Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “Listen, she might not even be there,” I reasoned, dodging the question. “It’s a long shot. Why waste a staff correspondent? Let me check it out. I’ll take one cameraman and be back in a couple of hours. If it doesn’t pan out, nothing’s lost. And if it looks like Mrs. French is going to show, I’ll call for reinforcements,” I added, lying.

  “Absolutely not.” Lauren scowled. “This has gone on long enough. Where is Mrs. French going to be?”

  I still didn’t reply, my temper beginning to flare. Lauren wasn’t being fair. After all, I had been the one who figured things out. Why shouldn’t I be the one to go?

  “Damn it, Allison. Are you going to tell me or not?”

  I shook my head, deciding I had gone too far to turn back.

  “I could fire you for this,” Lauren warned.

  “What would that accomplish?” I retorted, part of me wishing I could start over, another part realizing it was too late. “C’mon, Lauren. Give me a chance. What have you got to lose?”

  Lauren remained silent for several seconds, chewing it over. “All right,” she finally conceded. “As you said, it’s a long shot. But if you do get lucky, make sure you call immediately for help.”

  “Thanks,” I said, heading for the door before the bureau chief could change her mind. “I won’t let you down.”

  Accompanied by Max Riemann, the cameraman who had accompanied me to the Frenches’ estate, I drove to the museum. After parking on a side street, I left Max in the car and walked back to museum grounds. Within minutes I located Mrs. French’s silver Lexus in a private parking lot reserved for museum officials—matching the vehicle and license plate to the description given in Brent’s information-broker report. I had been right. She was there.

  Disregarding my promise to Lauren to call for backup, I hurried back to my car, then returned to the museum—this time with Max and his camera equipment. Careful not to attract attention, we positioned ourselves behind a concrete pillar at the rear of the parking lot, waiting for Mrs. French’s meeting to end. It took several hours, but our patience eventually paid off. Initially, however, Jordan’s mother made it clear that she had no intention of speaking with anyone—especially someone thrusting a microphone in her face.

  “Mrs. French, do you have any comment on the LAPD targeting you and your husband as suspects in Jordan’s murder?” I asked, walking briskly to keep up with Jordan’s mother as she hurried toward her Lexus. Following close behind, Max kept his lens angle wide, bracketing both Mrs. French and me in a traveling two-shot.

  Mrs. French increased her pace without responding.

  “Many people think you’re being treated unfairly by the police,” I persisted. “Is there anything you want to say in your defense?”

  Irritated, Mrs. French glanced at me. A look of recognition lit her eyes. “I know you,” she said, stopping for a moment. “You’re the girl who rescued that youngster at the beach.”

  Though surprised, I ignored her question and tried to get back on topic, switching to another one of my prepared questions. “With all the confusion surrounding the investigation, do you—”

  “My attorney has advised me not to talk about the case,” Mrs. French stated, starting again for her car. Abruptly, she stopped. “Actually, there is one thing I would like to say,” she added. “I want to thank all of Jordan’s fans and friends who have been so supportive during this terrible time. Jordan was a wonderful, loving child, and I miss her terribly. I wish …” Mrs. French’s words trailed off.

  Though I felt a surge of compassion, I held the microphone steady. As Jordan’s mother fought to regain her composure, I noticed Max slowly tightening his camera angle. “I want everyone to know how much I loved her,” Mrs. French said at last, tears shimmering in her eyes. “How much my husband and I both loved her.”

  “And what would you tell those who think you were involved in your daughter’s death?” I asked softly.

  Mrs. French gazed into the camera. “I would tell them that it’s a heartbreaking thing to lose a child, and being accused of her murder has made it all the more horrible,” she answered, her eyes brimming. “We loved our child. We didn’t kill her.”

  The spot was featured that night on the CBS Evening News. It was subsequently aired on every network affiliate across the country. Granted, nothing substantive came from my interview with Jordan’s mother, but the emotional tenor of the piece was exactly what the viewing public wanted—an intimate moment with Mrs. French, a mother suspected of complicity in her daughter’s death.

