Allison (A Kane Novel) (31 page)

“I’d rather pay a visit to your fiancée for that,” Deluca replied with a grin.  “Course, if Stacy ever sampled the Italian stallion here, she’d be dissatisfied with all other men, including you, for the rest of her poor unfortunate life.”

“Funny, your wife mentioned that very same thing to me last night,” Arnie shot back.  “Which reminds me.  I had to leave in a hurry, and I forgot my shoes under your bed.  I’ll swing by for ’em later.”

“Check for my jock strap while you’re there,” chimed in Banowski, who had also drifted up for a refill.  “It’ll be the one that’s all stretched out.”

“In the butt area, maybe,” said Deluca.  “Besides, you wouldn’t know what to do with a good-looking woman like Sarah.  I’ve seen the dogs you go out with.”

“When you’re pokin’ the fire, you don’t look at the mantle,” Banowski retorted.

“How are your wedding plans going, Arnie?” asked Kane, attempting to elevate the conversation.

“We’re still on for this spring, but things are getting more and more complicated by the minute.”

“Nothing against Stacy, but take my advice and forget the whole thing,” advised Deluca.  “You think things are bad now, wait till later.  I’ll tell you something about women.  Once you marry ’em, they’re never satisfied.  It’s like that old philosophical question:  If a woman talks in the woods and there’s no man around to hear her, is she still complaining?”

Arnie shook his head.  “Damn, Deluca.  I had no idea you were so deep.”

“Plenty more deepness where that came from,
paisano
.”

“So how’s about keepin’ it to yourself?” suggested Banowski, the thumb of his left hand unconsciously fumbling for a wedding band he hadn’t worn in years.  “None of us brought our hip boots.”  Then, to Arnie, “Not that I don’t see eye-to-eye with our Italian friend here on marriage, though.  In fact, here’s
my
advice on the subject:  Instead of tying the knot, just find some woman you really hate and buy her a house.”

“Nice,” remarked Kane, abandoning his attempt to raise the level of discussion.  “Ever consider working for Hallmark?”

“I call ’em as I see ’em.”

“Stacy’s not that way,” protested Arnie, beginning to bristle.

“They’re
all
that way,” Banowski replied.

“Not Stacy.  She’s perfect for me.”

“Why?  She own a liquor store?”

“Good one,” laughed Arnie.  Then, more seriously, “You may laugh, but after I retired from the force, I had time to think back over the years since Lilith and I split up, and I wound up asking myself what was the one thing in life I still needed.”

“To go on a diet?” guessed Banowski.

“Plastic surgery?” quipped Deluca.  “A shower?  Listerine?”

“Aw, hell,” said Kane before Arnie could respond.  “Look who just waltzed in.”

*        *        *

Flushed from a dip in the ocean, I headed for the deck and rinsed off in our outside shower, then made my way back to a spot McKenzie and I had claimed on the far side of the volleyball court.  As I grabbed a towel and began drying my hair, I glanced around, surprised at the number of people who had already arrived.  Despite the crowd, I knew that the majority of those coming wouldn’t show up until dinnertime.  “I hope there’s enough to eat,” I observed, dropping into my beach chair beside McKenzie.

“There will be,” assured McKenzie, stretching out her tanned legs and digging her toes into the sand.  “Hordes of people brought food.  Have you seen the serving tables?  They’re loaded with goodies.  Especially desserts.”

On the volleyball court before us, Travis and Christy White, my brother Tommy’s former girlfriend, were playing a game of doubles against two young officers Dad had invited from the West L.A. Division.  Travis and Christy had grown up playing beach volleyball and were an excellent team.  In addition to disregarding any and all rules of acceptable ball-handling, their LAPD adversaries were compensating for their lack of skill by serving to Christy as often as possible.  They were still losing.  Having called “winners,” Nate and a friend were stationed on the ocean side of the court, ready to retrieve wild shots before the ball reached the water.  I watched the one-sided contest for a few minutes, then glanced toward the house, noting that Alexander Petrinski had abandoned Mom’s music enclave to join Grandma Dorothy.  The two were sitting side-by-side, perched on the edge of the sea wall.  Petrinski touched Dorothy’s hand, saying something that made her laugh.

I tipped my head.  “Check it out, Mac.  Trav’s music teacher is making moves on my grandmother.”

