Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “Anytime.”

  Kane intercepted Terry as the young waiter was making his way back to the bar. Though initially as flustered as the hostess had been, the young waiter quickly proved cooperative. It turned out that he had indeed been the Frenches’ server, and he recalled that Jordan had been celebrating her birthday. When asked about unusual occurrences, he shrugged. “Anything unusual? Not really. Except …”

  “Except what?” Kane pressed.

  “Well, it may not be for me to say, but Mr. French was hitting the wine pretty hard that night. He was slurring his words toward the end.”

  “How about Mrs. French?”

  “She was fine.”

  “And Jordan? How was she?”

  “I don’t know,” Terry answered. “I’ve served her a number of times over the years, and she was usually fairly friendly and outgoing. That night she seemed … quiet. Like she had something on her mind.”

  “Remember what she had for dinner?” Although Kane asked casually, his eyes never left the waiter’s face.

  Terry smiled. “Same thing she always has. Seafood capellini.”

  Kane felt his pulse quicken, recalling the gastric contents discovered at Jordan’s autopsy. According to the coroner, Jordan’s last meal, a pasta with red seafood sauce, had undergone a period of digestion of three to four hours before she’d died. But how could that be, unless …

  “Seafood capellini. I noticed that on the lunch menu,” said Kane, his mind still picking at the ramifications. “You serve it for dinner, too?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s a house special,” said Terry, his voice dropping into a waiter’s practiced cadence. “Clams, shrimp, scallops, and mussels simmered in white wine, garlic, tomato sauce, and a touch of cream—served over fresh angel hair pasta with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.”

  “And Mr. and Mrs. French?”

  “I think Mr. French had a steak, but I’m not sure. I don’t remember what Mrs. French ordered.”

  Unconsciously, Kane began cracking his knuckles. “One last thing, Terry. Did the Frenches take home leftovers?”

  “I didn’t box anything for them, but one of the busboys may have,” answered Terry. “That’s their job, along with clearing tables. Do you want me to find out who was working that night and ask?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “No sweat.” Terry scribbled a telephone number on the back of a napkin and handed it to Kane. “This is my home phone. If I’m not here at work, try me there.

  Kane shoved the napkin into his pocket. “I’ll check with you later. And thanks.”

  “Glad to help. I liked Jordan. She was a good kid.”

  Returning to his car, Kane puzzled over the discrepancy between the estimated time of Jordan’s abduction and the conflicting evidence given by her partially digested final meal—a meal that according to Terry she had eaten two nights before being abducted from her house. Of course, as with much of the other evidence that had been piling up, there could be another explanation. Jordan could have taken home leftovers from The Ivy and eaten seafood pasta as a snack the following evening.

  Kane suspected it was doubtful that anyone at the restaurant would be able to say with certainty that the family hadn’t taken home part of their meal—making the gastric contents questionable as a means of establishing Jordan’s time of death. But despite the uncertainties involved, it was one more thing that wasn’t adding up. More and more, Kane was beginning to examine a possibility that he had originally considered only out of necessity. Unthinkable as it was, either one or both of Jordan’s parents might have been responsible for her death. It wouldn’t be the first time a parent killed a child, nor would it be the last. Still, nothing definite existed, and the case could still take off in another direction.

  Nevertheless, in the words of Lt. Long, Kane didn’t like the way things were shaping up.

  15

  Later that week I returned to my dorm room, exhausted from the day. Lately it seemed as if work, visiting Mom, and sleep were becoming my daily routine, with no time to see friends—even McKenzie. McKenzie and I did manage to keep in touch, however, by texting and an occasional phone call, like the one that had just come in from her. Having stepped from a hurried shower, I stood dripping in my dorm bathroom, towel around my waist, cell phone in hand.

  “Hi, Ali. I’m glad I caught you,” McKenzie’s voice came over the line. “Seems like I haven’t talked with you in ages. How’s your mom doing?”

