by Steve Gannon
The two men fell silent, each contemplating an investigation that had turned into a no-win situation for everyone … especially the LAPD. “So how are things going with Kate?” Long finally ventured.
Kane shook his head. “Not good. They’re still trying to locate an unrelated marrow donor, but unless they find someone soon, it looks like it will have to be Allison.
“Please tell Kate that everyone down here is pulling for her.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I will.”
Long glanced at the stack of files on Kane’s desk. “Anything new there?”
Kane shrugged. “The ransom note DNA analysis finally came in. If we can get a DNA sample from the Frenches, or if we can come up with another suspect or suspects, it could prove critical. Otherwise …”
Long nodded glumly. “Anything else?”
“One other thing. Remember I told you I was working a hunch that I had on the ransom note?” Shuffling through the files, he found an SID lab report that had come in the previous evening. “It paid off.”
Long leaned forward. “Go on.”
Kane opened the report. “The ransom text was composed of words snipped from a glossy-style publication, remember? While I was at the Frenches’ house, I noticed a number of similar magazines on their coffee table. You know, the kind no one reads but just has lying around for showCoastal Living, Architectural Digest, Elle Décor, and so forth. When we were rebuilding the beach house, one of Kate’s music associates gave us a subscription to Architectural Digest. Playing a long shot, I went through some back issues, comparing words in the magazines to those on a full-size photo of the ransom note. Eventually I got back issues of the other publications I saw at the Frenches’ house and checked them, too.”
“Hoping for a match?” Long said dubiously.
“I told you it was a long shot,” Kane replied, passing him the report. “Don’t worry, I did it on my own time. Anyway, it took a while, but in the end I got what I thought were a few hits—at which point I sent everything over to SID. They treated the ransom note background paper with a chemical that temporarily rendered it transparent, then used a high-intensity light to illuminate the printing on the flip side of each individual word. Bingo. They got a match. In fact, several.”
Long flipped through the SID report, stopping at a section that showed words from the ransom note, with the writing on the reverse side displayed below. In an adjacent column was an identical word with matching print on the back. The words in the second column had all been cut from a recent issue of Elle Décor.
Long closed the report. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
“I know,” Kane agreed. “Lots of people subscribe to Elle Décor.”
“At least now I understand why you included magazines on your recent warrant attempt,” said Long, handing the report back to Kane. “Good try.”
“Yeah, except that the Frenches have probably burned everything by now. Assuming they did it.”
Long frowned. “Right. Assuming they did it. Did you hear they took private polygraph exams yesterday?”
Kane shook his head. “Given by their own technicians, I assume?”
“Naturally.”
“And passed with flying colors, no doubt.”
Long nodded. “It was on the news last night.”
“Well, you know what I think of lie detector tests,” Kane snorted. “Even under the best of circumstances, they’re questionable. And when administered by your own investigators, they’re about as effective as one of those mystic power crystals they sell on the psychic hotline.”
“Passing those tests did one thing for the Frenches,” Long pointed out. “It helped them with public opinion. You know, Dan, along those lines, it might not hurt for you to give something to the media.”
“I considered that. Then the tequila wore off.”
“It wouldn’t have to be anything major,” Long persisted. “Something like this magazine thing might help defuse the negative spin that the Frenches have been putting on the case.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t want compromise my investigation—what’s left of it—just to make myself look better on the six o’clock news.”
“You’re not the only player on the field here, Dan. This has become a national story. Hell, it’s international. There’s more at stake now than how you come off in the press.”
“Is this you talking, Lieutenant? Or is it coming from higher up?”
Long didn’t reply.
“No way I’m playing that game,” Kane said, reading Long’s answer in his silence. “I admit that the magazine angle isn’t much, but it could be one more nail in the coffin if we get the case to trial. If we release it or other details prematurely, the Frenches will have all the time in the world to get rid of evidence and come up with a defense.”
“All right, Dan,” Long sighed. “It’s your call … for now.” Then changing gears, he asked, “So if the Frenches did it, how do you think it went down?”
“If they did it, it probably happened in one of two ways,” Kane answered, happy to let their previous conversation lie. “Scenario one: Mr. French had been secretly molesting Jordan for years, probably beginning in her early childhood. Something went wrong the night of her birthday, and he killed her. Afterward Mrs. French decided to make the best of a bad situation, and she helped him get rid of the body.”
“And scenario two?”
“Mrs. French knew all along about the chronic abuse. It was eating her up, and she eventually killed Jordan in a fit of jealousy and rage. Again, Mr. French got rid of the body.”
