by Steve Gannon
“When are you having your baby?” Nate broke in, staring at Adele’s bulging stomach.
Adele smiled, seeming to notice the children for the first time. “I’m due in September, honey,” she answered, taking Nate’s hand. “Probably right around Labor Day,” she added with a chuckle. “Come on, I’ll take you and your sister down to the performers’ lounge. You’re going to have to wait for your mom there.”
“Can’t we watch?” asked Allison.
Adele shook her head. “Rules.”
“You knew that, Ali,” Catheryn said firmly. “Anyway, the lounge is right below the stage. You should be able to hear most of what’s going on from down there.”
“Aw, Mom . . .”
“Go on, now. I’ll see you afterward. Wish me luck.”
“Okay,” said Allison reluctantly. “Knock ’em dead.”
“Yeah. Break your legs, Mom,” added Nate.
Resisting an impulse to fire off a vitriolic comment regarding her brother’s ignorance, Allison followed Adele as she escorted them back to the elevator. “We can find our own way down to the lounge if you want,” Allison offered when they reached the elevator door.
Adele pushed the button, then glanced distractedly at her watch. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ve been here lots of times.”
“I do have to get back. We’ll be starting soon,” said Adele gratefully. “Do you need anything? Money for the vending machines?”
“No, thanks. Don’t worry; we’ll be fine.”
“All right, then. See you afterward.”
After her mother’s friend had departed, Allison quickly pulled Nate toward a small door set in the right wing of the stage.
“Where are we going?” Nate asked, fighting to free himself from his sister’s grasp.
“Shhh. Do you want to hear Mom play or not?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then shut up and follow me.”
Allison swung open the stage door and peered through. The hallway outside was empty. “Come on,” she said. With a guilty rush of excitement, she dragged Nate through and hurried down a passage to the left. A moment later, Nate still in tow, she paused at the entrance to the darkened auditorium beyond, her eyes taking in the breathtaking expanse of the deserted room.
On either side, broad wood panels soared to a distant ceiling, rising ever higher in a bold march to the back before plunging in graceful, unbroken curves to form three levels of raised seating in the rear. Beneath the lowest level an encirclement of plush red seats fanned downward toward the front, descending in measured, shallow steps, giving a feeling of undulant motion. Allison had been to performances at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and the nearby Walt Disney Concert Hall many times with her mother. On those occasions, at both venues, her attention had always been focused on the stage, not the room. As she viewed the Pavilion hall now, she realized, for the first time, that its architects had somehow designed the chamber to embody the very sound it was meant to contain.
Suddenly she heard voices behind them. “Let’s go,” she whispered.
No longer needing any encouragement, Nate dashed up the carpeted slope, Allison close behind. The two children ducked into a row partway back just as Arthur West and the Philharmonic’s music director walked in, accompanied by Adele and three other musicians. The children watched from their hiding place as the group that would judge the audition took seats near the front.
For several moments the musicians talked among themselves in relaxed tones, getting settled. Finally an elderly woman who would act as proctor stepped onstage. The music director signaled his assent, and a young Asian woman in her late twenties carried out her cello and seated herself on a solitary chair in the center of the stage.
Allison knew that all participants had been given a list of audition pieces to prepare, including selections from Richard Strauss’s Don Juan, the Adagio from Brahms’s Second Symphony, and the first movement of Hayden’s C Major Cello Concerto. She also knew that during the initial round, every contestant would play only a short portion from each, lasting about a minute at most, before being stopped by the judges.
By now she was familiar with the material, having listened to her mother preparing it over the preceding months. Although the young Asian woman played flawlessly, many of the musicians who followed performed even more brilliantly, displaying dazzling levels of skill and technique. As the morning wore on, Allison increasingly wondered how anyone would ever be able to make a choice. Occasionally she glanced at the judges. They seemed passive, polite, making notes during each audition, but nothing in their expressions gave any hint regarding their assessment.
