by Steve Gannon
“Fine, Mr. Callahan. Here’s your clarification,” said Kane. “I’ll be exonerated for shooting those men because I did what I had to, and I’d do it again. And to any bleeding hearts out there who want to second-guess my actions, I’ll say this: You shoot at a cop, he’s going to shoot back.”
“What about the Muslim backlash?” called another reporter. “Do you blame persons of Islamic faith for the beheading murders?”
Kane looked surprised. “Blame Muslims? Why would I do that? This has nothing to do with religion. This is about some murdering scum trying for their fifteen minutes of fame. Well, they may get their fifteen minutes, but they’re going to regret it.”
Another reporter shouted a question from the rear of the auditorium. “Now that your name is out, are you worried that members of the terrorist cell might retaliate?”
“Against me, you mean?” asked Kane.
“Yes, against you. There’s a rumor that they threatened to avenge themselves on the man who executed their members.”
Kane scowled. “First of all, I didn’t execute anyone. They shot at me. I shot back, only better. Second, the terrorists committing these murders are gutless cowards who specialize in butchering defenseless men, women, and now even children. I assure you, I am far from being defenseless.”
“So you’re not concerned that they might come after you?”
Kane lips twisted in a smile, but his eyes held no warmth. “I’m saying if they decide to come for me, it’ll be the last thing they ever do.”
Following several more questions, the newscast returned to Dan Fairly in New York. “That was Brent Preston reporting on Detective Daniel Kane, now identified as the ‘mystery hero’ in the Pacific Palisades terrorist shootings,” said Fairly, winding up the piece. “Meanwhile, amid ongoing fears, a countrywide Muslim backlash still rages, with people of Islamic faith being targeted by confused, misguided people.”
At the conclusion of the newscast, Jacob finished his diet soda, left some change on the bar, and started for the door. Now that he had learned the identity of the LAPD’s “mystery hero,” he regretted the threat he’d sent to authorities after losing Caleb. He had been angry, and anger led to mistakes. Nevertheless, at least he had taken the precaution of ensuring his threat couldn’t be traced, and the resultant harm seemed negligible.
Absently, Jacob wondered why the name Daniel Kane seemed familiar. Suddenly he remembered the young female correspondent from an earlier newscast. Allison Kane. It seemed a bit of a coincidence . . . but possible. As he returned to his car in the parking lot, Jacob decided to do some research on Detective Kane.
Chapter 39
Although I repeatedly tried to convince Allison, Travis, and Dorothy to leave town until the terrorist threat was over, they all refused, reiterating a belief that Nate’s recovery depended on continued family support. Dorothy and Travis did, however, agree to move in with Allison and Mike in their Pacific Palisades home, and all were willing to cooperate with any protective measures the LAPD could provide. As promised, Snead subsequently stationed twenty-four-hour surveillance at the Palisades house—a measure that included the presence of an LAPD officer inside the residence at all times.
In the hope that the terrorists would try to make good on their threat, I remained living at the beach house, which was also being monitored on a round-the-clock basis by Metro surveillance teams. For the time being, I sent Callie to live with neighbors down the beach, not wanting our family dog in the line of fire if anything happened.
As Allison had predicted, my face wound up plastered on every supermarket tabloid, newspaper, and television in the country. If there were ever any question upon whom the terrorists wanted to extract revenge, my media notoriety cleared things up nicely—painting a great big bull’s-eye on my back, as Snead had predicted. It felt strange being targeted that way, but deep down I wanted the terrorists to make a try for me. If they got past the Metro surveillance units, I was ready.
On the morning following my press conference, I returned to my nominal position as the LAPD/FBI liaison—attending Bureau briefings, accompanying two-man investigative units on assignments, and reporting regularly to Ingram’s office. By then Taylor had been reteamed with Agent Duffy, which seemed to suit Duffy just fine. Taylor and I kept our distance, although I got the impression that she wanted to talk if the opportunity arose.
