by Steve Gannon
“I’m getting a little background information,” said Kane. “Who Jordan knew, did she have any enemies, stalkers, that kind of thing. In addition to talking with you, it would be helpful if I could question people she worked with.”
Courtney thought a moment. “When Jordan started on the film, she brought over most of her support crew from Brandy. Wardrobe, makeup, even her teacher and social worker. Most of them are gone now and won’t be back till Brandy begins shooting again.”
“Social worker?”
“Union rules,” Ron explained. “Every minor on the set has to have a parent present, along with a teacher and a social worker.”
“Usually the teacher and social worker are the same person,” Courtney added. “Come to think of it, Molly’s still here with some of the other kids on the movie. She and Jordan were pretty close.”
“Molly?”
“Molly Snazelle. She was Jordan’s teacher-slash-social worker.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Sound stage thirty-two. Take a left when you get outside—”
“I’ll show him,” Ron broke in.
“One thing first,” said Kane, still addressing Courtney. “I understand that Jordan called in sick on the Friday before she vanished.”
Courtney flipped through a calendar on her desk. “June thirtieth.”
“Who took the call?”
“I did.”
“Did she sound ill—coughing or whatever?”
“I didn’t speak with Jordan. Her mother phoned.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive,” Courtney replied. “Mrs. French said that Jordan was coming down with the flu, and that she wouldn’t be back till after the Fourth of July weekend.”
“Thanks, Courtney,” said Kane, turning for the door. “You’ve been helpful.”
After trailing Ron past a block of sound stages, Kane entered a huge structure marked Stage 32. Recalling passing it on his way in, he glanced around the gigantic building’s interior. High above, suspended from a grid of metal catwalks, a series of wooden platforms draped with wires, cables, and lights traversed the room, lending dimension to the colossally proportioned space. With the exception of the floor, gray soundproofing pads covered almost every other surface—walls, ducts, and ceiling.
Kane waited by the entrance as Ron conferred with several men on one of the sets—a gloomy façade that appeared to be the dungeon of a Medieval castle. When Ron returned, he informed Kane that most of the crew had already broken for lunch, but that Molly Snazelle was probably still in her trailer. Feeling like a kid being led around an amusement park, Kane exited the sound stage and followed Ron to a nearby trailer. Once there, Ron paused to answer a call on his cell phone. He spoke a few moments, then turned to Kane. “Sorry, Detective, I have to run,” he said. “This is Molly’s trailer. If she’s not here, I’m sure she’ll return shortly. I’ve also cleared it for you to talk with anyone you want to interview on the set, once they’re back from lunch. Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back to your car afterward?”
Kane glanced behind him, spotting the familiar blue shape of the water tower. “I’ll find it. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.” Ron swung a leg over his bike. “And whoever killed Jordan, I hope you find him.”
“We will,” said Kane, wishing he were as sure of himself as he sounded.
As Ron pedaled off, Kane mounted a short flight of metal steps and knocked on the trailer’s aluminum door. Seconds later a woman’s voice sounded from inside. “Come in.”
Kane ducked through the opening. Desks and worktables filled one end of the narrow interior; a blackboard and bookcase took up the rest. A woman with pale-blue eyes and a peppering of prematurely graying hair looked up from a salad she was eating at one of the tables. “Yes?”
“Ms. Snazelle?”
“That’s right.”
Kane flipped out his ID. “Dan Kane, LAPD. I’d like to talk with you about Jordan French.”
The woman glanced at Kane’s identification. “Certainly, Detective. What do you want to know?”
“To tell you the truth, Ms. Snazelle, I’m not exactly sure,” Kane answered, bending to avoid a low-hanging light fixture as he moved into the room. “I’m trying to learn all I can about Jordan, get a sense of who she was. Mind if I sit?”
“Help yourself.”
Kane dropped into a chair at one of the worktables, belatedly noticing that the seat was designed for a much smaller anatomy. Postponing her lunch, Molly slid into a chair opposite him. “The furniture’s not exactly intended for someone your size,” she said apologetically.
