by Steve Gannon
“Really?” asked Mom.
“Absolutely,” said Dad, ladling a steaming portion of three-bean casserole onto his plate, then tearing off a hunk of freshly heated French bread. “Maybe I can even get going on those living room bookshelves you’ve been bugging me about. You want to help, champ?” he asked, passing the breadbasket to Nate.
“Sure,” Nate replied enthusiastically. “I have a baseball game tomorrow morning, though.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m one of the coaches, remember? We’ll get working on things here after that.”
“The house is sure coming along, Mr. Kane,” interjected McKenzie, gazing up at our new home. Mom’s mother, Dorothy Erickson, had grown up in an ancient structure built on the site during the mid-thirties, and she had subsequently bequeathed it to my mom and dad as a wedding present. The original home, a sadly sagging construct of termite-ridden beams and quick-fix repairs that time had eventually lent an air of permanence, had burned to the sand several years back. Though our family had escaped for the most part unscathed, it had been a heartbreaking loss for all of us. Following the fire, Dad had spent a year getting the requisite permits to rebuild. After securing a bank loan to augment the fire-insurance money, he had taken substantial blocks of accumulated LAPD sick leave and vacation time to supervise the framing—later setting up a workshop in the new garage and spending every free weekend working on various finish details. Although months earlier my family had moved back to the beach from our temporary quarters in a nearby rental condo, there was still much to do.
“It really is coming along, isn’t it?” Dad agreed proudly. “I miss the old place, though.”
“I never thought I would admit it, but I do, too,” said Mom, absently brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead. “Still, it’s nice having a modern kitchen, not to mention a bigger music room and windows that actually open and close. And the upstairs balcony is heavenly,” she added, referring to the deck above us that Dad had cantilevered off the second story.
“No argument there,” said Dad. “You should use it more often, sugar. Catch a few rays. You’ve been looking a bit peaked lately.”
I stole a glance at my mother, thinking her color did seem a little pale. A small, purplish bruise marked the skin of her forearm—a blemish that would have ordinarily gone undetected had she displayed her normal tan.
“With the Philharmonic’s rehearsal schedule and helping Trav prepare for his concert, I haven’t had much time to be lounging around in the sun,” Mom replied. “But it’s sweet of you to notice, Dan.”
“Just watching out for you, honeybunch.”
“How is Trav’s concert preparation coming along?” asked McKenzie.
“Fine,” Mom answered. “Trav’s been in D.C. for the past two days working with the NSO music director to fine-tune his concerto, as well as rehearsing it with the orchestra. Next weekend’s performances should go perfectly.”
“He’s really nervous about debuting his own work, though,” I noted. “I talked with him last night on the phone. He says a lot is riding on this first concert.”
Mom nodded somberly. “Performing his own composition will be a tremendous step up for Trav, especially if it’s well received.”
“How come Trav gets to play with the NOS, anyway?” asked Nate.
“NSO,” I corrected. “National Symphony Orchestra. And it’s because our older brother Travis is such an ineffable genius.”
Nate looked confused. “Ineffable?”
“Unspeakable,” explained Mom, squinting at me with irritation. “Your sister is being sarcastic. It’s an ineffably unattractive trait in a young lady, I might add.” Then, turning back to Nate, “To answer your question, the NSO’s music director heard Trav play one of his compositions at the Kennedy Center last year. Your brother was on a recital tour that was part of his winning the silver medal at the Van Cliburn International. You remember.”
Nate nodded. “And the conductor liked Trav so much he wanted him to play with his orchestra?”
“Something like that. The music director happens to be old friends with one of Trav’s professors at USC.”
“Mr. Petrinski?”
“That’s right. Anyway, the NSO regularly supports young musicians, and Mr. Petrinski sent his friend a recording of Trav’s work.”
“And the rest, as they say, is history,” I finished.
Once more Mom frowned at my tone. Sensing the strain, everyone at the table fell silent, and for the next few minutes the only sound heard was the clink of silverware and the incessant jangle of the upstairs telephone—the latter a distraction that Mom insisted we let the answering machine handle.