After Nate’s initial seventy-two-hour evaluation, the UCLA psychiatric team decided that he should continue his in-patient stay for an additional period, possibly as long as several weeks. During a subsequent conference with Dr. Rota, Nate’s doctor again made it clear that outpatient treatment was still not an option.
As the UCLA Medical Center lay just blocks from the Federal Building, I visited my son daily. Allison dropped in to see her brother every evening on her way home from work, and Mike, Travis, and Dorothy made the trip to Westwood on a regular basis as well. Although Nate always appeared grateful to see me, we all agreed that something was still deeply wrong with the youngest member of the Kane clan, and often I came away from hospital feeling anxious and discouraged.
Weeks passed with no further terrorist incidents. There were no attempts on my life, or on those of my family, either. During this time, however, I found people staring wherever I went, although not many of them got up the nerve to approach me. I suppose being a terrorist killer wasn’t the type of notoriety that made people to want to take a selfie with me.
Predictably, the media spotlight eventually moved on, with the horror of the Westside beheadings gradually fading from memory. On a Friday morning following the second week of my return to liaison duties, Taylor stopped me as I was heading into the FBI briefing. “Hey,” she said, placing a hand on my forearm. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”
“Morning, Taylor. What’s up?”
Taylor glanced into the conference room, then back at me. “I just . . . well, I wanted to apologize again for making an ass of myself the night you drove me home. I hope we can still be friends.”
“I told you that was forgotten, Taylor. In fact, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. And yeah, we’re still friends. I’d give you a brotherly hug to prove it, but I don’t want your boyfriend Duffy getting jealous.”
“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“And I told you, you should probably let him know that,” I advised with a grin. Then, more seriously, “By the way, I was curious about that kayaking trophy of yours. That metal claw thing? I looked you up online and found a YouTube video on the North Fork Championship. It blew me away. Damn, Taylor, I had no idea. You’re the real deal.”
“Thanks,” said Taylor, looking embarrassed.
“You didn’t mention that you competed against thirty of the world’s top kayakers on some of the most dangerous whitewater in the country.”
“It’s quite an event.”
“And you took second place. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks,” Taylor repeated. She paused, seeming to consider for a moment. “Because I took second last year, I get an automatic placement in this year’s race. It’s in June, and it’s a lot of fun. Maybe you’d like to drive up to the Payette River and cheer me on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking of Nate. “I have a lot on my plate right now. But . . . maybe.”
“You’ll think about it?”
“I will.”
“Great.” Then, again glancing into the briefing room, “We’d better go in. Looks like the meeting’s about to start.”
“Right,” I agreed, sensing that something had just changed between us. As I followed Taylor into the briefing, I also sensed that something in the room had changed as well. I didn’t have to wait long to find out what.
“Grab a seat and settle down,” said SAC Vaughn, stepping to the front to start the meeting.
As everyone found a place, I detected an almost palpable pall of hopelessness descending over the assembly. Despite ongoing efforts made by the Bure
au, each and every trail that might have led to the terrorists had dead-ended. Locating the owner of the AK-47 had fizzled out in an anonymous gun-show purchase. Attempts to identify the owner of the postal box in Flagstaff had hit a brick wall. Investigating known associates of Ethan Hess, the only identified terrorist at the Clark residence, had gone nowhere. A forensic examination of the murder van recovered at the Clark residence, an early source of hope for the team, had dried up with an LAPD 503 stolen-car report filed two years earlier. And despite hundreds of tip-line leads, the other two men I’d shot in Rivas Canyon had yet to be ID’d.
In the Bureau’s defense, Snead’s task-force investigation had fared no better.
After everyone had found a seat, Vaughn referred to his notes. “Okay, we have an update on the computer IP search,” he said. “It’s not good.”
