Allison (A Kane Novel) (15 page)

Deluca came back on.  “Your dad’s gone.  You wanna leave a message?”

I looked up, noticing Brent Preston making his way across the newsroom.  “I don’t think so, Paul.  Will he be back soon?”

“Maybe.  If not, I’m meeting him for lunch, after which we’re driving out to the Palisades.  We’ll probably be gone the rest of the afternoon.  I can have him call if you want.”

“That’s all right.  Tell him I said hi.”

After hanging up, I checked the time, surprised to see it was already past noon.  I was also surprised to find myself disappointed that the day was flying by so quickly.  Despite less than optimal working conditions, I liked the high-energy atmosphere of the newsroom, the challenge of learning new things, and the excitement of being part of an organization that spoke to millions daily.  Best of all, for the first time since the previous evening, I had occasionally been able to stop worrying about my mother.

“Hello, Allison.”

I turned, finding Brent Preston smiling down at me.  “Hi, Brent,” I replied.

“Want to grab some lunch?”

“Thanks, but I have a ton of work to do.”

“You have to eat,” Brent insisted.  “Union rules.”

“Really?”

“No, but it sounded good, didn’t it?”  Brent grinned, taking my hand.  “C’mon, we should celebrate your second week on the job.  We’ll go next door to Farmers Market.  I promise to have you back in thirty minutes.  Forty-five at the most.”

“Well . . .”

Brent pulled me to my feet.  “It’s settled.  We’re going.”

Conscious of a number of eyes in the newsroom marking our departure, I followed Brent through the camera crews’ area, exiting into the alley behind the building.  After crossing a line of hopeful contestants waiting outside
The
Price is Right
studio, we walked a half block south to Farmers Market, a huge, open-air market on Fairfax Avenue that has long been a Los Angeles landmark.  In addition to an almost endless selection of fresh breads, meats, fish, and produce, the outdoor market offered a variety of luncheon fare to those wandering its colorful passages and shaded stalls.  I decided on shish-kebab, ordering skewers of chicken and beef, a side of fries, coleslaw, and a Coke.  Brent ordered a fruit salad and a tall iced tea.  Food in hand, we made our way to a table beneath a bright-yellow lawn umbrella.

Brent straddled a folding metal chair, sitting across from me.  “You eat like this every day?” he asked, glancing at my mammoth lunch.

I grinned.  “High metabolism.”

“Lucky you.  So how’s the job going so far?”

“Great.”  I took a bite of chicken, doused my fries with ketchup, and downed a swig of Coke.  “I really like working in the newsroom,” I added, wiping my fingers on a napkin.  “At first I had my doubts, but it’s really exciting.  Way more than I expected.  Of course, I spend most of my time running errands and answering phones, but I get to do a little research and computer work, too.  I even did some editing for your friend Liz.”

Brent picked at his salad.  “She mentioned that.  She says you have a knack for writing.  You may win her over yet.”

“Doubtful.  But somehow I have a hunch that won’t keep her from dumping all her typing on me.”

“Probably not,” Brent agreed.  “She’s a tough nut.  If I were you, I’d tread lightly around her.”

“Don’t worry.  I think Liz and I have an understanding.  Any other advice?”

Brent smiled.  “You mean besides not fighting with management?”

“Besides that,” I said, recalling our conversation in Westwood.  “And not just how to fit in around the newsroom, either.  I want to know how to get ahead.”

“Do I detect a touch of ambition?”

“More like a whole truckload.”

“In that case, you had better accept one thing right now,” Brent advised.  “There aren’t any shortcuts in the news game.  You have to pay your dues.”

“I plan to,” I said.  “I also know that there are undoubtedly a number of ways for me to get what I want, some quicker than others.”

“And what is it you want?”

“For starters,
your
job would be nice.”  After saying that I laughed, afraid I might have gone too far.  “Seriously, Brent.  You’re on the fast track at CBS,” I added quickly.  “What’s your secret?”

Brent shrugged.  “No secret.  I’m on my way up because I want it more than anyone else, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as hard work and clean living.”

“C’mon, there must be something useful you can tell me.”