  Ratings soared, with calls flooding in from people wanting to know whether Allison Kane was really the girl who had appeared in the beach-rescue segment a month earlier. Interest in me was spurred even more when the connection was made between me and Detective Daniel Kane, lead investigator on the case. Unlike the tabloids and other mainstream news stations, CBS chose not to comment on my family connection, but management privately indicated that further on-air appearances by me were under consideration—particularly in relation to the French case.

  On the downside, Brent was incensed. It was his story, and I had scooped him. Eventually I managed to smooth things over, at least I thought I did, but in the process I saw a dangerous, vindictive side of Brent that I didn’t like. I knew I had come close to burning a bridge, but at the time the chance to snag an interview with Jordan’s mother had seemed worth the risk. Plus it was my idea, and Brent was the one who had told me to look out for number one.

  But now, with reporters mobbing me in the Television City parking lot and the news-starved media suddenly concentrating on me and my connection to the case via my father, I began to regret my rashness. It was a regret that burgeoned as the story gained momentum, threatening to steamroll anyone in its path.

  Two nights later, following a tiring day at work and an even more exhausting visit with my mother at the hospital, I lay on my dorm room bed. Glumly, I stared at the ceiling, thinking that my on-air debut as a network reporter hadn’t proved as satisfying as I’d hoped. Covering the news was one thing; being the news was another.

  My cell phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts. Rolling over, I grabbed my phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ali. Mike here. I thought I’d extend my congratulations on your breaking into the big time.”

  I hadn’t talked with Mike since our date. His voice sounded reassuring, a familiar note in a world that seemed progressively spinning out of control. “Do you mean it?” I asked, recalling his low opinion of the news.

  “Absolutely,” said Mike. “You pulled off what no one else had been able to do—get one of the Frenches to talk on-camera. And to think I warned you to be careful around Brent. Knowing him, I’m sure he’s fuming.”

  “There wasn’t time for him to get there,” I explained, sounding unconvincing even to myself.

  “Don’t worry, I’m on your side,” Mike said lightly. “So how’s about we get together tomorrow night for a little celebrating?”

  “Friday?”

  “Today’s Thursday, so that sounds about right.”

  “Sorry, Mike. I can’t. I’m visiting my mom tomorrow night.”

  “Oh.”

  “Our entire family is meeting at the hospital to mark the end of her third week. Seven more days and she’s out, at least for a while.”

  “That’s great, Ali. I’m really glad to hear that.”

  “Me, too. Listen, I’ve been swamped at work and visiting my mom, but after her release we’re having a party at the beach. It’ll be a combo birthday bash and a homecoming celebration for Mom. Sunday, the eleventh, beginning around noon. Would you like to come?”

  “Sure,” said Mike. “It’s your mom’s birthday?”

  “No. Mine.”

  “Well, happy birthday in advance. How old will you be?”

  “Twenty. And no presents.”

  “Whatever you say. Who’s coming?”

  “Oh, probably several hundred of our closest friends,” I sighed, trying to sound m
atter-of-fact and almost succeeding. “My dad will invite all his pals at work, meaning at least half the department. Mom and my brother Travis will call their music associates, and there’ll be at least thirty or forty neighbors—not to mention my kid brother Nate’s baseball buddies. Plus, I invited friends from school. Even a few from CBS.”

  “Brent?”

  “Actually, Brent sort of invited himself. Not that he isn’t welcome, as far as I’m concerned, but with the French case and all, my dad …”

  “… may not be overly thrilled to see him.”

  “That’s an understatement you would have to know my father to appreciate.”

  “I’ve met your father,” said Mike.

  “You have? When?”

  “A long time ago. Listen, I have to go, but I appreciate the party invitation. I’ll definitely be there. Text me the address. And again, congratulations.”

  “Thanks. See you, Mike.”