When Catheryn finally walked onstage an hour later, Nate had fallen asleep. Allison nudged him. “Wake up, runt,” she whispered. “Mom’s on.”
Nate rubbed his eyes, brightening as he spotted his mother. Still sleepy, he stood and raised his hand to wave. With a rush of panic Allison pulled him back to his knees. “Stay down,” she hissed.
Allison held her breath, hoping no one had seen them. Somehow, no one had. With a sigh of relief mixed with a growing feeling of apprehension, she watched from the darkness as Catheryn arranged her music, wishing she could be there beside her.
A nod from the judges, and Catheryn began.
Still as death, Allison listened as Catheryn’s cello sang out in rich, sonorous tones that carried a weight no violin could ever hope to match, tones that for Allison would always uniquely and inseparably be conjoined with the voice of her mother. Some of Allison’s earliest memories were of that music, a music that struck rich chords of emotion and inspired unsettling, complex yearning in her—strange and confusing feelings that as a child she had found herself unable to fathom. Yet over the years, as she’d grown older, she had slowly learned their names: Pride in her mother’s artistry, and wonder at the power it held over her. Resentment at the depth of Catheryn’s gift, a gift that had been passed not to her, but to her brother Travis. Despair at the knowledge she would never measure up to its perfection. And most of all, running nearly as deep as Allison’s love for her mother, the shame of profound, unbearable envy.
When the customary “Thank you—go on to the next piece” sounded less than a minute into the Don Juan, Allison felt an irrational surge of irritation. She thought angrily, Can’t they tell Mom’s different? But as she glanced again at the judges, she noticed that something had changed. And as Catheryn progressed, moving effortlessly through the Brahms selection, she saw it in their stillness and knew it for what it was. It developed slowly, just a few of them at first, but by the time Catheryn embarked on the Haydn concerto, Allison saw it in them all, and she watched in fascination as the magic of her mother’s music drew them in.
The first movement of Haydn’s C Major Cello Concerto, a longstanding test for virtuosity and precision, was the most emotionally transparent of all the audition pieces. Rising to the challenge, Catheryn, although incorporating the same notes performed by the other cellists, somehow engendered a depth of feeling with her playing that to Allison seemed close to mystical. She watched as her mother played, her hands strong and sure on her instrument, her face reflecting the seductive pleasure she took in the music. Closing her eyes, Allison temporarily surrendered to her conflicting pangs of emotion, letting the music lift her in its ethereal snare.
Inexplicably, the judges allowed the final piece to continue well past the customary one-minute mark. Sensing the deviation, Allison opened her eyes and looked at the judges, again seeing the change in their once impassive faces.
At last Catheryn stopped, realizing with an embarrassed smile that she had been permitted far more than her allotted time. A strange silence filled the hall. Even Nate knew that something of consequence had happened. “Did Mom do something wrong?” he whispered.
“No, Nate,” Allison answered. “Mom didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t do anything wrong at all.”
*****
Special Agent Marcus saw it f
irst. “Gun!” he screamed, rolling to the right. As he tried to bring up his service weapon, the first stream of bullets cut his legs out from under him, shattering his pelvis and right knee. A second burst of automatic fire caught him full in the chest. He slammed against the rear quarter panel of the Ford, a bloom of red soaking his shirt. He died before he hit the ground.
Agent Tinley, who’d just stepped from the driver’s seat, ducked behind the hood—gun out now, trying to get off a shot. Couldn’t because the Chicano couple was in the way.
An instant later a deadly barrage tore into the car, slamming fist-sized holes through the doors, windows, fenders. Both tires exploded on the other side. Unable to escape, Tinley edged toward the front, still trying for a shot, figuring he was dead if he didn’t and the hell with the Chicano couple. Dimly, he was aware of a door opening in the store across the street.
Two quick shots sounded from the store. Two more. Tinley risked a glance around the headlight. The first man was backing into the apartment building, dragging the Chicano couple with him as a shield. The second suspect was retreating, too—spraying the storefront as he went, giving him a chance.