The steaks proved juicy and delicious, the Caesar salad a delightful contrast to the smoky flavor of the barbecued corn, the bread fresh and aromatic. But as usual at any Kane family barbecue, Dad’s sweet-and-sour bean casserole was everyone’s favorite—the savory dish demanding a second helping, and then possibly a third. Nate finished his without touching any of the other food on his plate and clamored for more.
“There are other things to eat,” Dad noted dryly, dishing out another portion.
“I’ll get to ’em soon as the beans are gone,” said Nate.
My father, far more understanding with Nate than he had ever been with any of his other children, especially me, smiled patiently.
As twilight descended, table conversation ricocheted from topics ranging from my transfer to USC in September to Mom’s upcoming concert season, continuing unabated until everyone finished eating. After we had cleared the table and carried the dishes up to the kitchen, we again reassembled outside for dessert. Though I could have sworn I had no room left for anything, not even a morsel, I changed my mind when Mom’s mud pie made its appearance.
“Mmmm, that looks scrumptious, Mrs. Kane,” said McKenzie, admiring my mother’s creation of vanilla ice cream in a crumbled Oreo-cookie shell, with layers of fudge sauce and whipped cream topping the delicious-looking concoction.
“And it tastes even better,” said Nate as Mom began cutting thick slabs and serving them on paper plates.
Once desserts had made their way around the table, everyone again fell silent, concentrating on eating. Predictably, Nate had seconds. By the time everyone finished, a full moon had risen over the lights of Santa Monica, illuminating the deck with a soft yellow glow. Pleasantly full, Dad rocked back and laced his hands across his stomach. “Okay, rookies, listen up,” he said, his voice unconsciously assuming the autocratic snap of a drill sergeant. “I’ve been doing some thinking lately—”
“Somebody alert Mensa,” I whispered to Nate.
“—and I have an announcement to make,” Dad finished, ignoring my gibe.
Like all the Kane children, I had learned from experience to distrust my father’s postmeal announcements, the majority of which involved summaries of each of our shortcomings and failures regarding schoolwork, chores, and family duties—invariably followed by a compulsory plan by which we could redeem ourselves.
“Oh, joy,” I groused. “We have company, Dad, and we certainly don’t want McKenzie getting the right idea about you. Don’t forget your rule about no negativity at the dinner table.”
“I’m not being negative.”
I smiled. “There. See?”
“Hey, the ol’ dad might have something positive to say,” my father objected, feigning insult. “Don’t you kids trust me?”
“No!” Nate and I laughed as one, emboldened by Dad’s unusually sunny mood.
“Tough,” said Dad. “You’re going to hear this anyway. What I was about to propose before that rousing vote of confidence was this: With rebuilding the house and all, it’s been quite a while since we’ve had one of our annual Fourth of July bashes—”
“Here’s a news flash,” I broke in again. “The Fourth is over.”
“I know that, petunia,” he said patiently. “Contrary to popular belief, I can read a calendar. I’m talking about another date that’
s coming up in a month or so. August eleventh, to be exact. Your birthday. Now, your mom and I talked it over, and we both agree that in the tragic absence of our customary Fourth of July gathering while we’ve been rebuilding, we should do something memorable to kick off your upcoming twentieth birthday.”
“All right!” exclaimed Nate. “A beach party for Ali! With hundreds of people like on the Fourth?”
Dad grinned. “What’s the point of having a beach party if you don’t invite everybody?”
Nate’s face lit up. “Can we have a bonfire?”
“It’s possible.”
“Fireworks?” asked Nate.
“No fireworks. It’s not the Fourth. Besides, I have something else planned.”
“Food?” I suggested. “You’re doing something special with the food?”
“No more guessing.”
“You’re not really thinking of inviting every single person we know like on the Fourth, are you?” I persisted, secretly pleased but trying not to show it.
Dad gazed at the moon without answering.
