all’s said and done, what’s so wrong with that?” Noticing Liz watching him bite his nail, Brent removed his hand from his mouth and continued.  “If we can inform the public and entertain them at the same time, why not?”

“Because mainstream news likes to think it’s different from the paparazzi on motorbikes snapping pictures,” answered Mike, returning from the bar.  “But it isn’t.  Insights like that, by the way, mark the difference between a professional cameraman such as myself and someone with a real job,” he added wryly, setting a double handful of glasses on the table.  “Chevas rocks, vodka gimlet, Red Hook, and a Coke.  Grab ’em while they’re frosty.”

“How much do I owe?” asked Brent.

“I’ve got this one,” said Mike, resuming his place.  “Sorry about breaking in on your sterling defense of the news, by the way.  Speaking of which, do you have any words of wisdom for Allison?”

“Yeah.  Don’t fight with management,” said Brent tersely.

Brent’s response brought an instant nod of agreement from Liz.  Then, frowning, Liz turned to Mike.  “Paparazzi?  I suppose you’d like to turn back the clock to the days of Edward R. Murrow and Eric Sevareid and the like.”

Mike lifted his beer.  “Unfortunately, Liz, that’s not possible,” he said evenly, taking a healthy sip.  “Thanks to TV, pictures have replaced words, and in case you haven’t noticed, crazed gunmen and murders du jour provide better visuals than in-depth coverage of world events.  Not to belabor the point, but FBI figures show that national crime has been decreasing for years, while news stations continue to escalate their coverage of blood and guts—on average giving it twice the air time they did a decade ago.  Meanwhile, among other things, international-news reporting has declined by half.”

“Sad, but true,” said Brent.  “If it bleeds, it leads.  But to be fair, all broadcast journalism isn’t murder and mayhem at eleven.  There’s good work being done even now, and some reporters still have scruples.”

Mike chuckled.  “This coming from a guy who would sell his own mother for a story.”

“Guilty as charged,” said Brent.  “In my defense, I’m no different from anyone else in the business.”

“No.  Just better at it than most,” said Mike.  “Incidentally, I caught the Jordan French spot you did today at the reservoir.  Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you get the exclusive on the ransom note?  None of the other stations mentioned that.”

With a renewed rush of guilt, I wondered how much Lauren had told Brent.

“Van Owen received an anonymous tip,” answered Brent.  “I checked my sources to get confirmation.  Eventually it panned out.”

“So who’s handling the investigation now that it’s turned into a homicide?” asked Liz, reaching across the table to take Brent’s hand.  “Anybody we know?”

“Some hard-ass detective named Kane,” Brent replied.  “He wouldn’t even comment on the case.  Said the next of kin had to be notified first.  I got most of my material from one of the Van Nuys patrol cops and a friend at the coroner’s office.”

“Kane,” mused Liz.  “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

“No relation of yours, is he, Allison?” joked Brent.

“He’s my father.”

All heads at the table turned toward me.  After several seconds Brent found his voice.  “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“
Now
I recall,” Liz said brightly.  “Kane was on that Candlelight Killer Task Force two years ago.”  Then, her eyes widening, “Oh, my God.  Detective Daniel Kane.  It was all over the news when Lauren was attacked, remember?  Kane was the cop Van Owen was, uh . . .”  Liz let her voice trail off meaningfully.

“Kane and Lauren?” said Brent incredulously.

“Sure,” Liz went on.  “Don’t you see?  It explains everything.  What does your mother have to say about your working for Lauren, Allison?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“You haven’t?”  Liz smiled, clearly enjoying herself now.  “Well, sooner or later you’ll have to.  I would like to be a fly on the wall during
that
conversation.”

It was the second time that evening I had heard those same words.  Unable to hide my embarrassment, I lowered my head and rose from the table.  “Excuse me.  I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

After crossing the bar, I stood in the lobby taking deep breaths, angry with myself for having allowed Liz to get under my skin.  I considered walking home, but decided that would only make matters worse.  If I were going to work at CBS, I had to set things straight with Liz, and the sooner the better.  Whatever had gone on between my father and Lauren had nothing to do with me.  And if Liz or anybody else thought it did, they were mistaken.

My mouth set in a grim line of determination, I reentered the bar.  As I approached our table, I noticed that Mike was now engaged in a heated conversation with Brent’s date.  “Jesus, Liz,” I heard Mike say.  “Sometimes you can be a royal pain.”

Liz shot Mike a contemptuous glare, her eyes flashing like daggers.  “Screw you, Cortese. 
I
wasn’t the one who got some cop to cheat on his frigid, ice-princess wife in order to get inside information.  And now, of all things, Lauren has apparently hired his
daughter
to—”  Liz hesitated midsentence, suddenly noticing me.

I stopped beside the table.  Instead of sitting, I remained standing, hands balled at my sides.  I stared at Liz, feeling the newswoman’s words settling like spit on my face.  “Let’s get something straight, Ms. Waterson,” I said quietly, holding the older woman’s gaze with mine.  “First, my father and Ms. Van Owen haven’t seen each other for years.  Second, my being hired at CBS had nothing to do with what happened between them in the past.  And third, if you ever talk about my mother that way again, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

As Mike walked me back to my dorm, I was still simmering over my confrontation with Liz.  Paradoxically, I was also furious with myself for losing my temper.

“Want to talk about it?” Mike ventured.

