Allison (A Kane Novel) (16 page)

After a slight pause, the gate swung inward.  Kane drove down a long, cobbled driveway, parking in front of the house’s six-car garage.  Through an open garage door he noted several vehicles parked inside:  a bright-red sports car, a silver Lexus, and a dark-blue Land Rover.  As the SID van pulled to a stop behind him, Kane glanced up a flight of flagstone steps leading to the house.  A heavily built man in his mid-forties and a pretty, slightly younger woman with jet-black hair stood waiting on a landing by the front door.

“How do you want to play this?” asked Deluca.

“I’ll take the parents,” said Kane, stepping from the car.  “You run the SID team.  And don’t forget the house plans.”

“Got ’em right here.”  Reaching into the backseat, Deluca retrieved a set of floor plans he had procured from the building department earlier that morning.  Deluca also grabbed a copy of Peyron’s crime report describing the abduction scene.  Plans and report in hand, he hurried after Kane, who had already started toward the house.

“Detective Kane?” said the man on the landing, thrusting a hand toward Kane as he reached the top step.  “I’m Crawford French.  This is my wife, Beth.”

Kane shook Mr. French’s hand, noting that his grip seemed overly firm, even for a man of his size.  With receding brown hair showing tasteful touches of gray, razor-thin lips over a cleft chin, and a dark, challenging gaze, Jordan’s stepfather struck Kane as a typical type-A personality:  intense, impatient, and controlling.

“What’s being done to find the man who murdered our daughter?” Mr. French asked curtly, his voice tinged with a slight Texas drawl.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. French,” said Kane, ignoring the question.  “Yours, too, Mrs. French,” he added, turning to the tanned woman standing nearby.  In addition to a heavy application of lip gloss and eye shadow, Jordan’s mother had on a thin silk blouse and a pair of tight-fitting designer jeans.  A head shorter than her husband, Elizabeth French appeared even younger than Kane had initially guessed, probably being no more than thirty-five.  She was also far more attractive than he had first thought, too—although something about her wide-set eyes and full, high breasts looked just a little too perfect.

“Thank you, Detective,” Mrs. French replied, nervously raising a hand to her throat, a large diamond on her fourth finger sparkling in the sunlight.

Kane nodded toward Deluca as he joined them on the landing.  “This is Detective Deluca.  While he’s examining Jordan’s room, there are a few things about Jordan’s abduction that I want to go over with you.”

Mr. French gazed briefly at Deluca, then returned his attention to Kane.  “We’ll do anything that might help find whoever took our daughter, but I don’t understand the need for another search.  The first officer who was here, Detective, uh—”

“Peyron.”

“Right.  Detective Peyron already went through everything.  Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s still involved with the case, but now that it’s become a homicide investigation, I’ve taken over,” Kane replied, reaching into his coat and withdrawing a thick, folded document.  “This is an authorization for us to remove various articles from your house, mostly from Jordan’s room,” he added, handing the sheaf of papers to Mr. French.

“A search warrant?”

“Just a formality,” Kane explained, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.  “We’ll be taking things with us when we leave.  Your daughter’s sheets and mattress, for instance.  We need to list them on a warrant so they can be returned.”  Not the true motivation for the warrant, but plausible.

“Her mattress?” asked Mrs. French.

“Whoever killed Jordan might have done it in her room,” said Kane.  “If it happened in her bed, he might have left evidence.  Fibers, fluids, those kinds of things.”

Mr. French stiffened, his eyes turning as flat as porcelain.  “You think she may have been raped?”

“It’s possible,” Kane replied.  “We’ll know more when the lab tests come back.”  Not exactly true either, but close enough.  Though the initial results of Jordan’s autopsy had been inconclusive regarding sexual assault, Kane wanted to rule out the possibility of chronic sexual abuse by a family member.  Testing Jordan’s sheets, bedding, and underwear for blood, semen, and seminal fluid could prove revealing, as could an examination of her diary, computer files, and other personal items.  Kane had argued to have the search warrant authorize seizure of certain of the parents’ personal property as well:  clothes, cars, items that could have served as a murder weapon, and evidence indicative of an interest in child pornography.  Neither the district attorney nor the judge issuing the warrant had concurred, contending that no justification existed for extending the search to that extent.