I turned to my mother. “Mom? What’s Dad planning?”
“It’s a surprise, honey. Your father swore me to secrecy.”
“C’mon, Dad,” I begged. “What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” Dad answered mysteriously. “Just keep that weekend open.”
*
In the mountains north of Malibu, the same summer moon shining down on the Kanes’ deck also bathed the surface of a large reservoir. As moonlight pierced the water’s inky depths, the slanting rays quickly diminished, barely illuminating a small object submerged a dozen yards offshore. Strands of hair swayed like eel grass in the slight subsurface current, billowing around a face whose eyes stared sightlessly into the dark.
Buoyed by gases of decomposition, the ghostly white shape lifted gently from the bottom, partially shedding an enclosing shroud of black plastic. Loops of rope binding the wrists and ankles prevented the body from rising more than a foot. Bit by bit, the body rotated. Cut by coils of encircling cord, a patch of water-softened skin bunched like wet newspaper, sloughing from the underlying tissue. Loosened, a cord fell free. And gradually, as another restraining tether came undone, the body began a slow ascent to the surface.
4
As I wheeled into the CBS Television City visitors’ parking lot early Monday morning, I still wasn’t certain what I was doing there. Getting an internship at a national news bureau would be great, but I was already enrolled in class at UCLA, and I was fairly certain I couldn’t do both—even if I got the job, which wasn’t likely for someone with little or no experience. Making an effort to shelve my concerns for the moment and just see how things went, I proceeded down a broad driveway, stopping at a parking kiosk near the far end. There, with a disapproving glance at the beach-rusted Bronco I had borrowed from Travis, a uniformed guard handed me a parking stub and waved me past. Straight ahead, the looming hulk of CBS Television City rose above a sea of cars, its eyeball-festooned black-and-white walls and squat lines reminding me of a giant cardboard box. After minutes of searching, I found a slot at the west end of the lot, parked, and twisted off the ignition. Refusing to die, the Bronco bucked repeatedly before finally shuddering to a stop.
Struggling to suppress my apprehension, I stepped out, smoothed my skirt and wool blazer, and started for the huge, windowless building. As I approached, I noticed a number of people queued along the western perimeter, apparently waiting to see one of the daytime game shows that I knew were shot inside. After asking directions from a production assistant polling those in line, I threaded through the crowd, arriving at an artists’ entrance a hundred yards east. Still inexplicably nervous, I entered.
Inside, I found myself in a small but pleasant lobby decorated in plastic and chrome. A coffee table and couch, several chairs, and a ceiling-mounted TV took up most of the space to the left; to the right, a waist-high stainless-steel counter curved toward a door opposite the entrance. From behind the counter, a portly African-American man politely asked, “May I help you, miss?”
I nodded, feeling out of place and again wondering why I had come. “I’m Allison Kane, here to see Brent Preston.”
The guard slid a register across the counter and lifted a phone. “Sign in, please. I’ll see whether Mr. Preston is in the newsroom.”
After I had printed and signed my name in the entry record, I glanced at the TV across the room. Not surprisingly, it was tuned to Channel 2, CBS’s Los Angeles affiliate.
“Mr. Preston will be down shortly,” the guard informed me. Then, after checking my name in the register, he filled out a guest pass and slid it across the counter. “You’ll need this.”
“Thanks.”
I pinned the pass to my blazer and sat in a chair across from the TV. Twenty minutes later, after viewing all I could stand of a mind-numbing morning talk show, I rose and made my way back to the desk. As I was about to ask the guard for an update, Brent Preston, a tall, sandy-haired man in his late twenties, stepped into the room. Noticing me, he smiled, his slate-gray eyes lingering on me for several seconds before he spoke. “Sorry it took so long,” he apologized. “I was in a meeting.”
Nervously, I smiled back, deciding that Mr. Preston looked even more striking in person than he did on TV. “I’m, uh, I’m Allison Kane, Mr. Preston,” I stammered, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’ve seen lots of your newscasts, starting back when you were doing the local news for KCBS.”
“Ah, the good old days at Channel 2,” said the newsman. “Well, thanks, Allison. And please call me Brent. The bureau chief is tied up right now, but she’ll be able to see you shortly. C’mon. I’ll give you a tour while you’re waiting.”
I followed Brent through the door. A procession of promotional photos lined the walls of a wide hallway on the other side. Some pictures were of CBS news anchors, but most of the photos depicted stars of network game shows, daytime soaps, and sitcoms. “Looks like the soap-opera hall of fame,” I observed, noting a conspicuously empty slot as we passed.
“More like the hall of shame,” joked Brent, noticing my glance at the empty spot. “If your ratings are down, your picture’s gone the next day. And we call them ‘daytime dramas’ around here,” he cautioned with mock severity.
“I’ll remember that,” I laughed, beginning to relax.
Farther down the corridor the ambiance abruptly changed, the forest-green carpet replaced by industrial-grade linoleum, the acoustic ceiling tiles giving way to a maze of pipes, cables, and ductwork. A misplaced pair of promotional photos from another era—Red Skelton as “Freddie the Freeloader,” and Jack Benny posing with a chimp—were the final attempts at decoration. From there, a labyrinth of passageways branched deeper into the building, their industrial mien reminding me of the interior of a factory, or possibly a ship.
Several turns took us to The Price is Right backstage area, an aircraft-hanger-sized chamber jammed with couches, beds, kitchen appliances, cars, boats, Jet Skis, sports equipment, and an endless array of televisions, stereos, washing machines, refrigerators, and other household items. I whistled under my breath.
“And this is only one of the studios here,” Brent informed me. “Impressive, huh?”
“I’ll say. Is the newsroom like this?”
“I wish,” Brent answered. “We in the news give network a certain stature and prestige, but if the truth be known, we’re fairly low on the corporate pecking order. Actually, make that the bottom of the pecking order. The reality shows, daytime dramas, and game shows are the real money-makers around here, so they get the space. I enjoyed better working conditions at Channel 2.”
“But I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. Just don’t be too disappointed when we get to the newsroom. It won’t be what you expected.”
A quarter hour later, after escorting me through several other studios, an extensive woodworking shop used for set construction, and the CBS employee cafeteria, Bre
nt checked his watch. “Lauren should be done by now,” he said. “I suppose we should head over to the newsroom.”
“Lauren?”
“The bureau chief. Lauren Van Owen.”
My throat tightened.
“Is something wrong?” Brent asked, looking at me curiously.
“No,” I lied.
“People are often surprised to learn that the bureau chief is a woman,” Brent went on, misinterpreting my reaction. “When Sid Gilmore, our old chief, retired six months back, the suits in New York tapped Lauren for his spot. You may remember her. She was a reporter for Channel 2 before an accident ended her on-camera work.
“I recall the incident,” I said, thinking that what had started as a promising morning had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.
*
It had been more years than Kane cared to admit since he had ridden patrol for the LAPD Van Nuys Division, but the streets were beginning to come back. After turning left off Ventura Boulevard onto Alonzo, he drove into the chaparral-covered mountains that marked the southwest borders of the San Fernando Valley. New homes with bricked patios and wrought-iron fences flanked the street all the way up, but with the exception of these recent additions, the rugged hillsides of the Santa Monica Mountains still looked the same: steep, dusty, and overgrown with sage, scrub oak, and sumac.
Fifteen minutes later Kane arrived at a cul-de-sac, high above the housing developments and shopping malls of the valley below. Crossing overhead, high-voltage power lines arced up the mountainside, the thick spans of electrical cables glinting in the midday sun. At the pavement’s end, two black-and-white patrol cars were stationed near a dirt fire road. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire prevented access on either side. A young patrol officer, notebook in hand, guarded the open gate. Other officers stood nearby, questioning a group of neighbors.
Kane pulled up to the gate. “Detective Daniel Kane, West L.A. homicide,” he said, flipping out his ID.
