by Steve Gannon
“So you’re saying that the only reason she hired me is because of your connection to the Jordan French case?”
“It may not be the only reason, but it’s sure as hell part of the equation. The thought must have occurred to you.”
Again, despite my doubts, I pushed aside the possibility. “My working at CBS isn’t about you, Dad,” I replied stubbornly. “It’s about me.”
17
The next day Brent Preston appeared on the CBS Evening News, reporting that Mr. and Mrs. French were under police investigation for the murder of their daughter. He added that according to police sources, inconsistencies had turned up in the parents’ account of Jordan’s abduction, and that authorities had unsuccessfully attempted to procure a second and more comprehensive search warrant to reenter the Frenches’ estate.
Brent’s exclusive report, CBS’s lead story of the evening, ignited a media firestorm that quickly turned into an international news frenzy—with every network, newspaper, and magazine rushing to cover these new developments. And though I tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, I knew this latest break in the story was again because of me.
The following afternoon found McKenzie and me sitting in the CBS cafeteria having lunch. While I morosely toyed with a small green salad, McKenzie enthusiastically dug into an order of sushi, her eyes wide with excitement as she scanned the room for media personalities. Earlier that morning I had suggested meeting at Farmers Market for our luncheon date. McKenzie had insisted that we eat at CBS Television City instead.
“Jeez, Ali. Intern job or not, I can’t believe that you talked with Brent about the case after your dad ordered you not to,” said McKenzie, taking a bite of sushi. “Knowing your father, he has to be livid,” she added, her star-struck eyes darting like dragonflies about the cafeteria.
“Dad and I haven’t spoken since Brent’s newscast,” I said glumly. “And that wasn’t exactly how it happened.” In truth, I was embarrassed at the part I’d played in Brent’s latest exclusive, and regretful about how things had worked out. I couldn’t believe I had trusted Brent. It was a mistake I wouldn’t make again.
“So how did it happen?”
“Not to make excuses, but you had to be there.”
“So tell me.”
I sighed. “There’s not much to tell,” I said, pushing away my salad. “The morning after I talked with Dad at the hospital, Brent asked me point-blank whether I knew anything new about the case. I admitted that I did, but I said that what I had learned was off the record. Brent kept after me, saying we were professionals and promising that whatever I revealed to him would be off the record, too. I didn’t have anything definite, except I knew that detectives from my dad’s unit had been watching the Frenches’ house. I also knew they had followed Mr. French for some reason. Along with what I overheard at the hospital, it added up to Jordan’s parents being under suspicion. When I eventually shared my conclusions with Brent, he said he had been thinking the same thing, and that he was going to do some checking. Guess what? ‘Off the record’ means you can’t use something unless it’s confirmed by an independent source.”
“And Brent got confirmation?”
I nodded. “It took a while, but a contact of his in the DA’s office revealed that the LAPD had tried for a second search warrant to reenter the Frenches’ house. Brent also learned that my dad had asked for authorization to look for a murder weapon, nylon cord similar to that found on the body, blood and hairs in the Frenches’ cars, and material related to the ransom note. The rest is history.”
“I’ll say. It’s all I’ve seen on the news since.”
“Brent says it was bound to come out anyway. It was simply a matter of time, and at least this way CBS got to break the story.”
“Thanks to you,” McKenzie pointed out. “Not to sound crass, but Brent wound up looking really good on this. What did you get?”
“There wasn’t any quid pro quo.”
“Not directly, but you got something, didn’t you?”
“I am being treated differently around the newsroom,” I admitted. “No more running for coffee and typing other people’s stuff. Instead, Lauren has me doing background research on the French case. She’s given me added responsibility in other areas, too. She’s sending me out with Brent this afternoon, for instance.”
“Back to the Frenches’ house?”
I nodded. “Brent is doing another update.”
“With all that’s been going on, I’ll bet that place is a zoo.”
“It is. I’ve heard that the vacant lot across from their house looks like a swap meet. News vans everywhere.”
“Do you think they’re guilty?” McKenzie asked, lowering her voice.
“Mr. and Mrs. French?”
“No, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Come on, do you think they did it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But if they did, there’s a good chance some kind of sexual abuse was involved—at least according to the research Lauren’s had me doing. Most abused kids are mistreated by family members, neighbors, or persons they trust, and it’s more widespread than you’d think. Did you know that roughly a third of all American women admit to having experienced childhood sexual abuse at the hands of an adult male? For some reason, kids often keep it secret.”
“That has to be a hard thing for a youngster to carry around.”
“Really hard,” I agreed, remembering the humiliation of my own rape, a shame I had kept hidden from my parents for more than a year afterward. “I still have trouble believing someone could do that to his or her own child.”
“Jordan struck me as being a normal kid, at least from what I saw of her on TV,” noted McKenzie. “It wasn’t like she had any deep, dark secrets.”
“She was an actress. Maybe she was good at hiding them.”
“Maybe.”
“So,” said McKenzie, popping a final piece of sushi into her mouth. “Gimme the vitals on your date with Mike. That was the purpose of this little get-together, as I recall.”
