Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  I hesitated a moment more, then smiled in resignation. I knew from experience that when McKenzie made up her mind, there was little use arguing. “You win,” I sighed. “I suppose I can get today’s lecture notes from someone in class. Gimme a sec to change.”

  After swapping my school clothes for a one-piece Speedo swimsuit, a pair of sweats, and sandals, I grabbed my surfing fins and a beach towel and headed for the door. When I arrived outside, McKenzie smiled at me warmly. “Great to see you, Ali,” she said, reaching across to open her passenger door.

  “You, too,” I shot back, feeling like a kid playing hooky as I climbed in. McKenzie was wearing an abbreviated pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse over a red bikini top. As usual, she looked stunning, but something about her had changed. McKenzie had always been a head-turner, but over the past year she had transformed in some way I couldn’t quite define. Though she still parted her dark, shoulder-length hair in the center, neatly framing her amber eyes, patrician nose, and generous mouth, there was something different about her. A moment later I had it. Always a bit on the shy side, McKenzie now seemed to exude an aura of confidence that I wished I felt in myself. “How’s school going?” I asked, stifling a tinge of envy.

  With a perfunctory glance over her shoulder, McKenzie slipped the VW into gear and executed an illegal U-turn that sent us south on Hilgard toward Westwood. “My design and architecture courses are going fairly well,” she answered with a shrug, selecting an oldies station on the radio and turning up the volume. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my science classes. Plus my love life is almost nonexistent. Wayne and I broke up last month.”

  “I’ll notify the media.”

  “Nonetheless, I do have prospects,” McKenzie added cheerfully, ignoring my sarcasm. “Lifeguard Jeff, for instance. How about you? Anyone special?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who are you going out with?”

  “Whom.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re excused.”

  McKenzie groaned. “Ali …”

  “Whom are you going out with,” I corrected, attempting to dodge her question. “Even better, ‘Whom are you seeing?’ would eliminate that nasty dangling preposition.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Perfect English. I’ve missed your enflamed sense of grammar. Okay, whom are you seeing?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  “I’m not dating much, Mac. Actually, I’m not dating at all. I don’t have time.”

  “Don’t have time? Ali, sometimes I think you’re afraid of men.”

  I felt myself flush. “That’s not it,” I said, realizing that my friend had struck closer to the truth than she knew. With the exception of my parents and a rape-counseling therapist, I had never told anyone about my attack, not even McKenzie.

  “What, then? You don’t like fraternity guys?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I scowled, trying to hide my embarrassment. Thankful that McKenzie had her eyes on the road and not on me, I replied, “Well, for one thing, most of them display an intellectual maturity somewhere in the range of broccoli—not to mention being about as subtle as a pair of brass knuckles. Or as romantic as a love scene from Alien,” I added, warming to the subject. “By the way, I’m an English major, so don’t try to use those similes at home.”

  “As usual, you’re letting your brain do too much of your thinking, Ali—especially when it comes to men,” McKenzie said as we turned right on Wilshire and took the 405 Freeway on-ramp south. By then rush hour traffic had thinned a bit, but even at 10 AM, commuters still crowded the highway. After negotiating the Santa Monica Freeway Interchange and proceeding south, McKenzie edged into the 405 carpool lane and picked up speed. “I simply think a little romance in your life might be a welcome improvement,” she added.

  “As I said, I don’t have time for that right now.”

  “So make time. And don’t tell me you’re not interested. Remember that short story you wrote about a blind girl falling in love for the first time? It was so romantic, I cried at the end. What was the title?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Sure you do. Your main character went through all these changes, only to finally discover what she truly wanted in life was to have someone who really knew her—what food she liked, her taste in music, what side of the bed she slept on, how to make her laugh. In the end, she realized that sharing herself with someone was the one thing that could make her feel complete.”

  “She was a character in a story, Mac. A short story. Perfect for people like you with short attention spans.”

  “But you said that when you write, you put parts of yourself into your work.”

  “It was just a story,” I insisted.

