Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “Unlikely,” said Peyron. “Nothing was taken.”

  “On that note, this might be a good time for you to summarize your investigation into Jordan’s abduction, Carl,” suggested Long.

  “Sure, Lieutenant.” Peyron pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and found his place. After referring briefly to the notebook, he cleared his throat and began. “On Saturday morning, July first, my partner and I responded to a call from Mrs. Elizabeth French, who telephoned nine-one-one to report that her daughter was missing and had apparently been abducted from her bedroom sometime during the previous night. When we talked with the Frenches at their home in Mandeville Canyon, Mrs. French stated that Jordan hadn’t felt well on Friday and had stayed in bed most of the day. Both parents looked in on her before retiring at around ten-thirty. The next morning she was gone.”

  “And no one heard anything?” asked Kane.

  “No. The parents’ bedroom is on the second floor; Jordan’s is on the ground level in the back. No one else was in the house. Apparently the guy jimmied her window. We found footprints in a flower bed outside.”

  “How about the neighbors? Any of them report seeing or hearing anything?”

  “No, but the Frenches’ estate is huge,” noted Peyron. “The nearest house is halfway down the block and obscured by a ten-foot hedge. Nobody recalled any strange cars being parked in the area, either,” he added, anticipating Kane’s next question. “But anyone with five bucks for a movie-star map could’ve found his way up there.”

  “Signs of a struggle?”

  “Not much. The sheets were messed up; a lamp was knocked over.”

  “Any dirt on the windowsill or in the room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmmph. Where did the guy exit?”

  “The parents say all the downstairs doors were locked when they got up, so we’re assuming he left the same way he got in.”

  “So the guy slips back out the window without making a sound, carrying the kid?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “Not much there,” Peyron replied regretfully. “No unmatched prints, no blood, no loose hairs on the bed sheets. We took casts of the footprints in the garden. They were made by size-eleven boots or shoes with a Vibram sole, but so far we haven’t been able to match the pattern to a particular brand.”

  “Back up a second, Carl,” said Kane. “Are you saying there were no hairs in the bed, or just none that didn’t belong to Jordan?”

  “There were no hairs at all. I thought that was peculiar.”

  “Like the sheets had been washed?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kane leaned forward. “Tell me about the parents.”

  Peyron hesitated, aware of the direction Kane was headed. “I don’t know, Dan,” he said. “Initially I considered them, of course, but they both appeared genuinely upset about their daughter’s being missing. Mrs. French, especially. They’re both upstanding citizens. She’s on the L.A. County Museum board and belongs to numerous charities; Jordan’s stepfather is the senior vice-president of some high-tech software company in Orange County. Plus, they’ve been cooperating fully with the investigation. I just don’t see them doing it.”

  “Stepfather, huh?”

  “Jordan’s biological father died in a car accident when she was two,” Peyron explained. “Mrs. French remarried four years later. Her new husband, Crawford French, legally adopted Jordan at that time.”

  “Any other suspects?”

  “One. A gardener named Javier Peña who works for a Santa Monica landscape company. He was at the Frenches’ estate two days before Jordan disappeared. When I ran a check on anyone who had been employed recently by the family, his name popped up on the Megan’s Law database,” Peyron explained, referring to a criminal register that enabled law-enforcement officials to keep track of paroled sex offenders, as well as notifying local residents of their presence. “Years back Peña was convicted of molesting his six-year-old nephew in East L.A. Peña’s been out of jail since January. Because he lives in Inglewood, none of his customers in Mandeville Canyon knew his history.”

  “I take it he didn’t pan out as a suspect.”

  “No,” said Peyron. “He claims he was staying with his mother on the night Jordan was abducted—something Mrs. Peña confirms. They could both be lying or he could have slipped out without his mother’s knowing it, but Peña strikes me as the kind who can barely tie his own shoes, much less pull off a high-risk abduction. All things considered, the chances of his being our man are about as likely as me winning a yodeling contest.”