Kane smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Courtney at the production office says you and Jordan were close.”
“We were.”
“So what was Jordan like? Who were her friends? Anything you can tell me might be helpful.”
Molly considered a moment. “Well, because of her shooting schedule and not being in regular school, Jordan didn’t have many friends her own age,” she said. “She was a precocious child who kept to herself when she wasn’t on camera. While performing she could be outgoing and vivacious, though in person she was often introspective and private. She threw an occasional tantrum, but for the most part she was a professional. Everyone on the set liked her. She loved music, playing video games, and reading. Is any of this useful?”
“Precocious, huh?” Kane mused. “How precocious? Did she ever mention having a boyfriend, somebody special? Somebody she could have been having sex with?”
“No.”
“She had plenty of fans, though. Any of them ever cause problems? Threatening letters, stalking, obscene calls?”
Molly shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m sure she would have told me if there were.”
“You implied she was moody. Was she into drugs or alcohol?”
“Absolutely not. Aside from being a star, Jordan was just a normal fourteen-year-old girl.”
Kane glanced at a publicity photo of Jordan pinned to a wall near the blackboard. The picture showed a youngster with bright hazel eyes, long dark hair woven in braids, and a captivating smile. “You’d be amazed at how many fourteen-year-olds are using drugs and alcohol,” he said, pushing away the mental image of Jordan as he had last seen her.
“That may be, but I don’t think Jordan was one of them,” Molly repeated firmly.
Kane decided to shift gears. “Ron mentioned that Mrs. French had to be present on the set while her daughter was working.”
“Mrs. French had to be present on the studio lot,” Molly corrected. “Mostly she stayed in Jordan’s trailer. Jordan said her mother made her nervous when she was on the set.”
“How did they get along otherwise?”
Molly hesitated. “Actually, for the most part, Jordan and her mother didn’t,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. Mrs. French is an extremely able woman, and Jordan owed a great deal of her success to her. But as a mother, let’s just say that in my opinion, Mrs. French left a bit to be desired.”
“Did Jordan ever mention her parents fighting?”
“Occasionally. I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. French are very close either—at least from what I gathered from Jordan. She didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the impression that Jordan felt guilty about her parents’ problems, as if they were her fault. You know how kids are.”
The trailer door banged open. A boy wearing Dracula makeup and a long black cloak burst inside. “Hi, Ms. Snazelle,” he said, glancing curiously at Kane.
“Be with you in a sec, Leonardo,” said Molly. “Could you wait outside till we’re done?”
“That’s okay,” said Kane, rising. “I’m finished here. Thanks for your time, Ms. Snazelle.”
Molly nodded somberly. “I’m not big on capital punishment, but I think whoever did that to Jordan deserves the death penalty.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Kane, starting for the door. “I’ll ca
ll if I think of anything else.”
“Anytime.”
An hour later, after conferring with several people on the set including the director, the assistant director, and Jordan’s co-stars, Kane headed back to his car. Using the water tower as a guidepost, he retraced his path through the New York section of the lot, cutting past the brownstone buildings and circumnavigating a bricked enclave resembling Greenwich Village. As he walked, he reviewed what he’d learned. Dejectedly, he admitted it wasn’t much.
True, at least he had verified that the call informing the studio that Jordan wouldn’t be coming to work had been made by Mrs. French, not her daughter—leaving the time of Jordan’s death still unresolved. His meeting with Molly Snazelle had established that friction existed between Jordan and her mother, and that Jordan might have felt guilty about her parents’ marital problems. Both were common in cases of sexual child abuse. But where did he go from there?
Approaching the parking lot, Kane fished his keys from his pocket, absently noting that the white Mercedes was now gone, fresh oil stains in its place. After unlocking his car, he slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and started out the way he had come. Minutes later, as he drove through the studio gate and exited onto Gower, the thought occurred to Kane that in every detective movie he had ever watched, A led to B, which led to C, and so forth—ultimately resulting in a successful conclusion to the case. Neat, logical, satisfying.