  “Well, I think it’s a big contradiction for someone to be able to write so movingly about something they don’t feel themselves. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Life doesn’t make sense. And contradictions make characters interesting.”

  “In fiction, maybe. In real life, contradictions lead to trouble.” Then, noting my darkening mood, McKenzie finally relented. “So you’re off to USC this fall?”

  “Right,” I replied, grateful for the change of subject. “UCLA doesn’t have an undergraduate journalism curriculum, and USC does. I can transfer most of my lower division credits and still graduate in four years. Tuition’s considerably more at SC, but my folks have worked it out.”

  “Your dad’s borrowing on the beach house?”

  “He planned to, but Grandma Dorothy offered to help—at which point my mom unilaterally accepted. Dadzilla wanted to handle everything himself, of course, but even he knows better than to tangle with Mom and Grandma at the same time. He didn’t take kindly to being overruled, however.”

  “I can picture it now,” laughed McKenzie. Then, keeping her voice light, “When you start at SC, will you be seeing much of Trav?” she asked, referring to my older brother Travis, who was attending USC on a music scholarship.

  I shrugged. “More than I see of him now, I suppose. For the past two summers the Kane family prodigy has been touring on his Van Cliburn recitals, leaving for parts unknown the minute school lets out. Right now genius boy is in Washington, D.C., preparing for a concert with the National Symphony Orchestra.”

  McKenzie nodded. “On my way to your dorm this morning, I stopped by the beach house. Speaking of which, the rebuilt version looks terrific. Not as much character as your old house before the fire, but it’s great,” she added.

  I remained silent at McKenzie’s mention of the fire, for the second time that morning finding my thoughts venturing into territory I didn’t want to revisit.

  “Anyhow, while I was there, your mom told me about Trav’s concert,” McKenzie went on. “You’re going?”

  “Uh-huh. Mom and I are catching an early flight to D.C. next weekend. Which reminds me. Now that you’ve broken up with your college flame, do you want me to tell Trav you’re available?”

  “Don’t you dare!” McKenzie squealed.

  I grinned. McKenzie had been sweet on Travis in high school, and I knew she still wasn’t over her crush. “Whatever you say, Mac.”

  “Your mom invited me to a barbecue at the beach house tonight,” McKenzie continued, trying to cover her outburst. “Will you be there?”

  “Yep. My dad’s cooking. There’s no way I’m going to miss one of his meals.”

  McKenzie smiled. “Me, neither.”

  As we drove south under a cloudless Southern California sky, the high-rise condos and office buildings of Westwood gradually surrendered to a succession of retail businesses, warehouses, and car dealerships lining the freeway from West Los Angeles to Orange County. Continuing our rambling conversation, McKenzie and I brought each other up-to-date on our lives. Forty minutes later, still engaged in our nonstop exchange, we exited the freeway on Brookhurst and turned left on the 101 coastal route. A few miles farther on, as we swung
right on Balboa Boulevard, a newsbreak came on the radio.

  McKenzie turned up the sound. “Have you been following this?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

  I leaned forward to hear.

  “… disappearance of Jordan French, teenaged star of the popular TV series, Brandy,” the announcer’s voice was saying. “Miss French was reported missing from her Pacific Palisades home over a week ago. Authorities still have no clue regarding her whereabouts. Although no ransom demand has been received, investigators are not ruling out an abduction. A spokesperson for Paramount Studios, where Jordan was shooting a feature film, announced today that work on the project will continue in the hopes of her speedy return. In other news—”

  McKenzie twisted off the radio. “Weird, huh? A newspaper I saw in the supermarket says she was recently spotted in Europe with an Italian movie star. Another said she’s in rehab at Betty Ford.”

  “I wouldn’t call those rags you read at the checkout stand newspapers.”

  “Good point. Anyway, the tabloids are probably exaggerating, but something’s going on,” McKenzie maintained stubbornly. “You ever watch Jordan’s show?”