  Kane smiled. “I still want to talk to him.”

  “What do you have on the ransom demand, Carl?” asked Long.

  Again, Peyron referred to his notebook. “It arrived in the mail on Monday, July third, along with a gold locket belonging to Jordan. The postmark on the letter was from Santa Monica, dated the Saturday Jordan disappeared. The Frenches’ address had been snipped from someplace and glued to the envelope; words on the note were cut from a magazine or some other glossy publication and pasted to a single sheet of typing paper. The message read, ‘$750,000 for your daughter. Details to follow. Notify the police and she dies.’”

  “And there was no follow-up message?”

  Peyron shook his head. “Nope. Nothing in the mail. We monitored calls to the Frenches’ phone twenty-four hours a day, too. Nothing came in.”

  “Which could indicate that the ransom demand was simply meant to throw off investigators,” said Kane.

  “It’s possible. Or maybe when Jordan died, the kidnapper got cold feet.”

  Again, Kane spoke up. “What’s the status of the forensic exam on the note?”

  “No latent prints,” answered Peyron, flipping forward in his notebook. “No residual writing imprints were found on the envelope or the typing paper. As I said, the cutout words in the text had been scissored from one or more glossy-style publications. The glue used was an ordinary mucilage paste. Mrs. French opened the envelope with a letter opener, so we were able to test the envelope flap as well as the stamp for saliva. No saliva on the flap, so whoever sent the letter didn’t lick it. The stamp was the self-stick kind, so no saliva there either. The lab did a transillumination analysis to check for a possible print on the back of the stamp, without removing the stamp from the envelope. No luck there, either. They did see what looked like a smeared partial print, which may mean that the sender touched the sticky side. If so, we might be able to get a Touch DNA analysis,” he added hopefully, referring to a DNA testing method that required only the presence of a few cells to complete.

  “Is the DNA testing being done?” asked Kane.

  “Not yet. At the time we thought it would be better to wait until—”

  “Maybe we should get that going,” Kane interrupted, addressing Long. “If we do come up with a suspect, it would be helpful to have testing done, or at least underway.”

  “Agreed,” said Long. “You have anything else, Carl?”

  “That’s about it,” Peyron answered regretfully.

  Long thought a moment, then shifted his gaze to Kane. “So how do you want to proceed?”

  Kane unconsciously began cracking his knuckles. “As I said, we need to recanvass the reservoir neighborhood. We should take another run at the dump site, too—extend the ground search to see whether we can locate where the guy got in. And have divers continue hunting for whatever was used to weigh down the body. I also want another shot at the Frenches’ house. This time we should go in behind a warrant.”

  “I’m sure the parents wouldn’t object to another search,” noted Peyron. “They’ve been cooperative. Why a warrant?”

  “Because if we find anything implicating them, I don’t want it kicked out of court on a technicality,” answered Kane, punctuating his reply with a crack of cartilage. “Furthermore, I’d like to put a surveillance team on the Frenches’ residence. If it was a nutcase who snatched the ki
d, sometimes those psychos like to come back and gloat. Besides, I want to keep an eye on the Frenches.”

  “I’ll set it up with Metro,” said Long. “They’ll take the PM and morning watch; we’ll need somebody from our unit out there during the day. Anything else?”

  Kane rubbed his chin. “It’s a long shot, but we could check for strangers showing up at the funeral. Jordan’s being a TV star complicates things, but you never know. We might ask the Frenches to leave a personal item of Jordan’s at the grave, too. A stuffed doll, something like that. Maybe the guy will try for a souvenir.”

  “So we’ll need surveillance on the grave.”

  “I know it’s a lot. Give it a week and see what turns up.”

  “I’ll see whether I can get it approved,” said Long doubtfully. “Anything else?”

  Kane thought a moment, then shrugged. “That about covers it.”

  “How about you, Carl?” asked Long. “Anything to add?”