By now several officers had piled out of the SID wagon and were making their way to the front door.  “We’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible,” Kane continued sympathetically.  “While these men are working on your daughter’s room, why don’t we go inside and talk?  As I said, there are some aspects of Jordan’s abduction that I would like to go over with you.”

Clearly irritated, Mr. French shook his head impatiently.  “We already told the other officers everything we know.”

“I realize that, but we need to go over it again,” insisted Kane.  “I want to know every detail, no matter how insignificant.  There may be some bit of background information or a fact you forgot that could help find the killer.”

“We’ll be glad to help,” said Mrs. French.  “We can talk in the living room.”  Then, turning to Deluca, “I’ll show you to Jordan’s room first.”

“No need, ma’am,” said Deluca, holding up the building plans.  “Third room down the hallway past the kitchen, next to the den and game room.”

Mrs. French stared.  “That’s correct, Detective.  Well . . . I suppose we should go in.”

Leaving Deluca to confer with the SID team, Kane followed Mrs. French into the house.  Mr. French trailed a few steps behind.  After crossing a hardwood foyer with a broad staircase curving to the second floor, they entered a cavernous living room decorated with tapestries, crystal glassware, and expensive-looking paintings.  Mr. and Mrs. French sat together on an overstuffed couch near a marble fireplace; Kane took a seat in a matching armchair nearby.  Between them, a glass coffee table displayed an abstract metal sculpture and a fan of designer magazines including
Elle Décor
,
Coastal Living
, and
Architectural Digest
.

Mr. French leaned forward.  “I still want to know what’s being done to find the man who killed our daughter.  So far no one’s told us anything.”

“As soon as we make any progress, you’ll be the first to know,” Kane replied patiently.  “At present I’m just trying to put together the pieces, and your cooperation would be helpful.”

Mrs. French shot her husband a look as cutting as an arctic morning.  “As I said, Crawford, we’ll do anything we can to assist,” she reiterated firmly.

“Thank you, Mrs. French,” said Kane.

“Call me Beth.  Please.”

“All right, Beth.  Let’s begin with the twenty-four hours prior to Jordan’s disappearance.”

“That was all in the statement we gave Detective Peyron,” Mr. French objected again.  “Don’t you people talk to one another?”

Kane frowned.  “I read his report.  Now I want to hear it from you.”

Mrs. French gave her husband another gun-barrel glare.  “Crawford, if it’ll help, we’ll go through it as many times as it takes.”

Mr. French glowered back.  “Fine,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw.  “It’s just that I blame myself for what happened.  And now I feel so damned helpless . . .”

“You blame yourself?” asked Kane.  “Why?”

“Because I should have installed better security around the house.  Hell, there are areas in the backyard where anybody could climb over the fence from the next street.”

“Accusing yourself won’t bring her back,” Mrs. French pointed out.  “Let’s get on with this.”

When her husband didn’t reply, Mrs. French reached for a pack of Parliament cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply.  “We discovered Jordan missing early Saturday, so I’ll start with Friday morning,” she began, exhaling a cloud of bluish smoke.  “That was June thirtieth, the day after her birthday.  We’d all been out late the night before, and she had trouble waking up for her makeup-call at the studio.”

“Christ, Beth, do you have to smoke in here?” grumbled Mr. French.

Mrs. French took another drag on her cigarette.  “Yes, Crawford.  I do.”

“Let’s get back to your daughter,” suggested Kane.  “Where were you on the previous evening, Thursday night?”

“We all went out to dinner to celebrate her birthday,” Mr. French answered tersely.

“Where?”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“I don’t know right now,” said Kane, cutting Mr. French off.  Although sympathizing with the Frenches’ loss, Kane was quickly losing patience with Jordan’s stepfather.  “Maybe somebody saw her and followed her home.  Where did you eat?”

“The Ivy,” Mr. French answered.  “On Robertson.”

“I know the place.  Go ahead.  You went to The Ivy for dinner on Thursday night, and Jordan had a hard time waking up Friday morning.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. French continued, picking up the story.  “Jordan is shooting a feature—”  She paused, then started over.  “Jordan was shooting a feature film at Paramount.
 
The principal photography had to be completed during her
Brandy
hiatus, which was due to end mid-August.  Things were hectic, to say the least.  Her call-time was five in the morning, so we had to be up at a little after four.”

“You went with her to the studio?”