Determined to make it count, Tinley raised his weapon.
Kane hit the street running, knowing he’d never make it in time. He heard Arnie behind him in the car, yelling into the radio. Deluca was coming out of the store up ahead. Tinley working his way around the front of the Ford . . .
Bad angle. He doesn’t have a shot. Jesus, Tinley, stay down, stay down . . .
Halfway up the block he saw the man with the gun drive Deluca back inside with a burst of gunfire, then turn again toward Tinley. Kane brought up his automatic.
Too far. Civilians . . .
Before Tinley could squeeze off a shot, another deadly volley of automatic fire swept his way. A heartbeat later the Ford again began to shudder under the impact. Tinley cowered in the lee of the hood, metal and glass flying around him, the stink of gunpowder and sweat and mindless fear thick in his nostrils, the sound of death ringing in his ears. Two slugs glanced off the engine block, finding him where he crouched behind the left front tire. One grazed his temple. The other passed through his throat. Gagging, he slumped to the asphalt.
Within minutes, in response to Arnie’s officer-needs-assistance call, a thicket of LAPD black-and-whites obstructed both ends of the block. The FBI’s bullet-riddled Ford still sat in front of the barricaded apartment. Agent Marcus lay sprawled beside it, splayed out in a dark puddle of blood. Tinley had managed to squirm partway beneath the car on the other side, but hadn’t moved since. Withering gunfire from a third-floor window precluded any thought of a rescue. Filled with a feeling of helpless rage, Kane finally retreated to his own car.
Upon arriving, he found Arnie talking on the radio, which had been patched through West L.A. Division communications to Sylvia Martin’s third-floor apartment. Cursing under his breath, Kane slid behind the steering wheel, feeling his temper unraveling as he listened to the ensuing conversation between Arnie and Escobar—most of which involved Escobar’s delivery of an impossible list of demands. By the time Escobar had concluded his unrealistic spew, Kane was seething. “Damn it, Arnie,” he said. “What do we do now?”
Arnie hesitated, thumb over the transmit button. “We already did all we could,” he said reluctantly. “Now we stall and wait for backup. SWAT and a hostage negotiator will be here soon. Let them handle it.”
“Wait for SWAT?” Kane snorted. “What about the fed out there under the car? He could be dead by the time they get here, if he isn’t already.”
“I know that, Dan. It’s out of our hands.”
Kane grabbed the radio mike. “Escobar? You there?”
“What, pig?” Escobar’s voice crackled back.
“This is Detective Kane. I just want to make certain we have all your demands straight. You want fifty thousand in cash, a helicopter to take you to the airport, and a plane gassed up and ready to go wherever you say. Sure you haven’t left anything out, dirtbag? How about a couple hookers, some chilled champagne, and maybe a nice blow job to top things off?”
As Kane started to add something else, Arnie narrowed his eyes, signaling him to lighten up.
“Listen, asshole,” Escobar replied. “I’m callin’ the shots here. Unless you want more people dead, you do what I say.”
Kane glanced at Arnie.
Arnie shook his head. “Let the SWAT negotiator deal with him, Dan.”
Again, Kane spoke into the mike. “Okay, Mr. Escobar. We want the hostages alive, but no one here has authority to grant your demands. The brass is sending somebody down.”
“When?”
“Now. Meanwhile, how about letting us get those two guys off the street?”
“No way. You get us outta here. Then you get your guys.”
“Let me talk with one of the people you’re holding. If we’re going to deal, we have to know they’re all right.”
“You ain’t talking to nobody.”
“Let me see them, then. If they’re not alive, we have nothing to discuss.”
After a moment the young Chicano male appeared in the window. Escobar stood behind him, holding a pistol to the boy’s head. Kane studied them through the binoculars. “Looks like the kid’s all right,” he said. An instant later he saw the boy grab for the gun.
“Shit, the kid’s playing hero,” Kane groaned, dropping the mike and picking up the handset. Quickly, he switched back to their tac frequency. “Deluca, can you hear what’s going on?”
