by Steve Gannon
Parked on a side street off Pico Boulevard, Kane sat in a dun-colored Chevy Impala, jammed uncomfortably behind the wheel. He stared through a pair of Bushnell 7x50 binoculars, ignoring a salty trickle of sweat inching down his face. Briefly taking his gaze from a third-floor apartment down the street, he wiped his eyes, then resumed his watch. His partner, Arnie Mercer, shifted miserably in the seat beside him.
“Looks like today’s going to be another hot one,” Kane noted. “At least nothing’s on fire this time.”
“That’s ’cause everything burned the last time around,” Arnie observed irritably. “Who gives a damn, anyway? This whole pus-bag dung-heap of a city could burn clean to the ground and nobody’d give a shit, including me.”
Kane grinned and lowered the binoculars, glancing over at the stocky man who had been his training officer when he’d first graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy, his partner when he’d made detective four years later, and his D-III supervisor for most of the time he’d spent on the homicide unit after that. “Jeez, don’t hold back, Arnie,” he said. “Lemme know how you really feel.”
“I just did,” Arnie replied, reaching for the radio. He paused, studying the four-story apartment building down the block. “Anything?”
Kane raised the binoculars and again trained them on a corner window three levels up. Through the dusty glass he could make out vague shapes in the room beyond: a floor lamp, a door, a tacky picture of a sad-eyed clown. No movement. Next he focused on a maroon Ford parked at the other end of the street. Special Agents Tinley and Marcus. After watching the FBI operatives for a few seconds, he shifted his gaze back to the apartment. “Know what the three most overrated things in the world are?” he asked.
“What?”
“Champagne, caviar, and the FBI.”
Arnie smiled. “Right on all three, pal.”
Despite Kane’s attempt at humor, both men knew his joke hit disturbingly close to the truth. Ever since the FBI had muscled in on the murder/kidnapping case that Kane and Mercer were presently investigating, things had gone down the bureaucratic drain. Not that they had started off all that well to begin with.
Anatomy of an investigation gone bad: On Tuesday afternoon what had apparently begun as a simple mugging on San Vicente Boulevard had turned into murder when Mrs. Agnes Sellers, while struggling with three men wearing ski masks, fell and struck her head on the curb in front of the Tiny Tots Day Care Center. As Mrs. Sellers lay in the gutter dying of a cerebral hemorrhage, the men grabbed a small boy who’d been with her and fled in a late-model van, which various witnesses subsequently described as gray, light blue, orange, and tan. The first policeman there, Officer William Patterson, called the West L.A. homicide unit, and twenty minutes later Kane arrived on the scene.
Standard so far, but the seeds of what would soon become, as known in departmental jargon, a classic clusterfuck had already been sown. When the deceased Mrs. Sellers—a nanny in the home of T.J. Bradley, the senior Republican senator from California—failed to return home with eight-year-old Timothy Bradley II, the mugging turned murder became murder/kidnapping.
Senator Bradley caught the first flight back from D.C. Although the LAPD had jurisdiction over both the murder and the abduction, Senator Bradley insisted that the FBI be brought in on the kidnapping portion of the case. Then, to further complicate matters, someone in the mayor’s office leaked the story to the press, and by late afternoon the street outside the West L.A. Division on Butler Avenue resembled a media circus, with a throng of network news crews doing simultaneous, side-by-side stand-ups outside the station.
That evening a ransom demand for two million dollars came in on the Bradleys’ unlisted home phone. An LAPD tap on the line traced the call to a telephone switching station in Nevada, at which point—citing a technicality involving jurisdiction over state lines—the FBI assumed primary control of the kidnapping phase of the investigation. Even though the murder portion of the case remained his, Kane suddenly found Bureau agents Tinley and Marcus shadowing his team as uninvited observers.
