by Steve Gannon
“I can’t help that,” I said.
“Bull,” Dad said, his temper now barely in check. “For one thing, you could quit that so-called job of yours.”
“And what good would that do? The damage is already done. I’m not quitting my job. But in the future I’ll do my best to stay out of your way on the French case.”
“Like you have so far?” Fuming, Dad strode down the corridor without looking back.
I watched as my father entered Mom’s room. Then, with a despondent sigh, I turned toward the elevators, again recalling my resolution never to do anything to make my family’s problems worse.
Well, that promise is certainly shot to hell, I thought glumly.
Arriving at the elevators, I thumbed the call button, wondering whether I should simply quit my job at CBS, move home, and make everyone happy.
No, a stubborn part of my mind replied.
Why not?
Because it’s not what I want.
And what is it that I want? I asked myself. What is it I want so bad that I’m willing to fight everyone to get it? Being a hotshot news correspondent like Brent? Seeing myself on television? Proving I can do something on my own? What?
No answer came.
With a chime, an elevator door opened. I stepped inside and placed a finger on the lobby button. Then, instead of pushing the button for the ground floor, I exited. On the day Mom had begun her treatment, my brothers and I had visited a small chapel on the fourth floor, not far from Mom’s room. On impulse, I decided to visit it again.
With a final glance over my shoulder at Mom’s room, I made my way down the hallway. After navigating several corridors and passing a nurses station, I found the chapel. Glumly, I pushed through a heavy door into the deserted chamber beyond. Before me, several banks of wooden pews sat in front of a white-clothed altar. Smelling a cloying vestige of incense, I walked past a confessional in the rear, not quite sure why I was there.
Because it beats going back to an empty room at UCLA, my inner voice prompted.
Oh, shut up.
Exhausted, I eased into one of the rear pews, my mind filled with thoughts of my mother, and of my father, and of the burden my recent actions had placed on my family. In the solitude of the chapel, I reviewed my life over the past weeks, coming up with various rationales and justifications for the things I had done. Somehow, my reasoning always rang hollow. Worse, as the minutes ticked by, I found to my irritation that I was better able to argue my parents’ position than my own.
Though in a chapel, I didn’t feel like praying. Not surprising, as I hadn’t prayed since losing my brother Tom. I still believed in God … mostly. I just couldn’t understand how He could have let Tommy die. At first, after Tommy’s death, I wasn’t able to accept that it had really happened. Tommy’s death had seemed so unnecessary, so unfair—like something that had happened in a dream. I kept hoping to wake up and find he was still alive, but of course that didn’t happen. And as time went on, as days ground into weeks, and weeks into months, as Tommy’s loss became real and the reality of his death replaced my denials with a flood of wishes and what-ifs and regrets, I accepted at last that the world can be heartbreaking and cruel, and as much as I wished it were otherwise, that terrible things can happen in life—things that will never, ever get better.
And now, with a hollow feeling of despair, I realized that God was threatening to take away my mother as well … and there was nothing I could do about it. Hot, bitter tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision. I fought them. Still they came. At last I lowered my head and let them flow, feeling more desolate and alone than I had since Tommy’s death.
Time passed.
Behind me, I heard the chapel door creak open.
“Ali?” someone called into the room.
Travis.
“She’s not here,” I answered, furiously palming my eyes.
Moments later Travis joined me in the back pew, slumping down beside me on the hard wooden bench.
“Go away, Trav. I want to be alone.”
He didn’t reply.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked.
Travis shrugged. “I might ask you the same thing. You haven’t seen the inside a church for quite a while.”
“Haven’t seen any point. Actually, I’m not quite sure how I feel about God these days.”
“Dad would consider that no excuse for not being a good Catholic.”
I ignored my brother’s attempt at humor. “Why are you here, Trav?” I asked again. “I thought everyone would be gone by now.”
“I saw the Bronco still in the parking lot. I figured you were probably up here.”
“Clever you. Are Grandma and Nate waiting downstairs?”
“No. Mom got tired toward the end. After we had cake, everyone left but Dad.”
“You didn’t ride in from Malibu with Grandma?”
“I borrowed a friend’s car and drove here earlier.” Travis glanced around the chapel, then changed the subject. “McKenzie says you’ve been dating somebody recently.”
“I’ve gone out a few times with a cameraman who works at Channel 2,” I answered, grateful to be thinking about something besides Mom.
“Any chance for new developments in the romance department?”
I shrugged. “Doubtful. Right now I’m trying to get something going with my life.”
“Who says you can’t do both?”
“I do. I’m not saying that having a relationship isn’t right for some people, just not for me. It’s going to take everything I have just to get ahead. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have the luxury of being a musical genius like you.”
“Ali, you’re gifted, too. Everyone who’s read your stories thinks—”
“—I have potential,” I finished, fighting a surge of anger rooted in a lifetime of living in my brother’s shadow. “Or worse, that my work shows promise. We’ve had this discussion before, Trav, and it always boils down to the same thing. I could write from now till doomsday and never reach your rarefied level of talent, and we both know it. But if I work really hard, sometime in the distant future I might actually be good. But great? Never. Well, screw that. I have an opportunity right now to make something of myself at CBS, and I won’t foul it up by getting sidetracked by anyone or anything.”