McKenzie turned toward the house, studying the older couple.  “I think they look cute together,” she observed.  “By the way, what’s new with you and Mike?”

“Nothing.”

“He hasn’t called?”

“He phoned twice.  I’ve been too busy to see him.”

“What’s wrong with you, girl?  You’re going to screw things up, just like always.  It’s obvious he likes you, so why don’t you—”

“I invited him to the party today.”

“Oh.  Well, I’m glad to see you’re finally coming to your senses.  When is he getting here?”

“I don’t know.  I thought he would be here by now.”  I again gazed toward the house, searching the crush of people milling on the deck.  As I was about to turn back to McKenzie, I spotted Mike descending the outside stairway from the street.  He was wearing shorts, sandals, and a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt.  As he rounded the corner, I noticed Brent Preston following close behind, his crisply pressed slacks, loafers, and sport coat a sharp contrast to Mike’s comfortable attire.  A moment later my dad, who was conversing with friends near the beer kegs, also spotted the CBS network correspondent.  Lips compressed in a hard, thin line, Dad started across the deck.

Without a word, I rose and headed toward the house.

McKenzie got up and hurried after me.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, running to catch up.

“Trouble,” I said grimly.  “I, uh, sort of invited Brent Preston.  Dad’s going over to talk with him.  You’d better stay clear.”

McKenzie laughed.  “Are you kidding?  I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

By the time McKenzie and I reached the deck, Dad had already intercepted the sandy-haired newsman.  Dad’s mouth was smiling.  His eyes were not.

“Hi, Brent.  How’s it going?” I blurted before my father could speak.  “Dad, I want you to meet—”

“I know who he is.  I take it
you
invited him.”

“You take it right, Dad.”

Dad’s smile tightened.  “It’s your party, petunia, so I guess you can invite anybody you want.  One thing, though,” he added, addressing Brent.  “This is a social event, pal.  No interviews, no questions, and absolutely no discussion about police work.  Is that understood?”

Brent nodded.  “Of course.  I can’t stay long anyway.  I just thought I would drop by and wish Allison happy birthday.”  He hesitated, and then went on.  “Listen, Detective.  I know you have a healthy distaste for the press.  Nevertheless, you must know we’re only doing our job.”

Dad scowled.  “I must, huh?”

“You may not like it,” Brent continued evenly.  “But it’s the simple truth.  The Jordan French murder has become a national obsession, and your news blackout has only made things worse.  People want to know, and if authorities like you were more forthcoming, we in the press wouldn’t have to pry.”

“We have good cause for withholding details of the investigation, as I’m sure
you
must know,” Dad shot back.

“Just as I’m sure you realize that it’s our job to dig up as much as we can and report it.”

“Even if it jeopardizes the investigation?”

Brent shook his head.  “No one wants to compromise your investigation.  But in all fairness, do you think you should be the sole arbiter of what the public gets to know?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“We have a difference of opinion on that.”

“At least we agree on something, chum.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Detective,” Brent went on, making one last attempt.  “The news serves a purpose.  For instance, how many other parents of murdered children would give anything for some public pressure to solve their cases?”

“Oh, I get it,” Dad said slowly.  “You’re mobilizing public pressure to close the case.  So you’re actually helping?  Gee, since you put it that way, let me be the first to apologize.”

Recognizing the signs of anger stirring in my father, I stepped forward.  “C’mon, Dad, this is a party.  Brent will behave himself.  Here, I want you to meet someone else,” I said.  “Mike Cortese, this is my father.  Dad, Mike Cortese.”

Suspiciously, Dad shook Mike’s hand.  “Are you a reporter?”

“No, sir,” Mike replied.  “A cameraman.  I met Ali at Newport Beach on the day she rescued that swimmer.”

“So
you’re
the guy who plastered her mug all over the TV,” said Dad.  Then, looking at Mike more closely, “Cortese, huh?  I know you.  Your old man was a cop.  Frank Cortese.”

Mike nodded.  “I met you at his funeral when I was twelve.  I didn’t think you would remember.”

“Dad doesn’t forget much,” I said, staring at Mike in amazement.  “How come you never told me your father was on the force?”

“The subject didn’t come up,” Mike answered.  “I did tell you I knew something about cops, remember?”

I thought back, recalling Mike’s words the night we’d eaten at the Oaxacan restaurant.