“In your mind, maybe. Not mine.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Yes, if it’s any of your business,” I replied. “When he’s not irritating me, I like him a lot.”
McKenzie grinned. “Good. And of course it’s my business. I’m your best friend. Where did he take you?”
“We went to a screening at the Directors’ Guild, then to a Mexican restaurant.”
“For a writer, you’re sure stingy with details,” McKenzie complained. “C’mon, it’s me you’re talking to. What’s he like?”
“Well, he’s not what I expected,” I replied. “According to a friend of his, Mike is a talented cameraman and filmmaker. A documentary he wrote, shot, directed, and edited is being shown at the Telluride Film Festival this fall, but for some reason Mike is reluctant to take the next step up in his film career—even though his friend offered to help.” I shrugged. “I haven’t figured him out yet. I suppose changing jobs and putting yourself on the line can be scary, especially when it comes to doing something creative. Maybe he’s afraid of failing.”
“Did you share that trite little observation with him?”
I smiled. “Despite what you consider to be my lack of tact with men, my judgment’s not that bad.”
“Good to hear. Has he called you since?”
“I talked with him last night. He invited me out this weekend.”
“And?”
“And I asked for a rain check. With things heating up at CBS, I’m pretty busy.”
McKenzie shook her head disapprovingly, then changed the subject. “Anything new with your mom?”
“This is her last day of chemo,” I answered. “After that she begins three weeks of recovery.”
“And then she’s cured?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I’m sorry, Ali,” said McKenzie. Reaching across the table, she took my hand. “If I can help in any way, please let me.”
I abruptly felt myself on the verge of tears, something that recently seemed to be happening more and more. “Thanks, Mac,” I said quietly. “I appreciate the offer.”
*
At that precise moment Kane was leaving the West L.A. station house, taking the stairs down from the second-floor squad room two at a time. He bumped into Deluca as he hit the bottom landing. Deluca appeared harried, a scowl darkening his features.
“That doesn’t look like happiness I see on your face, partner,” noted Kane.
“After you run the news gauntlet outside, you won’t be oozing joy either.”
“The camera crews are still out there?”
“That’s an affirmative.”
“Damn,” said Kane, belatedly wishing he had parked behind the station rather than in the police lot across the street. “I figured they’d be gone by now.”
“No such luck.”
Since Brent Preston’s latest on-air revelations, the West L.A. station had been besieged by the press. Worse, Jordan’s parents had retained the services of a prestigious Beverly Hills law firm. Subsequently, on advice of their new attorneys, they had refused to undergo polygraph testing, submit hair and blood samples, or speak with police without legal representation, if at all. In a later press release, however, they had announced they were perfectly willing to assist authorities in any efforts directed at finding their daughter’s real killer or killers. Sensing the mood of the media, the district attorney had expressed confidence in the investigation, while at the same time distancing himself from any accusation of the parents. Furthermore, despite Kane’s renewed request for additional warrants to collect hair and blood samples from the parents, the DA had again played it safe—maintaining that there was insufficient evidence to justify a new search.
Not privy to details of Kane’s investigation that were progressively pointing toward the parents, many newscasters had grown skeptical—some even suggesting that Mr. and Mrs. French were under suspicion simply because inept LAPD detectives had failed to turn up other viable suspects. Complicating matters, intense pressure was coming down from the top for an arrest. Any arrest. It was a course Kane knew would be a mistake. Accusing the sex-offender gardener wouldn’t pan out, and thus far evidence against the parents was sketchy at best. A comparison test with the ransom note DNA, assuming an analysis was possible, could either rule out or confirm Mr. and Mrs. French as suspects, but it looked like that was not to be—at least not without a warrant. And for that, investigators needed something concrete. But what? Kane was furious at the DA’s obstructive stance and the recent turn of events in the media, but there was nothing he could do about either.
“So who do you think leaked to the press this time?” asked Deluca.
“Probably some jackass in the DA’s office, although it might have come from the coroner’s office, too,” Kane replied. “Both are full of holes.”
Deluca hesitated. “I hate to bring this up, paisano, but now that Allison is working for the news—”
“Don’t go there,” Kane interrupted. “If I even thought Ali had anything to do with this …”
“You heard that the chief is talking about having everyone connected with the case take polygraph exams?” said Deluca.
“I heard,” Kane sighed. Both men knew that their police-union contract forbid mandatory lie detector testing of LAPD personnel. They also knew that if requested, they had no choice but to comply. “First I’d like to see them start testing our local prosecutors, then work their way through the coroner’s office,” Kane added.
“That’ll be the day,” Deluca noted dryly. Then, brightening slightly, “If you don’t have anything going right now, let’s grab some chow.”
“Can’t. I’m on my way to Sherman Oaks to talk with Jordan’s family physician,” said Kane. “Which reminds me. Did you contact Mrs. French’s tennis coach?”