“You’re wrong about your writing, Ali.”
“Who made you a literary critic?”
“Jeez, why do you act this way? And don’t give me some line about wanting to have a career. You’ll probably get angry at me for saying this, but ever since the night you were attacked—”
“Stop right there.”
“I—”
“Please, Trav. Just … drop it.”
Silence hung between us like a gathering storm. At last Travis asked, “What’s going on, sis?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, Ali. It’s me you’re talking to. What’s up?”
I looked away. “Nothing.”
“Dad mentioned running into you in the hall. I don’t imagine that meeting was one for the family scrapbook.”
“It wasn’t.”
Travis looked at me closely. “But your fight with Dad isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it?”
I remained silent.
“Please talk to me, Ali.”
Finally I answered. “This may sound stupid, but for the longest time after Tommy died, I couldn’t believe he was really gone,” I began, my voice barely audible. “I just couldn’t believe it. Then, when it finally did sink in that I would never see him or hear him or talk with him ever again, the realization was almost more than I could bear.”
Travis gave my hand a squeeze. “Me, too,” he said quietly. “And now Mom.”
“And now Mom,” I echoed. “I’m so worried. What if she—”
“Mom will come through this,” Travis interrupted, his words a bit too forceful.
“I hope so. What I hate most is that even with all that’s going on, she a
nd I still can’t be in the same room without getting into a fight.”
“I know what you mean. Remember how Dad and I used to be?”
“Who can forget? How did you ever get things straightened out with him?”
Travis thought a moment. “Mostly, I think I just got older.”
“Fine. I’ll just wait to get older.”
“Do that. And while you’re at it, remember that no matter how pushy Mom can be, she only wants what’s best for you.”
“I know,” I sighed. “That’s what makes it so hard.”
Travis shifted restlessly, seeming to have something else to say.
“What is it, Trav?”
Travis took a deep breath, then let it out. “Can I level with you, sis?”
“No. Just keep lying.”
“At the risk of pissing you off again,” Travis continued, “I’m going to give you some advice. It’s this: Get your priorities straight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly the way it sounds. I know you have plenty on your mind right now—your new job at CBS and decisions about school and Dad getting on your case for screwing with his investigation. But maybe it’s time for you to ask yourself what’s really important. It’s not school or work or any of those other things. It’s family. It’s the people you love and who love you.”
“After you read that, did you eat the cookie?”
“I’m serious, sis.”
Irritated at my brother’s unsolicited advice—which I took to be tacit criticism of my position at CBS—I started to reply with another sarcastic retort but stopped, struck by a familiar chord in his words. “Mom told me something like that, too,” I said instead, recalling my exchange with my mother on the plane.
Travis nodded. “I’m not surprised. Think about it, Ali. You may find it makes sense.”
20
Wednesday, at a little before noon, Kane pulled up to the Paramount Pictures employee gate on North Gower Street, avoiding the tour entrance on Melrose Avenue. He lowered his window and identified himself, then waited impatiently as the gate guard placed a call to Ron Bannock, the studio chief of operations with whom Kane had spoken earlier that morning. A moment later the guard handed Kane a pass and waved him through. Following directions received previously over the phone, Kane eased his car down a long asphalt lane lined with sound stages, trailers, golf carts, sets, props, and film equipment. Everywhere he looked he saw extras in costume, grips pulling gear from the backs of trucks, electricians setting up lights, and men transporting equipment.
Wheeling through acres of Paramount real estate, Kane headed for a blue water tower he could occasionally glimpse between sound stages. He lost his way while navigating a snarl of streets deeper in, taking an unintentional detour past an enormous blue-sky backdrop and a clump of brownstone buildings that looked like they had been transported directly from New York’s Upper East Side. Eventually he found the water tower he had spotted earlier. A number of cars were parked in an open square at its base. No sign of Ron Bannock. Deciding he would never find his way around the chaotic movie lot without assistance, Kane eased his Ford next to a white Mercedes, shut off the engine, and waited.
As Kane sat, his mind began chewing on details of the investigation. No matter how he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew that unless something changed, the French case—mired in a media blitz and saddled with a self-serving district attorney—would soon stagnate. In Kane’s experience, most homicide cases were closed quickly or not at all. Every day that passed, the murderer’s trail cooled, witnesses’ memories grew cloudy, evidence evaporated. And although Kane hated to admit it, he knew that progress on the case had nearly ground to a halt.
Upon questioning, Dr. Sidney Taylor, the Frenches’ family physician, had staunchly maintained that Jordan could not have been the victim of chronic sexual abuse. Over the past six years he had seen her in his office on more than thirty occasions, and according to him, at no time had he detected any physical signs of sexual molestation, nor had he observed any of a wide range of psychological manifestations associated with abuse. Jordan had simply been a bright, normal kid. On the other hand, no vaginal exam had ever been done with a gynecological speculum, so physical symptoms might have been missed. Furthermore, given the circumstances of Jordan’s death and that healthcare personnel were required by law to report suspected instances of child abuse, Kane surmised that Dr. Taylor was probably disinclined at that late date to admit he might have missed something.