  Peyron shook his head. “Nope.”

  Placing his fingertips together, Long sat back and sighed. “Fine. In that case, why are you two still here?”

  “Right, sir,” said Peyron. Rising from his seat, he glanced at Kane. “Like I told you yesterday, Dan, I’ll be glad to help any way I can. Just lemme know.”

  “I will,” said Kane as he rose and started with Peyron toward the door.

  “Hold on a sec, Kane,” said Long. “I want a word with you before you leave.”

  Puzzled, Kane turned back.

  After Peyron had left, Long closed the three-ringed binder he had been studying earlier. “The media is going to be all over this,” he said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know that.”

  “The thought had occurred to me, Lieutenant,” said Kane. “Don’t worry, I can handle the press.”

  “It may get worse than you expect,” Long noted somberly. “There was talk over at headquarters of having senior detectives from Robbery-Homicide assume the case. The brass eventually decided to let you run with it. Believe me, they weren’t doing you any favors.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t come as a surprise,” said Kane, recalling a high-profile murder investigation that Robbery-Homicide had taken over from the West L.A. Division years back. Over the course of a nationally publicized trial, the case had blown up in their faces. Kane also knew that despite closing an unprecedented number of homicide investigations during his career, his unconventional methods and abrasive manner had garnered him more than a few enemies at headquarters.

  “Watch your back on this one, Dan,” Long warned. “I don’t need to tell you that this is the kind of case that ends careers. And usually not well.”

  7

  My first days at the news station passed quickly, during which I saw little of Lauren, which was just fine with me. I spent my initial hours on Tuesday filling out employment forms, receiving a parking pass and an ID badge, and getting a more comprehensive tour of the newsroom from a friendly producer named Wendy. When I first visited on Monday, I had received only a cursory glimpse of the frenetic newsroom beyond Lauren’s office. Later, as I examined the windowless, forty-by-fifty-foot space crammed with desks, filing cabinets, and computer monitors, I realized that Brent had been right. It wasn’t what I’d expected.

  Four staff-reporter cubicles flanked a hallway leading into the newsroom—one of which was Brent’s. Another passage at the other end of the room led past a string of electronics-filled editing bays, a tiny dubbing booth, and a tape-archive storage vault—finally accessing the camera-crews’ area and a metal door that exited into an alley behind the building. Circling two sides of the newsroom, several private offices including Lauren’s looked out through open venetian blinds. On a wall beside Lauren’s office, an illuminated CBS eyeball stood out in bold relief; above it, a second sign that could be lit from within read CBS NEWS LOS ANGELES. With the exception of the signs, the hectic chamber reminded me more of a video arcade than what I had pictured a newsroom to be. On occasion I had visited my father’s squad room, and even that had seemed cheerier.

  After introducing me to several other producers and staff members, Wendy had escorted me to my new workspace, a small desk in a corner surrounded by a low bookcase and two copy machines. A telephone, keyboard, and a computer monitor occupied most of the desktop; a cork bulletin board hung on a nearby wall. Behind the desk was an eight-foot-high metal rack jammed with dusty, three-quarter-inch videotapes of ancient Twilight Zone episodes. Noticing my glance at the titles, Wendy shrugged and explained, “They were there when I got here six years ago. They’ll probably be there when I’m gone.”

  As forewarned, I soon learned that my responsibilities mostly consisted of gofer chores—everything from running errands and making coffee to taking messages and answering phones. A quick learner and a habitual self-starter, I rapidly picked up the rhythms of the newsroom, keeping busy by seeking out supplementary tasks when not otherwise occupied. Later in the week I typed several pages of news copy for Liz Waterson, my editing suggestions impressing even the coldly distant newswoman. I also conducted a phone survey for one of the field producers and performed some computer research for another, generally satisfying everyone with my thoroughness and accuracy.