  “She’s doing all right, considering,” I replied, experiencing a sinking feeling at the mention of my mother. I had spent time with her at the hospital after leaving work that evening, and although Mom’s spirits had been good, I’d been shocked to see the decline in her appearance. “The chemo’s really knocking her for a loop, but she’ll be fine,” I added, not allowing myself to consider any other possibility.

  “Of course she will. How’s your family holding up?”

  “Nate’s taking things hard, but Grandma Dorothy is staying at the house now,” I replied. “She’s been spending a lot of time with him—driving him to baseball practice, reading with him, that kind of thing. As for Trav, he acts like he’s in a fog, practicing all the time. I think he’s throwing himself into his music and preparing for his next recitals to forget what’s happening to Mom.”

  “Trav’s leaving again?”

  “Uh-huh. He wanted to cancel the last of his Van Cliburn summer performances, but Mom wouldn’t let him.”

  “And your father?”

  I recalled the strain I had seen growing in Dad’s face over the past days. “They set up a cot for him in Mom’s room. He’s been sleeping at the hospital,” I answered. “He’s also been making friends with all the nurses and hospital staff, doing his best to ensure that Mom gets the best possible care. He’s even been bringing in extra food that friends and neighbors have been dropping by our house. Everyone at St. John’s loves him.”

  “Sounds like your dad. So how’s your job going?” McKenzie asked, steering the conversation in another direction. “Seen any more of that cute cameraman?”

  All at once I remembered my date with Mike. “Shoot, look at the time,” I groaned, glancing at the clock on my desk. “I have to get ready to go out, Mac. How about if we meet for lunch later this week and catch up? Maybe tomorrow or Friday?”

  “Sounds great. Where are you off to tonight?”

  “I have a date.”

  “A date? With who? Sorry. With whom?”

  “Mike Cortese.”

  “You’re going out with Mike again?” squealed McKenzie. “That’s great! I want all the details.”

  “Mac …”

  “No excuses. And call me for lunch.”

  After hanging up, I hurried to get ready, oddly apprehensive about going out with Mike. Why hadn’t I just said no? I wondered for the hundredth time since accepting.

  Because you want to see him, a defiantly honest part of my mind replied.

  Frowning, I decided that whatever my feelings, I had agreed to the date, so I was going out with Mike and that’s all there was to it. Once I had finished drying my hair, I walked to the closet and selected a short, summery dress and a pair of low-heeled sandals that showed off my legs. After slipping into my clothes, I applied a touch of mascara to my eyes, a hint of gloss to my lips. Hair up or down? I wondered.

  Down.

  Using an antique silver clasp Mom had given me on my eighteenth birthday, I fastened my hair loosely in the back and inspected my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not bad, I thought, resolving that if this were the last time I went out with Mike, it would be my decision, not his.

  “Ali! Someone’s here for you,” Mrs. Random called up the stairs.

  “Be right down.” Grabbing my purse, I took one last look at myself in the mirror and headed for the door. As I made my way downstairs, I saw Mike waiting at the bottom of the staircase, talking with Mrs. Random. The housemother, normally a sobering influence on any male visitor entering the
dorm, was smiling at something Mike was saying. They both glanced up as I reached the lower landing.

  “Hi, Ali,” said Mike. “You look fabulous.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taken aback by Mike’s appearance. He had been casually dressed the night I’d accompanied him to Westwood—his thick black hair tousled, the shadow of a beard darkening his face. Tonight he was cleanly shaved, his hair neatly brushed, and he had on a stylish pair of slacks and a tan sport coat that despite his rough features gave him an air of polish and poise. “You clean up amazingly well yourself,” I added.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” laughed Mike, putting an arm around me. “C’mon, I’m parked outside in the red. Good night, Mrs. Random,” he added to the housemother. “Nice meeting you.”

  “You too, Mike. I hope to see you again.”

  “You certainly charmed her,” I noted as we made our way to the street. “It took me months to get in her semigood graces, and even that status is still shaky. What’s your secret?”

  Mike opened the passenger door of his pickup for me. “Turns out she and my mother went to Santa Monica College together,” he answered. “They haven’t seen each other since, but she recognized my name.”

