by Steve Gannon
Brent picked at his salad. “She mentioned that. She says you have a knack for writing. You may win her over yet.”
“Doubtful. But somehow I have a hunch that won’t keep her from dumping all her typing on me.”
“Probably not,” Brent agreed. “She’s a tough nut. If I were you, I’d tread lightly around her.”
“Don’t worry. I think Liz and I have an understanding. Any other advice?”
Brent smiled. “You mean besides not fighting with management?”
“Besides that,” I said, recalling our conversation in Westwood. “And not just how to fit in around the newsroom, either. I want to know how to get ahead.”
“Do I detect a touch of ambition?”
“More like a whole truckload.”
“In that case, you had better accept one thing right now,” Brent advised. “There aren’t any shortcuts in the news game. You have to pay your dues.”
“I plan to,” I said. “I also know that there are undoubtedly a number of ways for me to get what I want, some quicker than others.”
“And what is it you want?”
“For starters, your job would be nice.” After saying that I laughed, afraid I might have gone too far. “Seriously, Brent. You’re on the fast track at CBS,” I added quickly. “What’s your secret?”
Brent shrugged. “No secret. I’m on my way up because I want it more than anyone else, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.”
“Such as?”
“Such as hard work and clean living.”
“C’mon, there must be something useful you can tell me.”
“All right,” Brent said reluctantly. “Don’t repeat this, but as far as I’m concerned, the so-called ‘news team’ approach is a crock. There’s no team approach to being a reporter. If you want to get ahead, you look out for number one. Period. You make your own contacts and protect your own sources. You develop, pitch, and fight for your own stories—digging out the facts and verifying them yourself. Last, you follow up leads, ask the right questions, and put yourself right in the middle of anything you’re covering.”
“With that attitude, I don’t imagine you’ve garnered many selfless-reporter-of-the-year awards,” I observed.
“Guys who win that prize usually aren’t around long enough to collect it.”
“Note taken. Anything else?”
Brent nodded. “One other thing, and it’s probably the most important: Never forget that journalism is a business, pure and simple.”
“So we’re selling the news?”
“Absolutely.”
“And in business, you give customers what they want,” I mused, recalling Brent’s disagreement with Mike on the subject. “So if it’s entertainment they want, entertainment they get?”
“What if it is?” Brent replied defensively. “Journalists are supposed to inform the public, but that doesn’t mean we always have to be ramming facts and figures down people’s throats. The trick is to understand what captures viewers’ imaginations and then deliver it. Believe me, ratings are all that the bastards in New York care about.”
“Bastards? You mean management?”
Brent nodded. “None other. When our timeshare numbers are up, the suits are happy. When the numbers are down, you can start looking for another job. I didn’t make the rules; I just play by them. And if you want to succeed, you’ll do the same.”
Though part of me was reluctant to accept Brent’s cynical opinion of the news, another part suspected that his words held at least a kernel of truth. Realizing I had a lot to learn, I resolved to reserve judgment until later. “So that’s what it takes to be a good reporter?” I asked, tossing a few fries to a particularly bold sparrow who had been pecking the ground nearby for scraps. “Investigating interesting stories and keeping an eye on the ratings?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Brent said patiently. “Interviewing technique is crucial—asking the right questions and knowing how to get a subject to open up, for instance. Clear, succinct writing and being able to ad-lib on camera are also essential. Plus you have to be able to work against a deadline. Some of that you can learn; some you either have or you don’t. There are other things too, but a bit of advice a senior correspondent once gave me pretty much sums everything up in what he called the three basic rules of journalism.”
“Three? I thought there were five: who, what, where, when, and why.”
“Nope, only three. Get the story, get the story, and get the story.”
I fell silent. “I have a tip for you,” I said after a moment’s thought, deciding to take a chance. “A good one. But along the lines of looking out for number one, I want something in return.”
“You are a fast learner, aren’t you? Okay, what do you want?”
“If what I have to say pans out, I want to go with you on location.”
“And where would that be?”
“Do we have a deal?”
After a slight pause, Brent nodded. “If your information is good, I’ll clear it with Lauren. Where are we going?”
I hesitated, realizing what I was about to say would increase the chances that my father would discover I was the source of the ransom-note leak. But with any luck he wouldn’t, and the reward seemed worth the risk. Finally I spoke. “We’re going to Jordan French’s house.”
Brent leaned forward. His eyes hardened, locking on me like a hunter studying a game trail. “Why?”
I smiled, enjoying Brent’s reaction. By then my plate was empty. “Are you going to eat that?” I asked, eyeing his nearly untouched fruit salad.
Impatiently, Brent pushed his lunch across the table. “Damn it, Allison. What do you know about Jordan French?”
Using my fingers, I selected a plump strawberry from Brent’s salad. “I phoned my father at work earlier today,” I answered. “My dad wasn’t there. The detective I spoke with said my father was driving to Pacific Palisades this afternoon and probably wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.”
“So?”
“So when I called, my dad was at the courthouse. Picking up a search warrant.”
“I still don’t …” Brent stopped midsentence, abruptly following my line of reasoning. “What time did you call?”