  After hanging up, I lay on my bed replaying our conversation, wondering how Mike knew my father and wishing I had asked. Finally giving up, I padded downstairs to fix myself something to eat, again thinking that Mike Cortese was full of surprises.

  19

  When I arrived at the hospital the next evening, Travis and Nate were already there, along with Grandma Dorothy. With all of us present, Mom’s small room seemed almost festive. Adding to the party ambiance, Nate’s collection of pencil-and-watercolor sketches had grown to blanket almost one entire wall. In addition, a tether of colored balloons rose from the foot of the bed, and a chocolate cake, its three candles still unlit, sat atop a nearby cabinet. The IV stands, monitors, and medication pumps were still present too, their forbidding presence a depressing reminder of why Mom was there.

  As I entered, Mom turned toward me and smiled. By now having lost most of her hair, she wore a stylish white turban, and for the evening’s gathering she had applied a touch of makeup to her face and lips. Despite all she had been through, she was still beautiful. “Hi, Ali,” she said. “Just in time for cake.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I replied, noting with relief that although she hadn’t regained her appetite and was still being fed intravenously, her features had lost some of the skeletal gauntness that had accompanied the worst of her treatment. “Cake time, huh?” I said, crossing the room to wash my hands. “Want me to light the candles?”

  “Let’s wait for Dad,” suggested Nate. “He’s coming, isn’t he?”

  “He’s coming,” said Grandma Dorothy. “He called from work to say he might be a little late. I told him to get here on time, but of course he never listens to me,” she added tartly, a look of fondness in her eyes belying her tone. “Irritating man. It would serve him right if we just went ahead without him.”

  I smiled at Grandma, not for the first time noticing her resemblance to my mother. Though in her early sixties, Grandma Dorothy was still a strikingly attractive woman.

  “Let’s give Dan a couple more minutes,” suggested Mom. Then, turning to Travis, “Tell me about your Seattle recitals, Trav. How did they go?”

  “Great,” answered Travis. “Speaking of which, I talked with the Van Cliburn committee about canceling the last of my engagements. You’ll be back at St. John’s by then, and I—”

  “No,” Mom broke in firmly. “We’ve discussed this before. Grandma is taking care of things at home, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t honor your commitments.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Travis.”

  Travis sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sliding into a chair beside Travis, I shot my brother a sympathetic grin. Then, to my mother, “You’re looking better, Mom.”

  Mom reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, guess what?” said Nate from the other side of the bed. “I’m gonna get to play in the AAU finals.”

  “AAU?” Mom looked puzzled. “I swear, I can’t keep track of your baseball schedule these days. The last I heard, you were in a Pony League all-star tournament.”

  “Yep,” Nate replied proudly. “We lost the last round of the sectionals, though. Anyway, the AAU finals are coming up. The team that won the regionals is missing a player. They want me to fill in.”

  “That’s wonderful, Nate.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I won’t if you—”

  “I want you to play,” Mom insisted. “I’m just sorry that I’m missing so much of your season by being in here.” Then, still holding my hand, she turned back to me. “At least one of my children isn’t hesitant about getting on with her life.”

  “We all saw your news piece, Ali,” said Travis. “Impressive, sis.”

  “Yeah,” Nate chimed in. “That was really cool. Did you get paid a lot?”

  “I wish,” I said. “Although there is talk of letting me do other on-air spots. If that happens, I might get a raise. Maybe my press credentials, too.”

  “This is just a summer job, isn’t it?” asked Grandma. “You still plan to transfer to USC in the fall?”

  Faced with a question that had increasingly occupied my thoughts, I squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Of course she’ll be continuing her college education in the fall,” Mom answered for me. “Dropping out of summer session was one thing; not completing her education isn’t even up for discussion.”

  The mood in the room suddenly chilled. I withdrew my hand from my mother’s grasp. “I haven’t made up my mind one way or the other on that, Mom,” I said slowly. “But what would be so wrong with my taking off a semester and getting some job experience? After all, if I want to be a journalist, why not—”

  “Allison, hounding some poor woman in a parking lot is not journalism. You’re a blossoming writer. It would be a terrible mistake for you to drop out of school.”