  Although I had honed my telephone interviewing skills by observing my father, my computer proficiency was an expertise I had developed on my own. In addition to the internet facilities I had used at home and at school for years, the online hookup at CBS offered a further arsenal of powerful data-retrieval services including Reuters, Dow Jones, and Lexis-Nexis. At a keystroke, these and other worldwide databanks now at my disposal could provide quick, categorized access to a staggering archive of publications, news wires, and major metropolitan newspapers. Like a kid with a new toy, I spent as much time as possible during my early days at the station exploring my expanded resources.

  On Friday evening, more excited than ever about my new job, I returned to the beach house to pack for my trip to D.C. with my mother. I still hadn’t told Mom that I had dropped my lit class and accepted an internship at CBS, but I assured myself that the opportunity would present itself on our trip and everything would be fine. The next morning, however, as I sat beside my mother on the giant Lockheed jetliner that would fly us to Washington, I began to have my doubts. Getting her to see my side of things was going to be hard enough, but having dropped my summer course without consulting anyone was probably going to make things impossible.

  “Listen up, Mom. We’re about to receive our preflight admonitions,” I said as the mammoth engines began spooling up for takeoff, increasingly nervous about how she would react.

  Getting no response, I nudged my mother. She looked tired, but we had been up late the previous night packing and getting ready for the trip. “These instructions could be important, like making sure our seats are in their upright and most uncomfortable position for blastoff,” I continued. “And not disabling the smoke detector in the lavatory. Did you know that’s a federal offense? If you’re caught, you’re invited out on the wing to view the in-flight movie, Gone With the Wind.”

  Mom glanced up briefly from the novel she was reading. Then, without replying, she again concentrated on her book as our plane taxied onto the tarmac.

  “Really, Mom,” I insisted as an instruction video began playing on a screen partway up the aisle. “The seat belt demonstration is coming up. It might be a lifesaver, especially for anyone who hasn’t ridden in a car for the past thirty years.”

  “Ali, I’m trying to read.”

  “But what if we have to make a water landing? Or worse, there’s an in-flight pool party? You won’t know how to use your seat cushion as a flotation device.”

  “I don’t think we cross any appreciable bodies of water on the way to Washington, honey.”

  “Good point. Oh, look. They’re showing how to use the oxygen masks if they drop from the ceiling. You place one firmly over your nose and mouth and breathe normally. Yeah, right. Af
ter you stop screaming.”

  Mom sighed. “Let me know when they get to the part about those traveling with young children, or someone acting like one. I swear, Ali. This isn’t like you. Why are you so uneasy about this trip?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what is it? You didn’t say a word to me on the drive to the airport, and now that we’re on the plane you’re chattering like a nervous hen. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  Closing her book, my mother gave up and stared out the window. Moments later the rumble of the airliner’s engines rose to an earsplitting whine. With a lurch, the gigantic aircraft lumbered down the runway, its mounting acceleration pushing us back into our seats like an invisible hand. Outside, shadows flitted past as the plane rotated, its nose lifting skyward. Following LAX predawn noise-abatement procedures, the half-empty jetliner climbed swiftly, throttled back, and continued west over the Pacific to gain altitude.

  When the aircraft finally banked and began circling back toward the coastline, my mother turned again to look at me. “Allison, with work and all, I know I haven’t been myself these past weeks. I’m sorry if I’ve been, I don’t know … what’s the word I want?”

  “Critical? Domineering? Tyrannical?”

  “Impatient,” she said with a tired smile. “I’ve been so exhausted when I get home, I haven’t had much patience with anyone.”

  “Especially with your favorite daughter.”

  “I admit it, Ali. But there’s a reason. In many ways you’re the most gifted of my children, so I expect—”

  “Me, gifted? Yeah, sure. Trav’s the one who got the nod in the genius department.”

  Mom frowned at my tone. “You have no cause to be jealous of your brother. You should be proud of him.”

  “Is that right? What did he do, volunteer for a frontal lobotomy?”

  “That’s not funny, Ali.”