  “Brandy? Occasionally,” I confessed. Jordan’s fictional TV series centered on the life of Ambassador Harold Wilkenson, a widowed American living in England with his adolescent daughter Brandy, played by Jordan. Every week as regular as clockwork, Ambassador Wilkenson ran afoul of some convoluted, ill-conceived but well-meaning attempt by Brandy to assist him in various affairs of state—not to mention her occasional schemes to find him a wife. Despite its pedestrian premise, the show worked surprisingly well thanks to imaginative writing, and it was one of the few TV shows that I followed. “I watch it when I have time,” I added with an embarrassed shrug.

  McKenzie grinned. “Yeah, sure. So what do you think happened to Jordan?”

  Again, I lifted my shoulders.

  Noting something in my manner, McKenzie looked over questioningly. “You know something, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll bet your dad’s got something to do with the case. C’mon, spill it.”

  My father, LAPD Detective Daniel Kane, had for the past several years served as the West Los Angeles Division’s supervising homicide detective, and his jurisdictional boundaries included the Pacific Palisades area where Jordan had vanished. “It’s not a murder investigation, so my dad’s not on it,” I said.

  “But I’ll bet he knows who’s running the case, and I’ll also bet he has an inside track on what’s going on,” McKenzie insisted. “C’mon, Ali. I can keep a secret.”

  “Well … my dad does know the MAC detective in charge,” I admitted.

  “MAC?”

  “Major assault crimes. A detective named Carl Peyron is investigating Jordan’s case. Dad’s known Carl for years.”

  “And?”

  “And I heard Dad talking on the phone to Detective Peyron about the investigation. There are a couple of things that haven’t been released to the press.”

  McKenzie frowned. “Jeez, this is like pulling teeth. Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Not. There’s not much to tell, but Dadzilla would send me on a one-way trip to the moon if it ever got back to him that I blabbed about the case.”

  “He won’t hear it from me.”

  “Sorry. Like I said, if my—”

  “I get the picture. Your dad will go postal if he finds out you talked. Don’t worry; it’ll be our secret. Now give.”

  I hesitated a moment more. Then, with a sigh, I said, “Despite what’s being reported in the news, the Frenches did receive a ransom letter. The envelope contained a locket belonging to Jordan and a demand for money.”

  “Are her parents going to pay?”

  “They were willing to,” I answered. “Unfortunately, the kidnappers haven’t been in contact since.”

  “Why not?”

  I shook my head. “Nobody knows for sure. But my dad has a theory.”

  “And that is?”

  “He thinks Jordan French is dead.”

  2

  Mike Cortese swung his telephoto lens across the beach, searching for the best angle to frame the gigantic waves. He had already shot fifteen minutes of the colossal slabs of water slamming off the Newport jetty, but he still hadn’t captured the images he wanted. He mentally weighed shooting a short video clip with lifeguard tower W in the foreground, the guard station flying a red storm-surf flag and a black-ball pennant that signified no flotation devices allowed. Adjusting the focus, Mike assessed the shot, then rejected it. Shooting past the tower foreshortened the waves, negating the chaotic violence of the storm surf he wanted to show.

  From experience, Mike knew he needed another object in frame with which to gauge the size of the La Niña-generated waves. Normally a sequence like this included someone in the water—a bodysurfer, for instance—to provide a visual reference. The trouble was, the waves were simply too big for anyone to ride, especially in the Wedge “bowl,” where reflected energy from the rock jetty rejoined the main swell to throw it up even higher. Only a handful of local bodysurfers who called themselves the “Wedge Crew” had dared to enter the ocean, and even they, the best of the best, were treading water far outside the break line and taking off only on intermittent ten-to twelve-footers between sets.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Mike lowered his camera. Around him the beach teemed with girls in bikinis, boys in baggy shorts, and families with picnic baskets. Most of those there that morning stopped whatever they were doing to stare in awe whenever a particularly large wave thundered ashore, drumming the sand like a monstrous footfall. In an effort to communicate the power of the swells, Mike recorded several minutes of crowd reaction, then returned his attention to the ocean. At last he found the shot he wanted. To the left of the guard tower, three young girls were playing along the shoreline—wading up to their knees during calmer intervals, then retreating with excited squeals of laughter as the next upsurge approached.