“No.”

“C’mon, Allison.  What are you thinking right now?”

“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have blown my top like that,” I answered.

“Liz was out of line.  Way out of line.”

“Yeah, but I made things worse,” I said, my mood plummeting.  “On the other hand, I suppose the danger of bottling up hostility is that one runs the risk of forgetting it.”

“Good point,” Mike chuckled.

“Anyway, thanks for sticking up for me.”

“My pleasure.  You know, for a moment I thought you were
really going to deck her.”

“I still might,” I said.

“Let me know if you do.  I’d like to be there for that.”

“No problem.  Jeez, what did I ever do to her?”

“Liz can be a real bitch about anything that threatens her at work, but I think what took place tonight had more to do with the way she saw Brent looking at you,” Mike observed.  “They’ve been an item for years, and she’s definitely not the sharing type.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.  Our discussion drifted into silence, with the remainder of our walk up sorority row passing quickly.  When we reached the steps of my dorm, I was surprised to find myself wishing the evening weren’t ending.  “Not counting my argument with Liz, I had fun tonight,” I said, wondering whether Mike would accompany me to the front door.  Oh, God, I thought.  What if he tries to kiss me?

“I had fun, too,” said Mike, following me up the stairs.

When we reached the top landing, I turned, dreading the inevitable first-date moment at the door.  I lowered my gaze, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

Mike moved closer.  “Ali?”

I looked up.

Mike’s eyes found mine.  “Be careful at CBS.  Unless I miss my guess, your dad’s being the lead investigator on the Jordan French case will cause complications.  You’ve already made one enemy at the station.  In time, you may find that some of your other new associates over there aren’t what they seem, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying be careful.”

“I will.”

“Good.  I’ll see you later.”  With a smile, Mike turned and headed down the stairs.

Relieved, disappointed, and irrationally irritated that Mike hadn’t even attempted to kiss me—not even a quick peck—I stood on the dorm landing, watching as he disappeared into the night.

6

At eleven-thirty the following morning, after attending the autopsy of Jordan French at the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office, Kane returned to the West Los Angeles Division station on Butler Avenue.  Upon entering the windowless, two-story building across from the county courthouse, he made his way directly to the office of Lt. Nelson Long, the division’s commanding officer.

Stopping outside Lt. Long’s door, Kane struggled to shake the depression he had felt since witnessing the body of the fourteen-year-old girl being laid open on a cold metal table—what once had been a living, breathing child reduced under the coroner’s knife to a collection of snips and slices, a library of tissues and fluids to be minutely examined, weighed, and preserved.  Though Kane had attended many such procedures, for him this had been one of the hardest.

Attempting to put the autopsy behind him, Kane rapped on the door.  “Come,” announced a gravelly voice from the other side, sounding like a diesel engine turning over.

As Kane entered, Lt. Long looked up from his desk.  Although Long’s broad, African-American features remained impassive, his eyes betrayed the perceptive intelligence that had enabled him to climb LAPD ranks on ability alone.  A large man, nearly as big as Kane, Long was one of the few members of the brass to whom Kane afforded both his respect and trust.

“Good morning, Dan.”

“Morning, Lieutenant,” Kane replied, noticing that Carl Peyron was also present.

“Grab a seat,” said Long brusquely.

Kane dropped into a wooden chair beside Peyron.

“I asked Carl here to recap MAC’s progress on the abduction,” Long continued.  “But before we get into that, there’s something I want to make absolutely clear to both of you.  There are to be no further leaks on the French case.  Not from
this
department, anyway.”

“You’re referring to the media finding out about the ransom note?” asked Kane.

“Correct.  Captain Lincoln was all over my ass about it this morning.  He said heads are gonna roll if it happens again.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Kane.

“Me, neither,” added Peyron.  “It was probably one of those tube steaks over at the DA’s office.”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” said Long.  “Just make sure there are no repeats.  If the leak is in our ranks, find it and plug it.  With a high-profile investigation like this, things will be hard enough without tripping over reporters every time we turn around.”

“You’re preaching to the choir here, Lieutenant,” said Kane.

“Fine, Dan.  Let’s move on.  You first.  What have you got so far?”

Kane took a second to collect his thoughts.  “Well, to begin with, the kid wasn’t killed at the reservoir.  Lividity marks show that she lay on her right side for a number of hours after death, so she must have been transported afterward.  And whoever put her in the water knew what he was doing.  He could have just buried her.”

Long leaned forward.  “You’re saying someone dumped Jordan in the reservoir to eliminate evidence, not just to get rid of the body?”

“Absolutely,” said Kane.  “And he succeeded, too.  An exam of the corpse produced nothing in the way of hair, fibers, latent prints, tissue under her nails, and the like.”

“What about the dump site?”

“Nothing.  No footprints, tire tracks, cuts in the fence, or other physical evidence, with the exception of a length of nylon cord tied around one wrist—probably from whatever was used to weigh her down.  Divers are doing a grid search later today, but it’s a big reservoir with a lot of shoreline.”

“How long was she under?”

“Based on the average water temperature at a depth near the shoreline, the coroner estimates her submersion time was from eight to ten days,” answered Kane.  “Fly eggs and larvae on her back and shoulders indicate she wasn’t floating for more than a day or so.  Adding that to the submersion estimate gives a time of death right around the day she was reported missing.”