“Just before we came here. If we get moving, we can probably be at the Frenches’ house when the police show up.”
9
Catheryn shifted impatiently in her chair. She had spent most of the past two hours with Dr. Porter and various assistants updating her medical history, giving blood and urine samples, and being thoroughly tapped, poked, and prodded. Begrudgingly, she admitted that an annual physical was a necessity. Nevertheless, it took time from her busy schedule, time she couldn’t afford. Fall rehearsals were beginning on Thursday, and she hadn’t even finished unpacking from her trip. Instead, here she was cooling her heels in a Santa Monica medical building.
Across his desk, Dr. Porter paged through the results of several in-house lab tests he had ordered. Then, closing Catheryn’s medical file, he cleared his throat.
“Well? How long do I have?” joked Catheryn. “Give it to me straight.”
Dr. Porter smiled. “Actually, nothing too much turned up. Your lab numbers are all in the normal range, with one exception. Your blood work shows a decreased hemoglobin and platelet count.”
“So I need to start taking iron?”
“No. I don’t think that’s it.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not sure,” said Dr. Porter. “Your peripheral white-blood-cell count is within normal limits, but I’m concerned about your nosebleeds and the blood you mentioned seeing on your toothbrush. I’m also concerned about the bruises on your arms and thighs. You don’t know how you got them?”
Catheryn shrugged. “Probably banged myself doing yard work.”
“And your lack of energy?”
“I’ve been busy. I need to get more sleep.”
“Possibly.” Dr. Porter wrote a name
and telephone number on a slip of paper. “I want you to see Dr. Kratovil for further tests. She’s a hematologist here in the building. With any luck, she may be able to work you in this afternoon.”
“More tests? But—”
“I don’t want to alarm you,” said Dr. Porter, cutting her off. “Your platelet and hemoglobin anomaly could well mean nothing, but coupled with your other symptoms, your test results might indicate a more serious problem.”
“I … I suppose I could find time to come back next week.”
“Not next week, Catheryn. If not today, tomorrow. No later.”
10
On the drive to the Frenches’ estate, Kane repeatedly checked his rearview mirror, making sure the Special Investigative Division van was still following. Shortly after leaving Sunset Boulevard, satisfied that the SID unit was keeping him in sight, Kane cut the wheel and headed up a steep, narrow road that branched off Mandeville Canyon to the right. Sitting beside him in the front seat, Detective Paul Deluca checked a map that lay open in his lap, then resumed telling a joke he had started minutes earlier, swearing he’d heard it at church.
“‘Lemme get this straight,’ Adam says to God,” Deluca continued, picking up the thread of his joke—as usual enjoying his own humor more than the material warranted. “‘You can create a companion for me who will be loving and supportive, who’ll cook and clean and wash my clothes, and who will always do whatever I say—but it’ll cost me an arm?’” Deluca chortled, struggling to keep a straight face as he headed into the punch line. “So Adam thinks for a moment, scratches his head, and says, ‘What can I get for a rib?’”
“Not bad,” Kane chuckled. “Undoubtedly one of your wife’s favorites.”
“Uh … actually, no.”
Kane smiled. “Imagine that.”
Ahead, as they proceeded up a ridge guarding Sepulveda Pass, the travertine walls of the J. Paul Getty Museum came slowly into view. In the distance, framing the museum, the high-rises of downtown Los Angeles squatted like building blocks on the horizon. Bordering one side of the road as it ascended the western ridge of the valley, live oak, sycamore, and jacaranda overhung the pavement. On the other side, visible through occasional breaks in thick hedges guarding palatial estates, the hillside fell away to reveal smoggy vistas of Westwood and Century City.
“That should be it up ahead,” said Deluca, referring again to his map. “The one with the fancy gate.”
“I see it.” Kane slowed, wheeling into a driveway fronting an opulently landscaped mansion. Through a ten-foot-high metal gate he could make out portions of the stately, slate-roofed structure. Stands of eucalyptus, strips of bark peeling like old wallpaper from their trunks, obscured the rest of the two-story, colonial-style building. Past the wrought-iron barrier and twin tennis courts adjoining the house, an ivy-covered fence and hedges of boxwood and oleander ran the perimeter of the grounds.
After waiting for the SID van to pull up behind, Kane lowered his window and punched a button on a gate intercom mounted beside a numerical keypad. Seconds later a woman’s voice answered. “Yes?”
Kane flashed his badge at a TV camera positioned above the gate speaker. “Detective Kane, LAPD. I called earlier.”
“Yes, Detective Kane. Come in.”
After a slight pause, the gate swung inward. Kane drove down a long, cobbled driveway, parking in front of the house’s six-car garage. Through an open garage door he noted several vehicles parked inside: a bright-red sports car, a silver Lexus, and a dark-blue Land Rover. As the SID van pulled to a stop behind him, Kane glanced up a flight of flagstone steps leading to the house. A heavily built man in his mid-forties and a pretty, slightly younger woman with jet-black hair stood waiting on a landing by the front door.
“How do you want to play this?” asked Deluca.
“I’ll take the parents,” said Kane, stepping from the car. “You run the SID team. And don’t forget the house plans.”