“All right,” Brent said reluctantly.  “Don’t repeat this, but as far as I’m concerned, the so-called ‘news team’ approach is a crock.  There’s no
team
approach to being a reporter.  If you want to get ahead, you look out for number one.  Period.  You make your own contacts and protect your own sources.  You develop, pitch, and fight for your own stories—digging out the facts and verifying them yourself.  Last, you follow up leads, ask the right questions, and put
yourself
right in the middle of anything you’re covering.”

“With that attitude, I don’t imagine you’ve garnered many selfless-reporter-of-the-year awards,” I observed.

“Guys who win that prize usually aren’t around long enough to collect it.”

“Note taken.  Anything else?”

Brent nodded.  “One other thing, and it’s probably the most important:  Never forget that journalism is a business, pure and simple.”

“So we’re selling the news?”

“Absolutely.”

“And in business, you give customers what they want,” I mused, recalling Brent’s disagreement with Mike on the subject.  “So if it’s entertainment they want, entertainment they get?”

“What if it is?” Brent replied defensively.  “Journalists are supposed to inform the public, but that doesn’t mean we always have to be ramming facts and figures down people’s throats.  The trick is to understand what captures viewers’ imaginations and then deliver it.  Believe me, ratings are all that the bastards in New York care about.”

“Bastards?  You mean management?”

Brent nodded.  “None other.  When our timeshare numbers are up, the suits are happy.  When the numbers are down, you can start looking for another job.  I didn’t make the rules; I just play by them.  And if you want to succeed, you’ll do the same.”

Though part of me was reluctant to accept Brent’s cynical opinion of the news, another part suspected that his words held at least a kernel of truth.  Realizing I had a lot to learn, I resolved to reserve judgment until later.  “So that’s what it takes to be a good reporter?” I asked, tossing a few fries to a particularly bold sparrow who had been pecking the ground nearby for scraps.  “Investigating interesting stories and keeping an eye on the ratings?”

“There’s more to it than that,” Brent said patiently.  “Interviewing technique is crucial—asking the right questions and knowing how to get a subject to open up, for instance.  Clear, succinct writing and being able to ad-lib on camera are also essential.  Plus you have to be able to work against a deadline.  Some of that you can learn; some you either have or you don’t.  There are other things too, but a bit of advice a senior correspondent once gave me pretty much sums everything up in what he called the three basic rules of journalism.”

“Three?  I thought there were five:  who, what, where, when, and why.”

“Nope, only three.  Get the story, get the story, and get the story.”

I fell silent.  “I have a tip for you,” I said after a moment’s thought, deciding to take a chance.  “A good one.  But along the lines of looking out for number one, I want something in return.”

“You
are
a fast learner, aren’t you?  Okay, what do you want?”

“If what I have to say pans out, I want to go with you on location.”

“And where would that be?”

“Do we have a deal?”

After a slight pause, Brent nodded.  “If your information is good, I’ll clear it with Lauren.  Where are we going?”

I hesitated, realizing what I was about to say would increase the chances that my father would discover I was the source of the ransom-note leak.  But with any luck he wouldn’t, and the reward seemed worth the risk.  Finally I spoke.  “We’re going to Jordan French’s house.”

Brent leaned forward.  His eyes hardened, locking on me like a hunter studying a game trail.  “Why?”

I smiled, enjoying Brent’s reaction.  By then my plate was empty.  “Are you going to eat that?” I asked, eyeing his nearly untouched fruit salad.

Impatiently, Brent pushed his lunch across the table.  “Damn it, Allison.  What do you know about Jordan French?”

Using my fingers, I selected a plump strawberry from Brent’s salad.  “I phoned my father at work earlier today,” I answered.  “My dad wasn’t there.  The detective I spoke with said my father was driving to Pacific Palisades this afternoon and probably wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.”

“So?”

“So when I called, my dad was at the courthouse.  Picking up a search warrant.”

“I still don’t . . .”  Brent stopped midsentence, abruptly following my line of reasoning.  “What time did you call?”

“Just before we came here.  If we get moving, we can probably be at the Frenches’ house when the police show up.”

9

Catheryn shifted impatiently in her chair.  She had spent most of the past two hours with Dr. Porter and various assistants updating her medical history, giving blood and urine samples, and being thoroughly tapped, poked, and prodded.  Begrudgingly, she admitted that an annual physical was a necessity.  Nevertheless, it took time from her busy schedule, time she couldn’t afford.  Fall rehearsals were beginning on Thursday, and she hadn’t even finished unpacking from her trip.  Instead, here she was cooling her heels in a Santa Monica medical building.