  Mike moved closer to a berm running the length of the beach. After a quick refocus, he framed the nearest of the girls in his lens, shooting her scrambling from the water as an oncoming wave threatened in the background. It was perfect, the teenager’s slim body giving Mike the size reference he had lacked earlier. Getting ambient sound with the camera’s shotgun microphone as well, he widened the shot to include the wave just as it crashed offshore.

  “What’re you doing, mister?”

  Mike continued shooting as the girl and her friends once more entered the water, this time wading up to their thighs. Then, lowering his camera, he turned, finding a young boy standing behind him.

  “You look like a sharp kid,” Mike answered. Kneeling, he rested the camera on his knee. “You tell me.”

  “You’re shooting the big waves for TV. Channel 2 News, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “The eyeball,” the boy replied solemnly, pointing at the CBS logo on Mike’s camera.

  Mike pretended to be surprised. “Hmmm. I forgot about that.”

  “All the TV stations have camera logos.”

  “You’re right,” Mike laughed, ruffling the youngster’s hair. “I knew you were a sharp kid.”

  “Dex, don’t bother that man while he’s working,” a tanned woman in shorts and a halter top called from a nearby blanket.

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Mike called back, raising his voice to be heard above the surf. “He’s not bothering me.”

  The woman, an attractive brunette in her early thirties, smiled at Mike with obvious interest. “Not yet, maybe,” she shot back.

  Mike smiled in return, then kept working. He had to get the beach footage to the newsroom by 3 PM, and time was getting short. But as he started to turn back toward the ocean, a pair of young women caught his eye. They had apparently just arrived and were laying beach towels on the sand near the lifeguard tower. One, a raven-haired beauty who wiggled out of a skimpy pair of shorts and a sleev
eless blouse to reveal a tiny red bikini, had great legs and knockout figure. But it was the taller of the two who drew Mike’s attention.

  Momentarily forgetting the waves, Mike watched as she stripped off a pair of gray sweats. Beneath the sweats she was wearing a black Speedo swimsuit cut high at the hips and low in the back, accenting a captivating figure that was both athletic and feminine. Shaking free her tousled mane of reddish-auburn hair, the girl looked up. Her pale-green eyes turned quizzical as they noticed Mike watching, her unabashed look displaying a startling directness that held his gaze.

  At that instant the boy began tugging on Mike’s arm. “Hey, mister. Look!”

  Reluctantly, Mike glanced toward the ocean, noting that the teenaged girls who earlier had been playing in the shallows had ignored a warning from the lifeguard and ventured into deeper water. Caught in the outflow, they were now having difficulty making it back to the safety of the beach. Abruptly, a strong backwash buffeted the trio, sweeping two of them over a sandy drop-off. Realizing the danger, Mike kicked off his sandals, asked Dex to hold his camera, and started for the water. He hesitated when he saw a lifeguard bolting from the guard tower, orange rescue tube in tow.

  A second backwash surged seaward, carrying away the third girl. With a chill, Mike realized that the situation had turned deadly. Noting another guard running from a tower a hundred yards distant, Mike retrieved his camera and resumed shooting, knowing he would probably need saving himself were he to enter the water. He was a good swimmer, but not that good.

  Trailing his rescue tube from a nylon shoulder strap, the first guard dived in and swam toward the closest girl. He reached her just as a six-foot crest of boiling foam rolled over them. Mike kept his lens trained on the spot where they disappeared. When they resurfaced seconds later, he got a shot of the guard wrapping the flexible orange tube around the girl’s body, securing the device with a brass clip. By now the other guard had arrived. Mike shot him entering the water, then raked his camera across the ocean, searching for the other girls. A head popped up forty yards out. No sign of the third girl.