It seemed to Kane that more often in real life, A led to B … which didn’t lead to shit.
21
On the day before my twentieth birthday, Mom finally returned home. Enjoying a much needed respite from the nausea, vomiting, bruises, diarrhea, lab tests, blood and platelet transfusions, IV nutrients, and a host of other treatment-related indignities that had comprised much of her life for the past month, she looked stronger and healthier than she had in quite some time. Though I had been to Mass only sporadically since starting classes at UCLA, I attended Sunday services with the rest of our family the next morning, knowing my presence at Our Lady of Malibu Church was not optional. And surprisingly, as I sat next to my mother listening to a long, boring sermon, I found myself almost enjoying the ceremony.
Later I joined Mom in the kitchen as Dad cooked breakfast, a meal that despite offers of help from both Mom and me, he insisted on preparing for the family alone. Afterward, excited about the upcoming party that day, he marched out to the beach and began digging a pit in the sand above the high-tide line. Though I again offered to help, my father once more refused, saying that no one should have to work on her own birthday … dishwashing excepted, of course.
With nothing to do after the kitchen was cleaned, I retreated to the redwood deck outside and sat on the swing. Though it was barely nine, a brisk offshore breeze was already sweeping the beach, carrying down the green smells of the hills above our house. Wearing shorts and a tank top, I raised my face to the wind and wrapped my arms around my bare legs, my skin prickling in the cool morning air. Gazing out toward the water, I noticed that the tide had lowered considerably since I’d awakened, and a wide swath of sand now stretched to the ocean—isolated clumps of driftwood, seaweed, and rock piles littering the half-mile crescent that defined Las Flores Beach. Past a seaside berm, racing to elude uprushing tongues of foam, a platoon of stilt-legged terns pecked at the water’s edge, their nimble dance with the waves casting flitting shadows in the slanting rays of the early morning sun.
I uncurled my legs and placed a sandaled foot on the deck, giving the swing a push. Then, lulled by the motion of the swing, I again hugged my knees and gazed out over the Pacific, listening to the sounds of Mom’s cello drifting from the ground-floor music room behind me.
Deep and resonant, the tones of her cello had for me always been joined inseparably with the voice of my mother. As a child I’d heard her music and sensed it tugging at me, unleashing a flood of yearnings that I had been unable to fathom. As years passed and I had grown to realize the depth of my mother’s gift, I eventually defined the emotions it wrenched from me. Respect, admiration, and pride in my mother’s artistry had been there from the beginning, yet my feelings had also been tinged with resentment at the power it held over me. Worse, with the eventual knowledge that I would never measure up to my mother’s perfection, came an abiding jealousy that Mom’s genius had been passed not to me, but to my brother Travis.
A moment later I heard Travis on the keyboard, his playing joining Mom’s in an intricate choreography of tone and rhythm. They were performing a piece for cello and piano that I recognized as Schubert’s Arpeggione, a hauntingly moving sonata that Mom and Travis had played many times in the past. More a virtuoso showcase for cello than piano, the music progressed through a contrasting arrangement of winsome themes—Mom taking her fair share of the melodic burden but in the process making several uncharacteristic errors.
Feeling petty and small for the envy I routinely felt when hearing Mom and my brother play, I listened as the music proceeded to a sensual middle section as transparent and lovely as a waterfall. Next Mom and Travis set out on a spirited final movement, Mom again making mistakes only someone familiar with the sonata would detect.
As the sounds of the piano and cello died away, I found my eyes stinging with emotion, moved by the beauty of Schubert’s composition and the artistry of Trav’s and Mom’s playing. Jeez, what’s wrong with me? I wondered. I continued staring out over the horizon, deciding that if I were going to get through the day without making a fool of myself, I needed to do a better job of keeping my feelings in check.