In performing a background check on Jordan’s parents, Kane and other members of the homicide unit had talked with neighbors, friends, and coworkers. Though Mr. and Mrs. French were generally well liked, they were also characterized as being extremely private. No one in their neighborhood had actually known them well, and the few casual friends of the Frenches that Kane had been able to find described Jordan’s mother as being obsessed with her daughter’s acting career—a typical “movie mom” who for years had fiercely shepherded Jordan’s meteoric rise in the acting world. Working tirelessly, Mrs. French had procured an agent for Jordan by her third birthday, chauffeured her daughter to casting calls, and overseen her early work in TV commercials and daytime soaps. Eventually Mrs. French had been pivotal in Jordan’s being cast in the prime-time family series, Brandy—and the rest was history. Though outwardly pleasant, Mrs. French was also described as a driven woman who, when challenged, could become as hard as tempered steel.
Mr. French’s associates at CyberTech Development Corporation had depicted him as hardworking, intolerant of incompetence, and ruthless in business. Some at CDC had also added that he was an equitable boss whose door was always open. None of those interviewed admitted having knowledge of any spousal abuse, wife swapping, or any other unusual aspects of Mr. and Mrs. French’s married life.
Of course, in the wake of Brent Preston’s latest on-air revelations regarding the case, Kane’s scrutiny of the Frenches had not gone unnoticed by the media, especially the tabloids. Sensational daily accounts of the Frenches’ most intimate secrets, the bulk of which were attributed to psychics and other questionable sources, had become commonplace. Even distinguished correspondents, starving for something new, were indulging in an orgy of speculation.
Reacting to the situation as the case rocketed to international attention, the Frenches had hired a public relations firm through which they issued regular statements declaring their horror at having had a child murdered—a horror compounded by finding themselves under suspicion by the police. In their opinion, the investigating authorities were merely working to charge them with the crime, not to find the real killer or killers. As a result, their attorneys had notified Kane to either charge the Frenches with a crime or leave them alone, and that any attempt to contact them directly would be considered harassment. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse, and with pressure mounting for an arrest, Kane found himself praying for a break in the investigation. Given the way things were shaping up, he suspected one wouldn’t be forthcoming.
“Detective Kane?”
Kane glanced up from his musing. Straddling a bike at the base of the Paramount water tower stood a young man wearing jeans and a golf shirt. Kane nodded. “Are you Ron Bannock?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry I’m late. Got hung up on something across the lot.”
“Not a problem.” Kane scrutinized the studio’s chief of operations, having thought he would be older, fatter, and driving an expensive car—or at least one of the golf carts he had noticed on the way in.
“You were expecting someone in a suit?” Ron asked with a grin, noting Kane’s questioning glance. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” Ron climbed off his bike, a wide-tired Schwinn. “Best way to get around,” he added.
“Mr. Bannock, if you can get me where I want to go, I don’t care if you’re riding a camel.”
“Fair enough,” the young man chuckled. “And call me Ron. You m
entioned wanting to visit the production office for Jordan’s movie?”
“For openers.”
“Okay, leave your car here and follow me.”
Kane rolled up his window, exited the Ford, and locked the door. Ron, now walking his bike, started off toward a group of buildings on the east side of the square. “So what will happen to Jordan’s movie now that she’s gone?” Kane asked, quickly catching up to walk beside him.
Ron shrugged. “The director was under the gun to get Jordan’s principal photography completed before the end of her Brandy hiatus. As a result, most of it’s already in the can. They’re having to rewrite the ending and shoot a couple of new scenes, but that’s about it. This may sound callous, but Jordan’s death won’t affect things much, except maybe to sell more tickets.”
“What about her TV show?”
“That’s a different story,” Ron answered. “The producers are replacing Jordan with another young actress and proceeding with a new season—in the hopes that the scandal will generate enough interest to get the series past a rough transition. Personally, I think it’s gonna tank.”
After walking past several trailers, Kane accompanied Ron into a nondescript, military-style building. The interior of the tan-and-brown structure appeared military issue as well, with utilitarian cubicles branching off a main hallway and a stained, acoustical-tile ceiling. As Kane stepped inside, a woman in her late twenties glanced up from a desk guarding the entry. “May I help you, sir?” she asked, removing a telephone receiver from her ear and covering the mouthpiece with her hand. Then, noticing Ron, “Oh, hi, Mr. Bannock.”
“Good morning, Courtney. This is Detective Kane. He’s investigating Jordan’s death. He wants to ask you some questions.”
“Of course.” The woman spoke briefly into the phone, disconnected, and turned to Kane. “I’m Courtney Goodall, production coordinator on Jordan’s film,” she said, leaning across her desk to shake Kane’s hand. “I recognize you now from TV. How can I help?”