Suspecting that the kidnapping had been an inside job, Kane ran checks on everyone close to the family. A number of possibilities turned up, including Sylvia Martin, an individual who had briefly worked at the Bradleys’ house as a temporary cleaning woman. Ms. Martin, currently on probation, had served three years for burglary at CIW, the California Department of Corrections’ Institute for Women at Corona. Kane also learned that she had a common-law husband, Paul Escobar, whose rap sheet ranged from car theft to armed robbery. When interviewed, Ms. Martin denied having seen Escobar for months. But something—a hunch, an indefinable sixth sense Kane had developed over the years—told him she was lying.
Meanwhile, the FBI set up a ransom exchange. Following piecemeal instructions left in phone booths across the city, they placed the money in the trunk of a car that was to be driven to a Century City office tower, then left to be valet-parked in the building’s subterranean garage. Unfortunately, a Beverly Hills patrol officer inadvertently stopped the ransom vehicle for a traffic violation a mere two blocks from its destination. Seeing this, the abductors, who had apparently been tracking the car’s progress, decided to abort.
As the Bureau scrambled for a new toehold on the case, Kane took a different tack. Reasoning the kidnappers must have concocted a plan, however unlikely, for removing the money from the building without being caught, Kane examined every point of egress. Nothing. Then it hit him. The kidnappers didn’t have to leave with the money immediately—all they had to do was stash it somewhere in the building, then collect it at a later time. But where to leave it? The answer turned out to be almost laughably obvious: The First Regional Bank of California occupied the building’s entire first floor.
Kane checked all safety-deposit-box accounts that had been opened recently at the bank. One renter’s name jumped out: Ramon Estrada. The address and social security number he’d provided proved fictitious, and a clerk at the bank—when shown a picture of Paul Escobar, Sylvia Martin’s common-law husband—identified him as the man who had opened the account, requesting several large boxes. Since then, lacking an address for Escobar, Kane’s team had been running a twenty-four hour surveillance on Ms. Martin’s apartment. To date the stakeout had proved fruitless. Now, as they watched for the second sweltering day in a row, Kane was beginning to wonder whether he had made a mistake.
“They got another ransom call last night,” Arnie said, still squinting at the apartment building down the block. “It’s supposed to go down later today.”
“Uh-huh. Think the kid’s still alive?”
“Do you?”
“It’s been three days.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t know, Arnie. This stakeout’s a long shot, but right now it’s the best we’ve got. Let’s just hope Escobar shows and something comes of it.”
Arnie spoke into his handset. “Deluca, you got anything?”
Detective Paul Deluca was stationed in a storefront across from the Martin apartment. He had a parabolic microphone trained on the third-floor window. “She’s up. I just heard the toilet flush.”
“Banowski, how about you?”
John Banowski, the final member of the team, had taken a position in an alley behind the building. “Nothin’.”
Arnie tossed the handset onto the seat, then reached for a large metal thermos at his feet. He filled a paper cup with coffee, handed it to Kane, then poured another for himself. Kane pointedly looked away as Arnie withdrew a small flask from the glove compartment and fortified his drink. An uncomfortable silence followed as both men continued to study the building.
Before long stakeout boredom set in once more. “Remember when you thought your life was going to amount to something?” Arnie asked.
“Yeah,” Kane chuckled. “Thank God those days are over.”
“At least you have your family.”
“For now. Tommy’s taking off for Arizona at the end of Aug
ust. I’ll tell you, if that kid plays like he did his final two varsity seasons—Santa Monica High went undefeated this year, eight and one last year—he’s going to set the Pac-Ten on its ear. Did you hear he was voted All Western Offensive End by the Times?”
Arnie grinned. “I know, I know. You already told me at least thirty-five times. What’s new with Allison and Nate?”
“About the same. Far as I’m concerned, Allison’s grounded till the next century for that safe-sex parody she wrote in her school paper.”
“You have to admit it was well written.”
“That doesn’t change things. Considering she’s the smartest one of the bunch, she sure manages to screw up. And lately all she seems to care about is reading those god-awful science-fiction stories she has stacked in her room. She’s even writing them now, if you can believe that.”