  I slid in, watching as Mike circled the front of the Toyota, noting the way he moved with the unmistakable grace of an athlete. “Small world,” I said as he climbed in behind the wheel. “Your mom will be surprised.”

  Mike started the pickup and pulled away from the curb. “My mother died a few years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Is your father … ?”

  “He’s been gone a long time now.” Mike fell silent. Then, turning east on Sunset Boulevard toward Hollywood, he asked, “How are things at the network? Gone a few rounds with Liz yet?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. “I’m keeping in shape for the match, though.”

  Mike smiled. “Yeah, you seem fit. What do you do for exercise besides rescuing people from heavy surf?”

  “I jog almost every morning before work, play a little volleyball, and hit the UCLA gym once in a while. How about you?”

  “I mountain bike whenever I can. Been riding with the same guys since high school.”

  “You mentioned mountain biking when I saw you at the Frenches’ estate. By any chance are you familiar with the area Mr. French was riding that morning?”

  Mike thought a moment. “Probably. Topanga State Park is close to his house, and I’ve ridden most of the trails and fire roads there. Why?”

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  On the drive to Hollywood Mike and I talked comfortably, our topics ranging from Mike’s job at KCBS to my recent trip to Washington, D.C. By the time we reached our destination, the Directors Guild of America building, I found to my surprise that I was actually enjoying myself, my earlier apprehension about my date with Mike forgotten. “I’ve never been here before,” I said, admiring the DGA building’s sweeping curves and towering angles. “It’s an interesting-looking structure.”

  “You’ll like the theater inside, too,” said Mike, glancing at his watch. “Plush seats, giant screen, Dolby sound. But we’ll have to hurry. This thing’s due to start in a few minutes.”

  Leaving his pickup in an underground lot, Mike and I took an elevator up to a ground-level lobby thronged with people, many in suits and formal evening wear. By then most of those present were drifting toward a pair of double doors accessing a theater at the far end of the room. I gazed around, recognizing a number of television and motion-picture personalities. “When you said this was a private screening, you didn’t mention that it was going to be a major studio event,” I noted.

  “I didn’t know it would be this big myself,” Mike confessed.

  “Cortese!” someone yelled from across the crowd.

  I turned, spotting a handsome man in his mid-thirties waving to us from the theater entrance. Mike waved back, then took my arm and began guiding me through the crush of people. Upon arriving at the theater doors, Mike introduced me to his friend, Don Sturgess, who had been the director of photography on the film we were about to see.

  “Pleased to meet you, Allison,” said Don, shaking my hand. “Are you an actress? Seems like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “She was the star of that surf piece I shot at the Wedge several weeks ago,” prompted Mike.

  Don snapped his fingers. “You’re the girl who rescued that kid and then wouldn’t give your name, though you did give Cortese here a little grief regarding his deplorable chauvinistic tendencies, as I remember.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I laughed, wondering whether there was anyone in town who hadn’t seen that news clip.

  “Where’s the better half, Don?” asked Mike. “Bonnie couldn’t make it tonight?”

  “Our babysitter canceled at the last minute, so she’s home with the kids. She said to say hi, and asked when you’re coming for dinner.”

  “Say hi back, and tell her I’ll call.”

  “I will. Hey, congratulations on your documentary being accepted at Telluride. I’m proud of you, pal.”

  “Thanks,” said Mike. “I’m still working on final edits and laying down the last of the music, but it’ll be ready by Labor Day weekend. I hope.”

  “It’ll be ready and it’s going to be great,” said Don. Then, turning to me, “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Mike is one hell of a cameraman. Have you seen any of his work?”

  “Just a shot of me covered with goose bumps on a dock in Newport Beach,” I replied.

  “And a fetching shot it was,” laughed Don. “Seriously, Mike’s got photos in galleries all over town, and in my opinion his film work is even better.” He turned to Mike. “I swear, you’re wasting your time shooting TV news clips. I have another feature coming up. Why don’t I see if I can get you on?”

  “Let’s see how the festival goes first.”