In the distance offshore, I spotted a raft bobbing on the swells, the ten-by-ten-foot platform an illegal albeit inconsequential navigational hazard that Dad and other beach residents had placed some years back. McKenzie, Nate, and I had played an unexpectedly pivotal role in its launching as well. Seeing it reminded me of what had seemed a simpler time, hearkening back to an era uncomplicated by the uncertainties now facing me.
“How’re you doing, honey?”
I turned to see my mother easing down beside me on the swing. “Good,” I answered, quickly wiping my cheeks.
Mom gave the swing a push with her foot, then looked at me more closely. “Is something wrong?”
“No. It’s … it’s just great to have you home.”
“It’s great to be home,” Mom replied, still regarding me with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, embarrassed that her music had affected me so deeply. “Your playing just now was fabulous. You haven’t lost your touch.”
“Liar. I was awful,” Mom laughed, adjusting a floppy velvet hat she was wearing to cover her baldness. “Not practicing for a month takes its toll. According to Rachmaninoff, ‘If you don’t practice for a day, no one knows. If you don’t practice for two days, you know. If you don’t practice for three days, everyone knows.’ I’ll definitely have to spend some hours in the music room before returning to St. John’s.”
“It doesn’t seem fair that you have to do the chemo all over again.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Mom sighed. “Speaking of which, I’m going in on Wednesday for a checkup. Why don’t you meet me afterward for lunch? We could eat at that Chinese place on the Santa Monica Mall you like so much.”
“Sure, Mom.” I hesitated, then changed the subject. “I can’t believe Dad’s attempting another luau,” I remarked, gazing out to where my father had finished digging a large hole in the sand, several dozen yards from the volleyball court. He had been unnaturally secretive about his plans for my birthday party, but I had known what he had in mind from the minute I’d seen Dad and my brothers gathering kelp from the water’s edge on Saturday. My father was currently lining the sand pit with stones. Nate was helping carry rocks, while Callie was trotting around proudly with a baseball-bat sized piece of driftwood in her mouth, futilely trying to get someone to play.
“The last time was kind of a disaster,” Mom conceded, referring to a similar attempt
Dad had made years back to roast an entire suckling pig. Refusing to fully cook, the pig had to be cut up and finished in the oven. As a result, everyone wound up eating long after dark. “He says he has it wired this time,” she added hopefully.
“If he doesn’t, today’s crowd could turn ugly—which for most of Dad’s cop buddies wouldn’t be much of a stretch,” I observed. “By the way, how many of our nearest and dearest did Dad invite?”
Mom smiled as she answered. “Well, most of his police associates are coming, of course, plus all of our neighbors. I invited musicians from the Philharmonic, Nate called his baseball teammates, Trav invited friends from SC, and you’re having over people from school and work. There should be at least a hundred and fifty. Maybe more.”
“Great,” I grumbled, secretly pleased that my parents were turning my birthday party into such a production. Of course, it was also to celebrate Mom’s homecoming, but I was still thrilled at the prospect. “It’ll be wonderful to have the unwashed masses trooping through our house, just like the old days,” I added.
“It’ll be fun and you know it.”
“Sure. About as much fun as watching Olympic curling.”
“Oh, come on,” Mom chuckled. “It’s a beach party. Besides, no one will be ‘trooping’ through the house. Everyone will be outside.”
Once more the sound of Travis’s playing drifted from the music room. He was practicing passages from his recital repertoire—haphazardly stopping and starting, repeating different sections. Mom and I fell silent, listening to him play. “He’s incredible, isn’t he?” said Mom during a lull.
“Yes, Mom. Trav is getting better all the time.”
My brother resumed his playing, this time attacking a particularly strenuous progression embedded in one of his recent compositions. “Did I tell you I got my press credentials last week?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, honey. What did you say?”
“I said I got my press credentials, along with my LAPD, Highway Patrol, and Sheriff’s Department passes. A raise in pay, too.”