“Are they any good?”
Kane shrugged. “Who knows? Now, as for Nate—there’s hope for that one. He’s a tough little guy.”
“Yeah, he sure is,” Arnie agreed. “By the way, I heard some of your pep talk to the kids this morning. You got Tommy and Travis jobs?”
“Uh-huh. Working construction with Tony. It ought to do them some good. Especially Travis. Kate’s got him all turned around with her music plans for him and whatnot. By God, that’s going to change.”
“Have you listened to Travis play lately, old buddy? He’s—”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s good. So what? That and a buck will get him a cup of coffee.”
Arnie shook his head. “Now, don’t take this wrong, Dan, but did it ever occur to you that maybe you’re a mite hard on your kids?”
“Hell, no,” said Kane. “We both know the world’s an unforgiving place, and getting nastier all the time. I want that bunch ready for what they’re going to find when they get out here. And if I have to boot their tails to toughen them up, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“Well, you’ve never had a neurotic need to be loved,” Arnie noted dryly.
“True,” said Kane, his voice softening. “But I’ll let you in on a secret, partner, just so you don’t get the wrong idea. I may grouse about them from time to time, but I would stack up those kids of mine against any you want to name. If anything ever happened to one of them . . .” Kane paused. After a long moment he continued. “I know I can’t protect them forever,” he said, “but I think more of those kids more than I can say. I’d step in front of a bullet for any of them without hesitation, and that’s the God’s truth.”
“Aw, hell, Dan. I know what you’re trying to say. I love them, too. I’m their godfather, remember? I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to let them know once in a . . . Hold on. What have we here?”
Kane and Arnie watched as a battered Plymouth pulled to the curb in front of Sylvia Martin’s apartment building.
Kane raised his binoculars as two men stepped out. The driver was a heavyset Hispanic around six feet tall with long black hair and a mustache. The other, an Anglo, stood at least a head taller and carried a heavy coat slung over his right arm. “Pay dirt, Arnie. The driver is Escobar. I don’t recognize the other guy. And what’s with the coat?”
Arnie grabbed the handset. “Everybody sit tight. Deluca, start recording. Whatever happens in that apartment when they get there, I want on tape. Banowski, be ready to roll. If they decide to leave, we’ll maintain a three-car surveillance and see where they take us. And make sure that . . . What the hell?”
Both Kane and Arnie stared in amazement as Special Agents Marcus and Tinley’s maroon Ford executed a screeching U-turn and roared down the block, squealing to a stop inches from the suspects’ bumper. Kane slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn! They must have been listening in on our tac frequency.”
Marcus jumped from the passenger side of the FBI vehicle, his identification in one hand and service weapon in the other. Just as he started his routine, the front door of the apartment building opened and a young Chicano couple stepped arm in arm to the street. The kid was wearing a Dodgers jacket; his girlfriend had on a Grateful Dead T-shirt and an abbreviated pair of cutoff jeans. Tinley, who had exited from the other side of the car, attempted to signal them back inside. Without warning the coat covering the tall suspect’s hand began to jump and shudder, as if some invisible force were ripping it apart from within.
An instant later Kane heard the staccato of automatic-weapon fire echoing down the street.
*****
“Mom . . . Allison called me a baby.”
With a sigh, Catheryn Kane stopped outside the artists’ entrance to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and set her cello case on the sidewalk. Tall and graceful, with a full, passionate mouth and a determined set to her jaw, she was an uncommonly attractive woman of thirty-eight. Her skin was smooth and clear, except for a delicate fretwork of lines that radiated from the corners of her startling green eyes, and her long auburn hair, just beginning to show a rare trace of gray, fell to her shoulders in thick, luxuriant folds. “Allison?” she said, turning to regard her daughter. “Is that true?”
“Not exactly,” Allison answered with a sanctimonious shrug. “I merely noted it might be time for him to change his diapers.”