  “I know it’s a big step and you don’t want to leave that comfortable little nest you’ve feathered for yourself over at Channel 2, but with your talent—”

  Mike cut him off. “Thanks, Don. Let’s talk after the festival.”

  “You can be one obstinate sonofabitch,” Don sighed.

  Mike smiled self-consciously. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well, I liked it,” I said, continuing an exchange Mike and I had begun following the movie—a high-budget science-fiction thriller about Earth’s first contact with an alien race—and continued nonstop throughout the drive to a small Mexican restaurant near Santa Monica.

  “I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” Mike countered, sliding a menu across the table. “The cinematography and special effects were excellent, the acting was first rate, and the twist at the end capped off things nicely. I’m simply saying that I didn’t believe the two of them together,” he added, referring to movie’s star-crossed lovers. “There was no chemistry, no passion. They could have written him out and not lost a thing.”

  “I won’t contest that,” I conceded. “But every film doesn’t need a love story.”

  “No, but it helps.”

  “I disagree. Personally, I think romance is highly overrated.”

  Mike looked at me closely. “You do, huh? Are we still talking about the movie?”

  “That was the topic of discussion,” I shot back. Irked at myself for my revealing slip, I glanced around the interior of the room, noting that nearly everyone there appeared to be Hispanic—a good sign in a Mexican restaurant. At the far end of the room, a decorative terra-cotta tiled roof set off the kitchen, beside which sat a small grocery-and-takeout stand. Strolling among the tables, an accomplished guitarist was strumming a rendition of a vaguely familiar Mexican song. Deciding to change the subject, I picked up the menu. “Guelaguetza,” I said, reading the name at the top. “Come here much?”

  “Fairly often,” said Mike. “I enjoy finding little hole-in-the-wall places. Guelaguetza may not look like much,
but the food here is fabulous and the prices are reasonable.”

  I frowned. “I love Mexican food, but I don’t recognize one single thing on this menu.”

  “That’s because this is Oaxacan cuisine—auténtica comida Oaxaqueña—not the typical guacamole, sour cream, and melted-cheese dishes you mostly find around L.A.”

  “That’s for sure. What’s cecina?”

  “Leg of pork marinated in chili paste, then thinly sliced and fried.”

  “Clayuda?”

  “A handmade corn tortilla.”

  “Tasajo?”

  “Grilled rounds of beef. Absolutely delicious.”

  “Ah, here’s something I recognize. Mole is a sauce, right?”

  “Right,” said Mike. “There are different kinds and colors: red, green, yellow, black. Most are made from chili, nuts, seeds, and Oaxacan chocolate. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I order for both of us? Is there anything you don’t particularly like?”

  I replied without hesitation. “Brussels sprouts.”

  “Not a problem,” laughed Mike, signaling the waitress.

  Without referring to the menu, Mike ordered a variety of exotic-sounding dishes along with horchatas—sweet rice beverages garnished with chopped melon and purplish cactus-fruit purée.

  When the food arrived, I found it as tantalizingly delicious as it had sounded. “Mmmm, you were right about this place,” I murmured between bites, captivated by the layering of flavors in each piquant sauce, especially the tar-black mole negro with its lingering hint of bitter chocolate. “My taste buds think they’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Our conversation continued unabated during the meal, Mike and I talking easily of our lives as we shared the wonderfully unusual fare spread before us. I learned that Mike had graduated from Lincoln High School in Santa Monica, then spent four semesters at Santa Monica College before transferring to UCLA for his last two years, graduating cum laude. Surprisingly, his undergraduate major had been mathematics, a course of study he admitted having followed simply because he was good at it. Instead of continuing the postgraduate highway to a career in academia, however, he had taken a left turn and applied to film school, deciding to pursue a lifelong love of movies. Accepted at both USC and UCLA, he had chosen UCLA, supporting himself by working as a part-time photographer at KCBS. After he graduated from film school, Mike’s temporary job at the news station had turned permanent. It was something he seemed reluctant to discuss, although he spoke openly about everything else.