“So if one’s responsible, they’re both involved.”
“Yeah,” said Kane. “But if that’s the case, the question is: Which parent actually did it? Unless we can turn one of them, I don’t think we’ll ever know.”
“Even assuming we do get one to talk, there’s the husband-wife confidentiality issue.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” replied Kane. “As it is, to either solidify our case against the parents or to rule them out as suspects, we need to interrogate them and pick apart their story.”
“What’s the status on that?”
“Our attorneys are negotiating with their attorneys,” Kane grumbled, remembering the wasted hours he had recently spent in a room so infested with lawyers that one department wag had noted there were enough attorneys present to talk themselves to death. “The Frenches are demanding to be interrogated together,” he went on. “They also want an assistant DA in the room at all times, a doctor in case Mrs. French stresses out, a time limit, an advance look at all evidence, their own lawyers present at all times, the right to end the interview whenever they want, and a transcript of the proceedings.”
“Sounds like more posturing for the media.”
“Correct. They’re also playing for time. I contacted the DA regarding the possibility of a grand jury subpoena to force them to testify, if they try to drag things out too long. So far no response from the DA. Whatever the case, I think that sooner or later the Frenches will have to come in. And when they do, you can be damn sure of one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Long.
“When they do come in,” Kane said tersely, “I’ll be ready.”
26
The rain that started while I was at the reservoir with Mike continued throughout the week, and by the following Sunday I was beginning to wonder whether the skies would ever again be clear. Feeling blue, I sat in my dorm room staring out the window and talking on the phone with McKenzie.
“Jeez, Ali. You’re really not going to tell your mom?” asked McKenzie.
Though it was already after eight in the morning, the street outside my window was still as dark as dusk. To the west, rising on the horizon like an advancing army, storm clouds were massing over the Pacific, promising further precipitation in what had already been an unseasonable week of rain. Cradling the cell phone against my ear, I gazed across the road. On the far side of the botanical gar
den, the towers of the UCLA Medical Center rose in the early-morning mist. I felt a chill, knowing that soon my mother would enter those walls to start the most dangerous phase of her treatment.
“Hello?” McKenzie’s voice echoed from the phone. “Ali?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
“What?”
“My mom.”
“We were talking about your mother. You’re not going to tell her you’ve quit college?”
“No,” I replied nervously, still uncomfortable with a decision I had made on Thursday to take time off from school and see where my CBS job led. “Not yet, anyway. She has enough on her mind.”
“Does your father know?”
“No.”
“Well, at least that explains why you’re still breathing,” McKenzie noted dryly. “But you’ll have to break the news sometime. You’re supposed to start classes at USC in mid-September. That’s just weeks away.”
“I know.”
“You’ve already notified USC admissions office that you won’t be attending?”
“I told them on Friday.”
“Jeez, Ali. Dropping out of UCLA summer session was one thing, but quitting college altogether? Do you like what you’re doing at CBS that much?”
“Some of it,” I replied. “After my piece on the reservoir, management offered to make my position at the L.A. bureau permanent. I figure I can learn more on the job than in some stuffy journalism class, so I said yes.”
“When do you plan to tell your parents?”
“I’ll tell my dad tomorrow, I guess. Mom’s being admitted to UCLA in the afternoon. The whole family will be there. I’ll tell Dad afterward, as long as he promises to let me break the news to Mom. So far he’s been pretty understanding about everything—provided it doesn’t upset Mom.”
“And this will.”
“Unfortunately … yes.”
“Your whole family will be there?” asked McKenzie, backtracking. “I thought Trav had left again on his recital tours.”
“He canceled them. Mom ordered him not to, but he did it anyway. Nate dropped out of his baseball playoffs, too.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Ali. I know how much Trav’s recitals mean to him. Nate’s baseball games, too. I hope everything works out. Tell your mother my family’s praying for her.”
At that moment my call-waiting beep sounded. “Hang on a sec, Mac.” I switched to the second line. “Hello?”
“Ali? It’s Mike.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering why he would be phoning so early. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
I reconnected with McKenzie. “Mac, I have to sign off. Mike’s on the other line.”
“You blow me off the minute a male admirer calls?” McKenzie complained, trying to sound insulted. “Actually, I like that. Shows you’re getting your head on straight.”
I smiled ruefully. “I’m glad somebody thinks so. I’ll phone you later.”
“You’d better,” warned McKenzie. “The only time I see you these days is on TV. Remember, I want details.”
Again wondering why Mike was calling so early, I clicked back to my second line. “Mike?”