Across his desk, Dr. Porter paged through the results of several in-house lab tests he had ordered.  Then, closing Catheryn’s medical file, he cleared his throat.

“Well?  How long do I have?” joked Catheryn.  “Give it to me straight.”

Dr. Porter smiled.  “Actually, nothing too much turned up.  Your lab numbers are all in the normal range, with one exception.  Your blood work shows a decreased hemoglobin and platelet count.”

“So I need to start taking iron?”

“No.  I don’t think that’s it.”

“What, then?”

“I’m not sure,” said Dr. Porter.  “Your peripheral white-blood-cell count is within normal limits, but I’m concerned about your nosebleeds and the blood you mentioned seeing on your toothbrush.  I’m also concerned about the bruises on your arms and thighs.  You don’t know how you got them?”

Catheryn shrugged.  “Probably banged myself doing yard work.”

“And your lack of energy?”

“I’ve been busy.  I need to get more sleep.”

“Possibly.”  Dr. Porter wrote a name and telephone number on a slip of paper.  “I want you to see Dr. Kratovil for further tests.  She’s a hematologist here in the building.  With any luck, she may be able to work you in this afternoon.”

“More tests?  But—”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” said Dr. Porter, cutting her off.  “Your platelet and hemoglobin anomaly could well mean nothing, but coupled with your other symptoms, your test results might indicate a more serious problem.”

“I . . . I suppose I could find time to come back next week.”

“Not next week, Catheryn.  If not today, tomorrow.  No later.”

10

On the drive to the Frenches’ estate, Kane repeatedly checked his rearview mirror, making sure the Special Investigative Division van was still following.  Shortly after leaving Sunset Boulevard, satisfied that the SID unit was keeping him in sight, Kane cut the wheel and headed up a steep, narrow road that branched off Mandeville Canyon to the right.  Sitting beside him in the front seat, Detective Paul Deluca checked a map that lay open in his lap, then resumed telling a joke he had started minutes earlier, swearing he’d heard it at church.

“‘Lemme get this straight,’ Adam says to God,” Deluca continued, picking up the thread of his joke—as usual enjoying his own humor more than the material warranted.  “‘You can create a companion for me who will be loving and supportive, who’ll cook and clean and wash my clothes, and who will always do whatever I say—but it’ll cost me an arm?’”  Deluca chortled, struggling to keep a straight face as he headed into the punch line.  “So Adam thinks for a moment, scratches his head, and says, ‘What can I get for a rib?’”

“Not bad,” Kane chuckled.  “Undoubtedly one of your wife’s favorites.”

“Uh . . . actually, no.”

Kane smiled.  “Imagine that.”

Ahead, as they proceeded up a ridge guarding Sepulveda Pass, the travertine walls of the J. Paul Getty Museum came slowly into view.  In the distance, framing the museum, the high-rises of downtown Los Angeles squatted like building blocks on the horizon.  Bordering one side of the road as it ascended the western ridge of the valley, live oak, sycamore, and jacaranda overhung the pavement.  On the other side, visible through occasional breaks in thick hedges guarding palatial estates, the hillside fell away to reveal smoggy vistas of Westwood and Century City. 

“That should be it up ahead,” said Deluca, referring again to his map.  “The one with the fancy gate.”

“I see it.”  Kane slowed, wheeling into a driveway fronting an opulently landscaped mansion.  Through a ten-foot-high metal gate he could make out portions of the stately, slate-roofed structure.  Stands of eucalyptus, strips of bark peeling like old wallpaper from their trunks, obscured the rest of the two-story, colonial-style building.  Past the wrought-iron barrier and twin tennis courts adjoining the house, an ivy-covered fence and hedges of boxwood and oleander ran the perimeter of the grounds.

After waiting for the SID van to pull up behind, Kane lowered his window and punched a button on a gate intercom mounted beside a numerical keypad.  Seconds later a woman’s voice answered.  “Yes?”

Kane flashed his badge at a TV camera positioned above the gate speaker.  “Detective Kane, LAPD.  I called earlier.”

“Yes, Detective Kane.  Come in.”