  “Dad thinks the poor woman you say I hounded may be involved in her daughter’s death,” I countered.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “What I think is not the point. Reporters aren’t supposed to take sides.”

  “So what is the point?”

  “The point is that Mrs. French is news. And people want to hear what she has to say.”

  “Even if she doesn’t want to say it.”

  “Right,” I retorted.

  “How about if we cut the cake now?” interjected Nate.

  “In a minute, honey,” said Mom. “This is important.” Paled from exertion, she started to add something but was overcome by fit a coughing. Scowling at me, Nate picked up a box of tissues and handed it to Mom.

  Though regretting my quarrel with my mother, I pushed ahead anyway. “I appreciate your concern, Mom, but I’m old enough to make my own decision on this. And if I want to take time off from college, I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

  “What’s wrong is that you should be focusing on your studies,” Mom finally managed over her coughing. “Especially your writing. Journalism may prove to be a satisfactory outlet for your talents, Ali. But not like this.”

  “Nothing I do is ever good enough for you, is it?” I snapped, stung once more by her tone. “Mom, everyone can’t be a concert cellist like you, or a prodigy like Travis. The rest of us have to make do with what we’ve got.”

  “You have a lot more going for you than you think, and I would hate to see you waste it,” Mom said, struck by another fit of coughing. “Please trust me. I know I’m right about this.”

  “You’re always right,” I shot back, recalling that I had said the same thing to her on the plane.

  “Ali, shut up!” Nate shouted. “Don’t say another word to Mom. Just shut up.”

  I stared at my younger brother, startled by his outburst.

  Nate glowered back. “Why do you always have to be so mean?” he demanded, close to tears.

  “Nate …”

  “Get out. We don’t want you here.”

  I glanced at Travis, then at Grandma Dorothy. Neither met my gaze. With an angry shrug, I stood. “I’ll call you tomorrow
, Mom.”

  “Please don’t go,” Mom begged, her voice filled with hurt. “We … we haven’t even cut the cake yet.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper,” I added, regretting my earlier words but knowing I couldn’t take them back. Feeling everyone’s eyes upon me, I hurried out the door.

  Seconds later, as I made my way down the hall, I noticed my father exiting one of the elevators on Mom’s floor. Dad looked tired, the strain he was under clearly having taken its toll. “Party over?” he asked as I approached.

  I avoided his gaze. “Not yet. They’re holding off cutting the cake till you arrive.”

  “Why aren’t you in there?”

  “I have things to do at work.”

  “Is that right?” Dad looked at me sternly. “Well, speaking of that, I caught your interview with Mrs. French. Damn it, Allison, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?”

  I looked away, exasperated at walking out of one argument and into another. “What is this, pick on Allison night?”

  “If the shoe fits, Allison. In case you don’t know, everyone on the French investigation is taking heat about leaks to the media. Now that the word is out you’re working for CBS, can you guess who the brass are looking at whenever the subject of leaks comes up? Me.” Dad hesitated, then added, “And I’m not so sure they don’t have good cause.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked guiltily.

  “Well, for one thing, I told you that Mr. and Mrs. French being under investigation was off the record, and you agreed to keep your yap shut. Next thing I know, it’s headline news. What’d you do, blab to someone at CBS? Lauren, maybe?”

  I looked away. “I … I mentioned it to Brent,” I admitted. “But I told him it was off the record. I didn’t realize he could use it anyway if he got independent confirmation from someplace else. Which he did.”

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “The DA’s office.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Glaring, Dad began cracking his knuckles. He glanced toward Mom’s door down the hall, then back at me. “Do you understand the position you’re putting me in?” he demanded, lowering his voice. “Have you seen the tabloids? ‘Detective’s Daughter Scoops Network Reporters!’ You’re making it look like I’m running some kind of Chinese fire drill.”