“Always.  Anyway, that morning she wouldn’t get out of bed.  She felt hot, so I took her temperature.  It was a hundred and one.  She had a cough, too.”

“She had a sore throat?” said Kane, not recalling the coroner mentioning the presence of inflammation in Jordan’s nasopharynx or throat.  “So you called the studio and said she wouldn’t be coming in,” he continued, making a mental note to review the autopsy findings.

“Jordan made the call.”

“Detective Peyron’s report stated that Jordan had her own private cell phone.  Was the call to the studio made on it?”

“I think so.”

“Did she ever use your house telephones, or your cell phones?” asked Kane.  He had already procured a warrant to check all calls made on Jordan’s private house line and her cell phone; confirmation that she had occasionally used her parents’ phones would enable him to do the same with those as well.

“Sometimes.”

Kane pulled a notebook from his pocket and made an entry.  “Fine.  Go on.  What did she do all day?”

“Mostly she stayed in bed, at least while I was home,” Mrs. French continued.  “I was gone for a few hours taking care of personal items.  I’m on the LA Museum board and active in a number of charities, though I haven’t had much time for them lately.”

Kane turned to Mr. French.  “What about you?  When did you leave for work?”

“I got back from a bike ride a little before seven, showered, and left around seven-thirty,” Mr. French answered, unconsciously scratching an angry rash on the back of his left hand.  “Poison oak,” he explained, noticing a quizzical glance from Kane.  “I mountain bike two or three times a week.  Took a spill into a patch of it last Wednesday.”

“Looks nasty.  Did you talk with Jordan before you left?”

“When Beth told me she was sick, I looked in on her.  She was sleeping.”

“And you didn’t see or talk with her again till you got home that night?”

“No.  When I got home, she was in her room watching TV.”

“Any visitors that day?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did she eat anything that evening?” Kane asked casually, beginning to weave critical questions into the parents’ recap of Jordan’s last twenty-four hours.

“She didn’t join us for dinner, but she may have fixed something for herself later,” Mr. French answered.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.  Jordan liked preparing her own meals.”

“All right, go on.  Tell me about that night.”

Mr. French shook his head.  “There’s not much to tell.  We went to bed around ten.  I checked on Jordan before turning in.  She was asleep.  The next morning she was gone.”

“And you didn’t hear anything?”

“No.  Our bedroom is on the second floor at the other end of the house.”

“No sounds of a struggle?”

“No.”

“Do you own a pet?” Kane persisted, remembering seeing a chain-link dog run beside the garage.

Mr. French sighed impatiently.  “We had a German shepherd.  Greta.  She died last year.”

“So you didn’t hear anything?”

“No,” snapped Mr. French.  “How many times do we have to say it?”

“What about Jordan?  The guy smashed her window to get in. 
She
must’ve heard something.”

Mr. French shrugged.  “She was taking cold medicine.  Maybe it made her too drowsy to wake up.”

“All right.  In any case, whoever broke into her room came over the fence or through the gate,” reasoned Kane.  “I saw a keypad out by the speaker.  Who has the entry code?”

“Our maid, for one,” answered Mrs. French, grinding out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray and reaching for her Parliament pack, defiantly ignoring a look of disapproval from her husband.  “You don’t think
she
might have had something to do with it?”

“I’m investigating all possibilities.  Who else knows how to get in?”

Mrs. French lit a fresh cigarette.  “Well, there’s my tennis coach.  The landscape company has the code, too.  That’s about it, except for close family friends.”

“I want to speak with
everyone
who knows how to open that gate,” said Kane, levering himself from the armchair.  “Friends included.  I’d appreciate it if you would write out a list for me right now, Mrs. French.  While you’re doing that, I need to confer with Detective Deluca.  I’ll be back in a minute.”

Leaving the parents in the living room, Kane made his way back to the entry, arriving in time to see two SID officers carrying a plastic-wrapped mattress out the front door.  At the far end of the driveway, he also noticed a CBS news van outside the gate.  Standing with a group of people beside the van was a man whom Kane recognized as Brent Preston, one of the network reporters who had shown up at the reservoir on the day Jordan’s body had been discovered.  Kane stared a moment, his eyes narrowing.  Then, grumbling under his breath, he strode down a hallway to the right, passing an enormous kitchen and a wood-paneled den on the way.  When he arrived at Jordan’s bedroom he found Deluca standing outside in a flower garden, leaning in through an open window.