“Got ’em right here.” Reaching into the backseat, Deluca retrieved a set of floor plans he had procured from the building department earlier that morning. Deluca also grabbed a copy of Peyron’s crime report describing the abduction scene. Plans and report in hand, he hurried after Kane, who had already started toward the house.
“Detective Kane?” said the man on the landing, thrusting a hand toward Kane as he reached the top step. “I’m Crawford French. This is my wife, Beth.”
Kane shook Mr. French’s hand, noting that his grip seemed overly firm, even for a man of his size. With receding brown hair showing tasteful touches of gray, razor-thin lips over a cleft chin, and a dark, challenging gaze, Jordan’s stepfather struck Kane as a typical type-A personality: intense, impatient, and controlling.
“What’s being done to find the man who murdered our daughter?” Mr. French asked curtly, his voice tinged with a slight Texas drawl.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. French,” said Kane, ignoring the question. “Yours, too, Mrs. French,” he added, turning to the tanned woman standing nearby. In addition to a heavy application of lip gloss and eye shadow, Jordan’s mother had on a thin silk blouse and a pair of tight-fitting designer jeans. A head shorter than her husband, Elizabeth French appeared even younger than Kane had initially guessed, probably being no more than thirty-five. She was also far more attractive than he had first thought, too—although something about her wide-set eyes and full, high breasts looked just a little too perfect.
“Thank you, Detective,” Mrs. French replied, nervously raising a hand to her throat, a large diamond on her fourth finger sparkling in the sunlight.
Kane nodded toward Deluca as he joined them on the landing. “This is Detective Deluca. While he’s examining Jordan’s room, there are a few things about Jordan’s abduction that I want to go over with you.”
Mr. French gazed briefly at Deluca, then returned his attention to Kane. “We’ll do anything that might help find whoever took our daughter, but I don’t understand the need for another search. The first officer who was here, Detective, uh—”
“Peyron.”
“Right. Detective Peyron already went through everything. Where is he, by the way?”
“He’s still involved with the case, but now that it’s become a homicide investigation, I’ve taken over,” Kane replied, reaching into his coat and withdrawing a thick, folded document. “This is an authorization for us to remove various articles from your house, mostly from Jordan’s room,” he added, handing the sheaf of papers to Mr. French.
“A search warrant?”
“Just a formality,” Kane explained, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “We’ll be taking things with us when we leave. Your daughter’s sheets and mattress, for instance. We need to list them on a warrant so they can be returned.” Not the true motivation for the warrant, but plausible.
“Her mattress?” asked Mrs. French.
“Whoever killed Jordan might have done it in her room,” said Kane. “If it happened in her bed, he might have left evidence. Fibers, fluids, those kinds of things.”
Mr. French stiffened, his eyes turning as flat as porcelain. “You think she may have been raped?”
“It’s possible,” Kane replied. “We’ll know more when the lab tests come back.” Not exactly true either, but close enough. Though the initial results of Jordan’s autopsy had been inconclusive regarding sexual assault, Kane wanted to rule out the possibility of chronic sexual abuse by a family member. Testing Jordan’s sheets, bedding, and underwear for blood, semen, and seminal fluid could prove revealing, as could an examination of her diary, computer files, and other personal items. Kane had argued to have the search warrant authorize seizure of certain of the parents’ personal property as well: clothes, cars, items that could have served as a murder weapon, and evidence indicative of an interest in child pornography. Neither the district attorney nor the judge issuing the warrant had concurred, contending that no justification existed for extending the search to that extent.
B
y now several officers had piled out of the SID wagon and were making their way to the front door. “We’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible,” Kane continued sympathetically. “While these men are working on your daughter’s room, why don’t we go inside and talk? As I said, there are some aspects of Jordan’s abduction that I would like to go over with you.”
Clearly irritated, Mr. French shook his head impatiently. “We already told the other officers everything we know.”
“I realize that, but we need to go over it again,” insisted Kane. “I want to know every detail, no matter how insignificant. There may be some bit of background information or a fact you forgot that could help find the killer.”
“We’ll be glad to help,” said Mrs. French. “We can talk in the living room.” Then, turning to Deluca, “I’ll show you to Jordan’s room first.”
“No need, ma’am,” said Deluca, holding up the building plans. “Third room down the hallway past the kitchen, next to the den and game room.”
Mrs. French stared. “That’s correct, Detective. Well … I suppose we should go in.”
Leaving Deluca to confer with the SID team, Kane followed Mrs. French into the house. Mr. French trailed a few steps behind. After crossing a hardwood foyer with a broad staircase curving to the second floor, they entered a cavernous living room decorated with tapestries, crystal glassware, and expensive-looking paintings. Mr. and Mrs. French sat together on an overstuffed couch near a marble fireplace; Kane took a seat in a matching armchair nearby. Between them, a glass coffee table displayed an abstract metal sculpture and a fan of designer magazines including Elle Décor, Coastal Living, and Architectural Digest.
Mr. French leaned forward. “I still want to know what’s being done to find the man who killed our daughter. So far no one’s told us anything.”