“Still here. No one at the beach answered, so I thought I’d try you on your cell.”
“It’s Sunday. My family’s undoubtedly at church,” I explained. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much. I just thought I might take advantage of a slight break in the weather to show you something.”
“Now?”
“Yep, before it starts raining again. Are you game?”
“I suppose so. But what”
“It’s a surprise,” said Mike. “It’ll only take a few hours, and you’ll like it, I promise,” he added mysteriously. “I’ll pick you up in a few minutes. We’ll need to get going before the next storm rolls in.”
“Does this have something to do with Jordan French?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” Mike laughed. “Everything doesn’t have to be about work, Ali. Are you coming?”
“Okay,” I agreed after a slight hesitation, my curiosity piqued.
“Good. Do you have sturdy shoes?”
I hesitated again, trying to recall where I had left my hiking boots. “I think I have a pair around here somewhere.”
“Fine. Wear them.”
Twenty minutes later Mike’s Toyota pulled up out front. Wearing shorts, boots, and a waterproof windbreaker, I climbed into the truck beside him. Though I tried to pry our destination from Mike as we drove up Hilgard and headed west on Sunset, he refused to divulge anything—saying only that I should trust him and that I wouldn’t regret the trip. I was intrigued as well as irritated. Although I hate secrets, I finally gave up and rode in silence.
Instead of following Sunset to the coast highway, Mike swung right on Palisades Drive, heading up Santa Ynez Canyon into the Santa Monica Mountains. Minutes later we turned left on Verenda de la Montura and parked in front of a stout metal barrier. “This is it,” he said, slipping from behind the wheel.
I exited the other side of the truck. “We’re in the middle of the worst rainstorms of the year, and you want to go for a hike?” I said, eyeing a Topanga State Park plaque fastened to the gate.
“You’ll see,” said Mike.
“Tell me where we’re going. I can’t stand secrets.”
“Tough,” Mike laughed. “Let’s get moving.”
Reluctantly, I followed Mike through the gate and descended a narrow walkway. As we approached a streambed below, I could hear the roar of flowing water. When we reached the creek, I saw that the waterway cutting down Santa Ynez Canyon had been swollen by the recent rains, and in places it was threatening to overflow its banks. As Mike and I started up a dirt path bordering the raging stream, I also noticed spray-painted gang graffiti festooning a concrete culvert running beneath the road.
“Seems some of our inner-city brethren have visited recently,” Mike remarked dryly, noticing my gaze. Then without looking back, he took off briskly up the trail.
I lengthened my stride to keep up, still wondering what we were doing there. At first the canyon rose gently, limbs of sycamore and live oak forming a dripping canopy above us. Lining the path, lupine, morning glory, and mariposa lily wildflowers gleamed like jewels amid thickets of buckwheat and fern. As we walked, I smelled the moldy odor of rotting leaves, mixed with an occasional hint of anise and sage from the hillsides higher up.
Soon the trail steepened, and the canyon’s sandstone walls and limestone outcroppings gradually closed in. On both sides, streams newly born from the rains cascaded down steep inclines to join the flow of the main drainage below. Continuing on, Mike and I came to a dilapidated wooden fence, above which the storm-choked streambed forked. When I joined Mike at the water’s confluence, I found him inspecting a large sandstone boulder with a circular depression on its upper surface. “Check this out,” he said, indicating the rounded concavity. “Chumash Indians used this rock to grind acorns thousands of years ago.”
“I thought the Chumash lived farther up the coast,” I remarked. “At least that’s what we learned in school.”
“The Chumash had permanent settlements at the mouths of all the main watercourses around here,” said Mike. “Point Mugu, Malibu and Little Sycamore Canyons, and La Jolla Valley. This place is full of history. Did you know that the treaty for the Mexican-American War was signed at the foot of Cahuenga Pass, right here in the Santa Monica Mountains?”
“No, but thanks for the history lesson,” I replied crankily, still annoyed that Mike had yet to disclose our reason for being there. “You can put that in your book of things nobody cares about.”
“Maybe I will,” Mike chuckled. Then, taking my hand, he stepped into the icy current. “C’mon. We have to cross.”
Hanging on tightly to Mike’s hand, I made my way to the opposite bank, at times wading up to my thighs in the frigid water. Thankful I had worn hiking boots, I followed Mike up the left fork of t
he rushing stream, reaching another branch in the waterway a hundred yards farther on. There we reforded, this time taking the right channel. At a spit of land beyond, two stone chimneys rose from the underbrush—apparently all that now survived of what had once been an old cabin. Past the ruin, