Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “You could say that,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “I would have to drop out of summer session at UCLA, and no pay would mean moving back to my parents’ house in Malibu.”

  “Friction at home?”

  “There would be.”

  Just then Brent Preston stuck his head into Lauren’s office. “Sorry to interrupt. I just got a call from one of my LAPD contacts. A body matching Jordan French’s description was just found in a reservoir out near Encino.”

  “Take a camera crew and see what you can get,” said Lauren.

  “I’m on it.”

  After Brent left, I shook my head in surprise. I had never met Jordan French, but having seen her on TV over the years had left me feeling as if the young actress were someone I knew. “Dad was right,” I said absently.

  “Your father thought Jordan French was dead? Why?”

  “Well, when there was no follow-up on the ransom—” I stopped short.

  “So there was a ransom demand,” said Lauren, pouncing like a cat on a crippled sparrow. “I knew the police were holding something back.”

  I flushed, angry with myself for my slip. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Now that the body’s turned up, there’s no longer any reason for investigators to withhold that particular piece of information. I’m sure they’ll be announcing it shortly. Incidentally, I didn’t know your father was working on the case.”

  “He’s not. At least he wasn’t.”

  Lauren studied me for a long moment. “How are your computer skills?”

  “I’ve been online since I was twelve, and I can type like the wind.”

  Again, Lauren paused thoughtfully. “It took guts for you to walk into my office today, knowing who I was,” she said at last. “That kind of nerve is unusual for a girl your age. You remind me of myself when I was first starting out. I’ll tell you what, Allison. I’m going to take a chance and give you a shot at working here. With pay. I’ll find some way to bury the expense in the budget. We’ll call you an assignment-desk assistant or an associate producer. Whatever. The position will be open for a year, but you can quit in September when it’s time to return to school. As I said, you’ll be a gofer for the most part, but there may also be opportunities for you to get involved in the news. What do you say?”

  “I say yes!” I answered impulsively, my hostility toward Lauren temporarily forgotten.

  “There is one condition,” Lauren cautioned. “You indicated that your working here might cause friction at home. I won’t get caught in the middle on this. You have to tell your parents.”

  “Of course. My mom won’t like my dropping out of summer session, but she’ll get over it. And I can handle my father.”

  “I’m glad someone can,” Lauren noted skeptically. “When can you start?”

  “I’ll need the rest of today to withdraw from my literature class and tie up loose ends at school,” I answered. “I have an article to finish for the school paper, too. And I’m leaving on a trip this weekend and won’t be back till Monday, so I’ll have to miss a day then,” I added, remembering my trip to D.C. for Trav’s NSO performance. “But other than that, I can start first thing tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  “Tomorrow morning works fine. Be here at eight,” said Lauren, reaching across her desk to shake my hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  5

  Feet propped on my desk, phone in one hand, TV remote control in the other, I sat in my room later that evening talking with McKenzie. Rocking back in my chair, I lifted the remote and flipped through the channels, stopping on the CBS Evening News.

  “So how did your mom react to your dropping out of summer session at UCLA?” McKenzie asked.

  “I can hardly hear you, Mac,” I said, dodging her question. “Are you in your car?”

  “Yeah. Hold on. I’ll roll up the window.”

  “Is that better?” McKenzie’s voice came back a moment later. Then, without awaiting my reply, “C’mon, tell me what your mom said.”

  “I haven’t told her yet.”

  “You haven’t? Well, you’ll have to tell her soon. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that one. Listen, I have a date, and I just pulled into my driveway. Keep me filled in, okay?”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” I promised.

  As I hung up, I noticed a photo of Jordan French flashing up on the TV screen. Then the scene abruptly shifted to a dead-end residential street. Microphone in hand, Brent Preston stood gesturing toward a brush-covered hillside behind him. Curious, I turned up the sound.

  “ … recovered from Encino Reservoir, where earlier today a Department of Water and Power survey team discovered the body of the missing fourteen-year-old.”

  The picture switched to an overhead shot of a large body of water, its gray-blue surface shimmering in the foothills above the San Fernando Valley. A number of police vehicles, large block numerals visible on their roofs, were parked by the reservoir dam. Nearby, several men stood beside a white sheet at the water’s edge.

  “Although Jordan French was reported abducted from her home more than eleven days ago, police still have no leads,” Brent continued as the shot returned to him. “In other developments, CBS News has learned from sources close to the investigation that a ransom note was delivered to the Frenches’ home shortly after Jordan’s abduction. When contacted, LAPD officials had no comment regarding the ransom demand, or why its existence had previously not been disclosed. This is Brent Preston, CBS News, Los Angeles.”

  “Damn,” I said aloud, realizing with a surge of regret that my slip with Lauren was at least one of Brent’s so-called “sources” close to the investigation.

  “Allison! You have a visitor,” one of the girls residing in the dorm hollered up the stairs.

  “Be down in a minute,” I called back.

  Unsettled by Brent’s mention of the ransom note, I flipped off the TV. Though regretting my slip with Lauren, I also realized that I had felt a deliciously guilty thrill when I’d heard Brent’s on-air revelation—my revelation—knowing millions had been listening. With an uneasy shrug, I decided I would have to be more careful in the future. Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it now. I just hoped my father didn’t find out. After donning a loose-fitting rugby shirt, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, turning off lights on my way out.

  At the bottom of the staircase I stopped midstride, my mouth dropping open in surprise. Upon hearing I had a visitor, I’d concluded that it must have been a girlfriend from lit class who had called earlier that week about possibly joining me for dinner. Instead, there in the entry wearing a pair of crisply pressed slacks, an open-collared shirt, and a leather aviator jacket, stood Mike Cortese. Obviously enjoying my reaction, the cameraman grinned, his rugged features creasing with amusement. “Hi, Ali,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I would recognize you in clothes.”

  A rush of heat flooded my face. “Just happened to be in the area and thought you’d drop by?” I asked, hating myself for my blush and wishing I had chosen something more flattering to wear than a pair of faded jeans and a rugby shirt.

  “Something like that.”

  “How’d you know … ?” Then, shaking my head, I answered my own question. “McKenzie.”

  Mike nodded. “She gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind. Listen, I realize we got off on the wrong foot last weekend at the beach, and I’m sorry,” he said. “And I did just happen to be in the neighborhood, so when I heard about your getting hired at CBS, I thought I’d look you up and offer my congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” I said, warming slightly. “I appreciate your help.”

  “No thanks are necessary. I simply made a call. You nailed down the job yourself. Brent says he thinks you’ll do great.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yep. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting him tonight in Westwood for a drink. The restaurant is just down the street. Why don’t you join us? He can tell
you himself.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Have you eaten? If you haven’t, we could grab a bite, too. What do you say?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, I don’t know you that well. For another, I’m not dressed to go out.”

  “Are you kidding? You look great. As for not knowing me, there’s only one cure for that. C’mon, the place I’m meeting Brent is casual, serves fresh pasta, and we can walk there in no time. That is, unless you don’t like Italian,” Mike added with a mock frown. “In which case we can forget the whole thing.”

  “No, I love Italian,” I conceded, finding Mike much nicer than I remembered. And he had helped me get the job at CBS. Plus Brent would be there too, so going to a restaurant with Mike wasn’t really a date. “And I am hungry,” I added. “Actually, I’m starving.”

  “Good. I like a girl with a healthy appetite.”

  Following a short stroll down Hilgard Avenue, Mike and I pushed through the doors of The Gardens, a brick-and-tile throwback to earlier days of Westwood. As Mike spoke to a young woman at the hostess station, I let my eyes roam the restaurant, pleased by the changes that had been effected since I’d last visited. Years ago the ancient building had housed an upscale hamburger palace; now, despite encroaching high-rise office towers and multiplex theaters, the interior of the renovated one-story structure seemed delightfully rustic. Directly ahead lay a spacious room with a domed skylight and a thirty-foot tree rising from the center, its sprawling limbs shading tables set with high-backed wicker chairs. On either side, bricked archways accessed smaller dining rooms that I remembered had originally been patio gardens, while to the left lay an airy, four-sided bar with intimate tables ensconced in alcoves ringing the room’s perimeter.

  “You said this place was casual,” I whispered when Mike finished talking with the hostess, again wishing I had worn something more appropriate.

  “It is casual,” Mike replied. “Besides, even in hip waders and a trench coat you’d be the best-looking girl here. C’mon, let’s sit in the bar area. They can serve us dinner there right away.”

  Pleased by Mike’s breezy compliment, I followed him into the bar. The hostess, a pretty young woman with a dazzling smile, seated us in a window alcove that looked out on the streets of Westwood through a wisteria-covered trellis. “Your waitress will be here shortly, Mike,” the hostess said, placing menus on our table. “Want anything to drink while you’re waiting?”

  “Thanks, Brooke. I’ll have a beer. Make it a Red Hook,” said Mike, glancing at me. “What would you like, Ali?”

  “A Coke.”

  “A Coke and a Red Hook, on the way,” said Brooke, shooting Mike another smile as she departed.

  “Are you a regular here?” I asked, having noted that the hostess wasn’t wearing a name tag.

  “I used to be,” Mike answered, opening his menu. “A lot of guys from the station hang out here.”

  I opened my menu, finding that in addition to a selection of reasonably priced pasta dishes, The Gardens boasted a tempting variety of other entrées. “Speaking of work, you said you first got to know Brent when he was at Channel 2?”

  Mike nodded. “He got his start at KCBS as a local reporter. He’s moved up in the world since then, not that he needs the money. His dad’s the president of Preston Development Company.”

  “Preston Development? The company that builds those Orange County housing tracts?”

  “That’s the one. PDC’s one of the biggest construction outfits in the Southland, and they’re not just building condos and single-family homes any more. Despite our occasional real-estate downturns, now they’re putting up shopping malls, light-industrial parks, and office buildings. With no exaggeration, it’s fair to say that Brent’s family is filthy rich—private jet, mansion in South Pasadena, vacation homes in Sun Valley, Hawaii, and New Mexico. The guy’s always had the best of whatever money can buy, though you would never know that from the way he pushes himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mike paused before answering. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said after a moment. “I admire the way Brent has ascended the ranks at CBS. With the exception of using his dad’s connections to get his first job at Channel 2, to my knowledge he’s never depended on his family’s money or influence to get ahead. He wants to be a network anchor by the time he’s thirty-five, and he’s determined to do it on his own. I guess there’s nothing wrong with that, except it’s as if he’s trying to prove something. You’ll see what I mean. The guy’s driven.”

  “So what would you do if you had his money?”

  “I sure as hell wouldn’t be chasing the news.”

  “Why not?”

  Noticing a cocktail waitress approaching with our drinks, Mike closed his menu. “For someone like you just starting out in the news game, I’m not the one to be talking to,” he answered. “That glint of idealism in your eyes will fade soon enough. So what are you having?”

  Though puzzled by Mike’s reply, I let it go. “Pasta. I heard from a reliable source that it’s great.”

  I chose a penne dish served with a broccoli-crème sauce; Mike selected a fusilli with rock shrimp, scallops, and arugula. As a side dish he also ordered one of the house specialties—pizza with pesto, prawns, and red onions. The pizza was overkill, but I surprised myself by devouring my penne and still finding room for two slices of pizza as well.

  Thirty minutes later I placed my napkin on the table, watching as Mike finished the last of the pizza. Our conversation had continued comfortably throughout the meal, sputtering along between bites. Now, pleasantly full, I decided to revisit a topic we had broached earlier. “So what’s wrong with the news business?”

  Mike downed a final bite of pizza crust. “Just that,” he said. “It’s a business, along with all the things that go with being a business.” Then, glancing across the bar, “There’s Brent. Hey, Brent! Over here!”

  Hearing his name, Brent Preston looked over from the far side of the room, breaking into a grin as he spotted us. By now a number of theaters in the area had let out, and the bar was rapidly filling with moviegoers stopping by for a nightcap. Arm around a slim brunette accompanying him, Brent fought his way through the throng, arriving at our table after making several stops to speak with friends and admirers. “Hi, Allison,” he said, taking my hand. “Mike told me he was going to ask you to join us. I’m glad you came. Good to see you too, Cortese.”

  “Back at you,” said Mike, rising from the table. “Hello, Liz,” he added to the woman with Brent. Then, turning to me, “Liz Waterson, Allison Kane.”

  I recognized the smartly dressed woman accompanying Brent as one of the CBS news producers I had met earlier that day. “Hi, Liz.”

  Liz frowned at Brent, who was still holding my hand, then turned to me. “Good evening, Allison,” she replied with a cold smile. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “They sure are,” Brent jumped in. “Van Owen is bringing Allison onboard as a full-time associate producer. With pay, if you can believe that. You must have really wowed her, Allison. I’ll grab some chairs and you can tell us all about it.”

  Liz raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Yes, why don’t you?” she suggested. “I, for one, would be interested in knowing how you swung it. I’ve never heard of anyone as green as you who’s just starting out as an intern—oh, excuse me, as an associate producer—being paid from day one.”

  “Ali’s not that green,” Mike pointed out. “She’s studying journalism. What’s more, she already has some TV recognition going. We’re still getting calls at Channel 2 about her beach rescue.”

  “Same thing at network,” Brent chimed in, returning with two chairs from an adjacent table. “The overnight ratings were in the stratosphere after we ran her spot,” he went on, seating Liz beside Mike and taking a place next to me. “We even got calls from management in New York.”

  “But the position for whic
h mermaid-girl was hired doesn’t have anything to do with being recognized on TV,” Liz noted dismissively, as if I weren’t present. “I just think something is—”

  “You guys want a drink?” Mike cut in. “I’m heading to the bar for another beer.”

  “I’ll have a double Chevas on the rocks,” said Brent.

  “Vodka gimlet for me,” Liz replied with another chilly smile, clearly irked at having been interrupted.

  “Allison?”

  “A refill on my Coke, please.”

  As Mike started across the room, I turned to Brent, puzzled by the animosity I felt radiating from Liz. “Mike was in the process of telling me what’s wrong with the news business when you arrived,” I said, attempting to steer the conversation away from myself. “Any thoughts on that?”

  “A few,” Brent replied. “For one thing, you have to understand that Mike is a frustrated filmmaker who resents shooting ten-second news clips. As a result, when it comes to accepting the way things are in the media, he has a chip on his shoulder the size of Rhode Island. It’s a shame, too, because he’s really good. UCLA Film School and all that. Maybe one of these days he’ll make it in the movie biz. Did he tell you he has a documentary that’s going to be shown at the Telluride Film Festival in September?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he does. It’s a huge honor simply having your work screened at a major event like that.”

  I decided there was more to Mike Cortese than I had thought. “You mentioned his not accepting the way things are in the media. What things?”

  Brent grinned. “He didn’t get that far in his analysis of the woes besetting the industry, eh? Well, it’s the old journalism-versus-entertainment chestnut that people have been kicking around for years. You know—the golden age of journalism died when big corporations took over and network bean-counters began evaluating everything based on the financial bottom line. According to Mike, present-day news coverage is typified by inanity, hype, and crime. News anchors have become million-dollar celebrities reading scripts off a TelePrompTer, and in an endless scramble for ratings—once more according to Mike—news stations are broadcasting lowest-common-denominator programming, with substance replaced by weather, sports, and happy-talk between correspondents and anchors.”