A number of agents groaned. Following the media’s release of my name, the Bureau’s main investigative thrust had been to examine all internet searches performed on me. Not surprisingly, there had been tens of thousands. One of them, a Safari browser inquiry made at a coffee shop in Oxnard, had rung an alarm.
That particular inquiry had been made on the day following my press conference. Notably, it had been performed using the Tor IP masking service, employing the same encrypted channels that had been used to post the terrorists’ murder videos. Unfortunately, there had been no webcam surveillance in the coffee shop, nor were there other cameras in the area that might have proved useful. With no other options, the Bureau’s CART unit had been attempting to pierce the Tor veil and come up with an IP address.
“Despite early hopes, CART was unable to track the IP address any further back than the Oxnard coffee shop,” said Vaughn, confirming everyone’s fears. “We’ve gone as far as we can on that.”
“Another dead end,” someone commented.
“Unfortunately,” Vaughn admitted. “Along those same lines, the tactic of using Detective Kane as terrorist bait has now come to an end, too. LAPD is pulling their surveillance on him later today. We’re back to square one.”
“Excuse me?” I spoke up. “Did I just hear you right? They’re cancelling the surveillance?”
“Sorry, Kane,” said Vaughn. “We just got word this morning. I thought you knew.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” I said, wondering whether the surveillance was being pulled on Ali and Mike’s residence as well.
“After weeks with nothing happening, the feeling at LAPD is that the threat on your life was a hoax,” Vaughn explained.
“This came from Snead?”
Vaughn nodded.
“Is he cancelling surveillance on my family as well?” I demanded, fighting to control my anger.
Again, Vaughn nodded. “I’m sorry, Kane, but that’s my understanding. I’m sure you’ll be notified.”
Angry and disillusioned and sick at heart, I sat through the rest of the briefing, a hollow feeling building inside. I had been betrayed by my own department. I intended to confront Snead and Ingram and anyone else at PAB who might be willing to listen, but I had no illusions about the outcome. I had always known that LAPD had neither the will nor the funding to continue an indefinite surveillance on me and my family, but I hadn’t thought the end would come so quickly. Clearly, using me as bait had failed. And following that failure, even if canceling the surveillance had been Snead’s decision, approval had undoubtedly come from the top.
I had been left blowing in the wind.
I thought carefully. I didn’t have the luxury of giving in to my anger. The LAPD now considered the threat on my life a hoax. My gut told me otherwise, and how I chose to proceed could mean the difference between life and death—both for me, and for my family.
And I didn’t have much time to decide what to do.
Chapter 40
Rudy slowed as he turned onto Galloway Street. Moments later he accelerated and proceeded north, keeping his speed just below the Pacific Palisades limit. Careful not to turn his head, he noted that a surveillance vehicle was still parked on Bashford. It had been there for the past several weeks, and Rudy knew a police stakeout when he saw one. As a result, he had made a point not to visit the neighborhood more than once every few days, and then always driving a different vehicle.
Still keeping his eyes on the road, Rudy passed Allison Kane’s modest, one-story bungalow, its white stucco walls and red tiled roof partially hidden behind a hedge of holly. Satisfied, he smiled and continued on.
Weeks earlier Rudy had followed Kane’s daughter from the Channel Two news studios, trailing her from Studio City to her home in the Palisades. Over the intervening weeks Rudy had seen a number of people coming and going from the Palisades residence, including Allison, an older woman, and several men—one of whom looked like a cop. Unfortunately, the surveillance unit on Bashford had always been present as well.
Several blocks farther up Galloway Rudy turned west, deciding to check on Kane’s beach house next. Locating Kane’s residence had been simple, an online search quickly revealing its location. Rudy still didn’t understand how Kane could afford to live in Malibu on a cop’s salary, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that like Allison’s house, Kane’s residence was being guarded as well.
Well, that couldn’t go on forever, Rudy thought grimly.
They could put things off a little longer.
But not too long.
Soon.