“Your father was a good man, Mike,” Dad went on.  “He and I went through the Academy together.  How’s your mom?  Doris, right?”

“She passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

At that moment Nate hollered up from the beach.  “Dad, you’d better get down here!  Some of your friends have decided it’s time to eat.”

“Damn,” Dad said.  He glowered once more at Brent.  Then, shaking his head, he hurried down to the luau pit, barely arriving in time to prevent Deluca and Banowski from lifting the edge of the tarp.

“I feel like I just underwent the third degree,” said Brent once my father was out of earshot.

“Don’t let my dad throw you,” I advised.  “He’s already had his daily ration of raw meat.”  Then, to McKenzie, who until then had been standing quietly behind me, “Mac, you know Mike and Brent?”

McKenzie smiled at Mike, then refocused her eyes on Brent, at whom she’d been staring for the past minutes.  “I, uh, I met you in the newsroom, Mr. Preston,” she stammered.  “The other day when Ali and I . . . the day we went to lunch.”

“I remember,” said Brent, taking McKenzie’s hand.

“I’m glad,” McKenzie squeaked, her voice catching in her throat.  She attempted to say something more but couldn’t.

“Despite appearances, my friend McKenzie is remarkably intelligent, personable, and witty,” I said somberly.  “Unfortunately, at the moment she seems to have misplaced her brain.  Want me to help you look for it, Mac?  Blink once for yes.”

McKenzie glared at me, blushing furiously.

“Nice seeing you again, McKenzie,” laughed Brent.  “And happy birthday, Ali.  This looks like a great party, but unfortunately I have to take off.  See you tomorrow at work.”

“You’re leaving?”

Brent nodded.  “I promised Liz I would attend a wedding reception with her.  Besides, I’m not really dressed for this.  I just wanted to stop by and wish you the best.”  Moving closer, he kissed me lightly on the cheek, then turned and started for the stairs.

I smiled self-consciously, surprised by Brent’s kiss.  “My dad chased him off, didn’t he?” I said to Mike as Brent headed up the stairs.

“If Brent had wanted to stay, he would have,” Mike answered.  “This isn’t his kind of thing.”

“Too bad,” said McKenzie, at last finding her voice.

I grinned.  “The silent one is back.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“C’mon, you two,” Mike chuckled, linking arms with McKenzie and me.  “The sun is shining, the waves are up, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s a volleyball court out there.  I suggest we head down to the beach.”

By 5 PM, despite a rising tide, a wide expanse of sand still stretched to the water’s edge.  As shadows lengthened, more and more people continued to arrive—gradually swelling the party to several hundred guests.  Earlier the celebrants had sequestered themselves in smaller segments, with Mom and her musician friends conversing on the deck, a rowdy LAPD contingent positioned near the beer kegs, volleyball enthusiasts gathered around the court, and youngsters splashing in the ocean.  Now, ballooned by late arrivals, the party finally coalesced into a single organism with one thing on its mind:  food.

With the dinner hour fast approaching, serving tables on the deck were now overflowing with casseroles, salads, and desserts people had brought.  To provide additional space for food from the cooking pit, Dad overrode Mom’s objections and ordered a squad of LAPD officers to carry down our dining table from the house.  While Dad’s men were busy with the table, Travis, Dad, and Nate began removing the luau tarp, releasing billows of steam laden with tantalizing, smoky scents.  With the exception of a few charred potatoes on the bottom, the food proved to be perfectly cooked—chickens tender and juicy, garlic-seasoned salmon pink and delectable, buckets of clams and mussels steeping in their own juices, corn and other vegetables crisp and delicious, lobsters and crabs steaming in their shells, and racks of ribs tangy with a sauce Dad had spread on top before wrapping them in foil.  After separating the food from its protective kelp and placing it on serving trays, Dad had Nate and Travis carry the feast-laden platters to the redwood deck.

Next Dad ordered my brothers to uncover the casseroles and side dishes on the serving tables, after which he had them bring down everything but the ice cream and birthday cake from the upstairs refrigerator.  Clearly conscious of voracious guests watching his every move, Dad busied himself preparing the luau table—arranging plates and utensils at one end, shellfish and salmon at the other, vegetables, ribs, and chicken in between.  A line had formed by the time he finished, with Banowski and Deluca predictably positioned toward the front.

“What’s takin’ so long with the chow?” Deluca clamored.