Before Deluca could answer, the roar of a gunshot reverberated from the apartment. “Sounded like a shot,” Deluca’s voice came back an instant later.
“No, shit,” Banowski broke in, his transmission static-filled but audible. “I could tell that from back here in the alley, and I didn’t need a parabolic mike to do it.”
“Drop dead, Banowski,” Deluca shot back.
Suddenly the third-floor window exploded. Splinters of window frame and shards of glass flew into the morning sunlight, driven by the body of the Chicano youth. Every eye on the street lifted in shocked silence to record his final flight to the sidewalk.
Deluca’s voice came back over the radio a moment later. “They keep this up, they’re gonna run out of hostages.”
“What’s going on in there now?” Kane asked, ignoring Deluca’s dark attempt at humor.
“The kid’s girlfriend is crying,” Deluca responded. “The Martin woman’s yelling at Escobar for throwing the boyfriend out the window. He’s telling her to shut up. Nothing from the other guy.”
“Any mention of the Bradley kid?”
“Yeah. Not where they are holding him or anything, but they’re definitely our guys.”
Without a word Kane yanked the keys from the ignition, walked to the back of the car, and opened the trunk.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Arnie.
Kane pulled his Kevlar body armor from the trunk. “I thought I’d work my way around to the alley, pay Banowski a visit,” he answered.
“Let SWAT handle it, Dan.”
Kane squinted down the street. “Tinley will probably bleed out before they get here, if he hasn’t already. And don’t forget the Bradley boy. No way those scumbags are going to give him up now. They just killed an FBI agent, maybe two, not to mention the boyfriend. There’s nothing in it for them now.”
“So what can you do?”
“I don’t know, but I have to try something. Warn Banowski I’m on my way. I’d hate to catch him napping.”
“Right. Hey, Dan?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just be careful.”
Minutes later Kane arrived in the alley. John Banowski, a large, heavyset man with a wrestler’s going-to-fat physique and a crew-cut hairstyle that hadn’t changed since high school, lumbered from an unmarked Dodge, joining Kane in the shadow of a storage shed behind the brick apartment building. Both men studied the structure. Reinforced steel mesh cov
ered every opening on the first and second floors. There appeared to be no way in—no unbarred window, service door, or fire escape. Nothing.
“Place is built like a stockade,” observed Banowski. “They’ve got the shades drawn in Martin’s apartment. I haven’t seen anything going on up there since we got here,” he added.
“How many other tenants on the third floor?”
“Hard to tell. Two, maybe three. A while back I saw an old lady sticking her head out a window at the far end. Why?”
“I want to know what to expect when I get there.”
“When you get there? What are you gonna do, sprout wings?”
“Something like that. Just keep me covered. Once I’m inside, let Arnie know what’s going on. And tell him not to let anybody come up till I signal.”
Banowski shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not thinking of climbing up there?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Damn, Kane. Ever wonder why people think you’re such a hot dog?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You’d better,” said Banowski, regarding Kane with a look of both puzzlement and respect.
Carefully staying out of view of the third-floor corner window, Kane crossed the alley, wishing he felt as certain of himself as he’d led Banowski to believe. Keeping his back to the wall, he worked his way over to a 6-inch cast-iron standpipe that ran up the outside of the building. He tested it. Deciding it felt solid, he kicked off his shoes. A moment later he grabbed the pipe, placed a foot on the bricks on either side, and started up.
Using a climbing technique called a lieback, Kane walked up the vertical surface by supporting his weight on the balls of his feet, leaning back on his hands to maintain friction. It was a quick and efficient way to ascend, but as he moved up, Kane felt his hands rapidly tiring. Forty feet up, fingers cramping, sweat stinging his eyes, he began to question the wisdom of his attempt.
All at once the pipe shifted.
Jesus, it’s coming loose!
Kane froze, fearing any movement might dislodge the pipe. He peered up, noticing the bolts securing the standpipe to the top of the building had almost worked their way free of the concrete.