Chapter 41
Following the FBI briefing, I informed Gibbs that I would be taking a few days off to attend to personal matters. Though he didn’t comment, I could tell from Gibbs’s expression that he understood, and that he also knew I wouldn’t be returning. Moments later, as I exited the conference room, Taylor caught up to voice her opinion that I was getting a raw deal, adding that she would be willing to help in any way she could.
After thanking Taylor, I found a quiet corner in the building and called Chief Ingram, deciding to start at the top.
After placing me on hold, a secretary in the chief’s office eventually came back on the line to inform me that Chief Ingram was unavailable, adding that I could leave a message. I described the surveillance situation and requested that Chief Ingram call me as soon as possible, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen. A call to Snead was similarly rebuffed. In a moment of frustration, I even tried calling Strickland, with the same results.
As I had concluded earlier, I’d been hung out to dry.
I considered driving to headquarters and confronting Snead, or Strickland, or maybe even Chief Ingram. After taking a deep breath to get my anger in check, I decided against it. Throwing a punch or two at PAB might have made me feel better, but losing my temper was not an option.
Next I made several additional calls—one to Arnie, another to Banowski. After that I phoned Travis, Grandma Dorothy, and Mike Cortese. That done, I retrieved my car from the Federal Building lot and headed to UCLA. Things were about to start happening quickly, and I wanted to check in with Nate while I still had time.
Leaving my Suburban in a hospital parking structure, I entered the medical center. After navigating a maze of hallways, I took an elevator to the Resnick Psychiatric Hospital on the fourth floor, where I registered with a secretary and waited for Nate to be called. Minutes later I met my son in an in-patient psychiatric foyer located deeper in the facility.
“You’re early, Dad,” said Nate, looking surprised to see me before my customary noon visit. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
Nate seemed better than he had in some time—calm, rested, maybe even a little happy. “Yep,” I replied, glancing around the airy space and admiring its tall windows, expansive skylights, and a pleasing arrangement of modern furniture throughout the room. “I could get used to being here,” I added.
“Don’t get carried away,” Nate advised. “This is a psychiatric facility, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. How are you doing?”
Nate thought a moment. “Better, I think. I’m enjoying the gr
oup sessions, and I’ve been working through some issues with one of the shrinks. Dr. Berns’s friend, Dr. Freimer, has visited a lot, too. She’s nice. Dr. Berns dropped by several times, and I like him, too. Plus I think the meds are helping. I don’t want to take them forever, but they’re fine for now. And I’m finally getting some sleep. At any rate, I haven’t tried jumping out of any windows lately,” he added with a fleeting smile.
“Glad to hear that,” I said, smiling back.
Nate regarded me closely. “Something’s on your mind. What’s up, Dad?”
I hesitated, wondering where to start. “You know I’ve been working on the terrorist case, right?”
Nate nodded. “The Bel Air murder story that Ali was so excited about. We get the news in here. I know another family was killed in Holmby Hills, and a third home was attacked in the Palisades, where you saved a woman’s life.”
“That’s the one,” I sighed. “Unfortunately, another family has been murdered since then. You know that when I saved that woman’s life in the Palisades, I shot three of the terrorists?”
Again, Nate nodded.
“The Bureau received a death threat against the officer who killed the terrorists,” I continued. “The Bureau took that threat seriously. So did I. My name was kept quiet for a while, but it finally came out.”
“And now the killers are looking for you.”
“Right. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not worried about those guys, but until they’re off the street, I can’t take a chance of them harming any member of our family.”
“You’re thinking about what happened to Mom.”
My heart sank as I saw the pain in Nate’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Nate. But yes. I am,” I replied, wishing more than anything that I didn’t have to say those words. “Right now Arnie is in the Palisades evacuating Mike and Ali. Detective Banowski is there picking up Grandma Dorothy and Travis as well. Banowski is putting Dorothy and Trav on a plane for New York. Arnie is doing the same for Allison and Mike, except they’re headed to Canada, where Mike will finish shooting his film.”