Nate glowered at his older sister with all the belligerence he could muster. “Yeah, and it might be time for you to get a closeup view of my knuckles,” he warned.
“Hush, you two,” said Catheryn. “I know it’s hot, but squabbling isn’t going to make things any better. You both know what this audition means to me. You said you wanted to come, and I expect you to behave.”
“I will if the midget-sized booger factory will.”
“Allison,” said Catheryn sternly. “Enough.”
“Okay, okay,” said Allison, sensing the approach of a threshold in her mother’s patience.
“This is a closed audition,” Catheryn reminded them, picking up her cello case. “You’re not even supposed to be here, so I certainly don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves by quarreling. Now, let’s go in. And no more fighting.”
Catheryn led her children into the Pavilion through a pair of street-level doors on North Grand, instructing them to wait for her by the elevator while she stopped to register at the desk. Several times, as she waited for the guard to find her name on the audition list, she glanced across the room to check on them, making sure they were staying out of trouble. As had all the Kane children, they’d both inherited their father’s mercurial temperament, along with his unmanageably thick, reddish hair. Compact and sturdy, with a smattering of freckles traversing the bridge of his nose and the curliest locks of the clan, Nate most reminded her of Kane, even though Nate had yet to experience the explosive growth of adolescence. Allison, on the other hand, would turn fifteen soon and had already embarked on an uneven rush toward maturity. Her arms and legs, graceless and gangly as a foal’s, seemed too long for her torso, her sinewy chest more suited to a boy. As usual, she was dressed in a shell of loose, baggy clothing, her untamable mass of rust-colored hair hidden beneath a floppy-brimmed hat. Her face was freckled and plain, but behind her self-conscious smile, frequent and mischievous, lay an indomitable feistiness that warmed Catheryn’s heart.
Once she had finished registering, Catheryn joined them by the elevator. When she arrived, Allison asked, “What do you think Dad will say when you tell him you’re going to play with the Philharmonic?”
“He’ll be mad you didn’t tell him about the audition first, that’s for sure,” Nate piped up.
“Not necessarily. And this is just an audition,” said Catheryn, nervously brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I haven’t got the position yet. If I’m lucky enough to be selected, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, it’s only for thirteen weeks.”
Allison glanced through an open door into the performers’ lounge, noticing the large number of cellists already present. Several more had already lined up at the registration desk. “I thought this was just a fill-in job while yo
ur friend Adele has her baby. Seems like an awful lot of people trying for the spot.”
“Playing with the Philharmonic is a great honor,” said Catheryn, a trace of dismay evident in her voice as she too noticed the surprising number of auditioning musicians. “I guess a lot of people want it.”
The elevator door chimed open. All three entered, exiting one floor up into a busy area behind the main stage. After a short search Catheryn spotted Adele Washington, a loquacious young African-American in her early thirties. “Kate! Where have you been?” Adele called, hurrying toward them. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”
“Hi, Adele. Traffic was terrible on the Santa Monica Freeway,” explained Catheryn. “I’ve been rushing all morning, and now I’m so nervous, I don’t know whether I can keep my hands steady enough to play. Is Arthur here yet?”
Arthur West, the Philharmonic’s principal cellist, would be conducting the audition. Catheryn had known Arthur since her undergraduate days at USC, and in years past he had served as a source of referrals for the young cellists she tutored two afternoons a week. Catheryn knew that one of Arthur’s more gifted students would be vying for the position today, along with a host of other musicians who, like her, had been invited to participate based on résumés and performance tapes submitted earlier that year.
“Arthur?” said Adele distractedly, glancing about the room. “He’s here somewhere. Listen, you had better get warmed up. By the way, the music director will be sitting in.”
Catheryn paled. “The music director?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine,” said Adele reassuringly. “By the way, as this is for a temporary position, they’re dispensing with using a screen for the preliminary rounds,” she added, referring to the Philharmonic’s customary procedure, to ensure impartiality, of having prospective orchestra members play behind a concealing panel during early rounds of an audition.