“I’m just coming from there,” said Deluca. “The guy has an airtight alibi for the time Jordan disappeared. Anyway, he doesn’t seem like the kind who goes for the kiddy set, either. I did some checking and found he’s been giving a few of his middle-aged female clients more than tips on their backhand, if you catch my drift.”
“Any criminal record, money problems, that kind of thing?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he and Mrs. French have had something going?”
“Possibly,” Deluca conceded. “But even if they did, I don’t see how it would fit.” He thought a moment. “What about the fire-road angle? Anybody with keys to the gates look promising?”
“Nope.”
“What about the phone records?”
“We are making some headway there,” Kane conceded. “Banowski ran down all telephone calls made from the French residence for the week prior to Jordan’s abduction. He has yet to locate anyone who spoke with Jordan on the day before she vanished. Incidentally, the call to Paramount that morning was made on her parents’ line, although we still don’t know who placed the call.”
“What about the maid?” asked Deluca. “Turn up anything on her?”
Kane shook his head. “She’s clean. No run-ins with the law, no record, nothing. And as far as she’s concerned, the Frenches are a model family without a single enemy. She did confirm that they occasionally bring home food when they dine out. She said Mrs. French lets her eat their leftovers for lunch.”
“What about Jordan’s birthday dinner at The Ivy? Any leftovers from that?”
“The maid didn’t know. Seems Mrs. French phoned her that Friday morning and canceled her regular cleaning day. Mrs. French told her that Jordan was sick and didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Deluca raised an eyebrow.
“I got a call yesterday from one of the waiters at the restaurant where the Frenches celebrated Jordan’s birthday,” Kane went on. “According to him, none of the busboys recalls boxing any leftovers for the family that night.”
“What do you think?”
Kane paused. “To tell you the truth, Paul, I’m not sure of anything. When I talked with the parents, they both seemed genuinely distressed about losing their daughter.”
“So if they weren’t involved, why do they need a lawyer?”
Kane shrugged. “It’s no secret how these things can go on a case like this. Remember the investigation in Colorado where that little girl disappeared and then turned up dead in the basement? Hell, in some ways I don’t blame Jordan’s parents. We’ve uncovered a lot of discrepancies, but as our sterling DA pointed out, all those things could have perfectly logical explanations.”
“If you say so,” said Deluca, raising an eyebrow.
“Look, I have to get rolling if I want to make it to Sherman Oaks and back before rush hour,” said Kane, not missing Deluca’s dubious tone. “I’ll talk with you later.”
“Give my best to our brothers and sisters in the media out there.”
“Right,” Kane grumbled, starting toward the reporter-choked entrance. “I’ll do that.”
18
Over the ensuing weeks, hungry for anything new, the news media subjected Jordan’s parents to the most intense scrutiny imaginable. At Brent’s request, CBS even hired an information broker, a private investigator who for a hefty fee amassed copies of everything from the family’s medical records and possible criminal histories to their dates of birth and social-security numbers, details of Mr. French’s employment, summations of Mrs. French’s charitable activities, telephone bills, financial credit reports, and driving records—even descriptions of their automobiles and license plate numbers. Though besieged by the press, Mr. and Mrs. French steadfastly refused all interviews, communicating with the media only through their attorney and publicist. Eventually they abandoned their home and went into hiding. Which, of course, made interviewing them even more desirable.
It was while perusing Brent’s list of Mrs. French’s charitable activities that I hatched the idea of contacting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, noting that for years Jordan’s mothe
r had held a seat on the LACMA board of directors. After calling the museum, I fibbed my way past several layers of telephone bureaucracy, finally reaching the director’s office. Identifying myself as the representative of a private foundation interested in making a donation, I learned in the course of talking with a friendly administrative assistant that the museum board was convening that afternoon on museum premises for its monthly meeting. It was a gathering all available board members were required to attend. Recalling Brent’s advice about looking out for number one, I decided that this was too good an opportunity to let pass. After making certain that Brent, who had departed earlier for Orange County, was still out of the newsroom, I hurried to Lauren’s office.
After listening to my proposal, Lauren initially refused. “Out of the question,” she said. “This is Brent’s story. He’ll handle it.”
“Brent’s in Irvine doing a spot on Mr. French’s software company,” I countered. “If we’re going to have any chance of getting an interview with Jordan’s mother, someone has to leave immediately.”
“And that someone should be you?” Lauren said skeptically.
I nodded. “I totally agree. Thanks.”
“Sorry, Ali. I need someone more experienced. One of the other correspond—”
“But you already sent me out with a cameraman to watch the Frenches’ estate,” I interrupted. “Why is this any different?”
“It just is,” said Lauren, her tone cooling. “For one thing, the story has changed considerably since then. For another, you’re not qualified to do an interview. Now, where do you think Mrs. French is going to be?”
I didn’t respond. When laying out my plan to Lauren, I had purposely withheld the details of Mrs. French’s engagement, saying nothing about the museum or its board of directors’ meeting. Instead, I’d simply stated that I had a hunch where Jordan’s mother would be later that afternoon.
Lauren stared. “You’re not going to tell me?” she said, her voice hardening.
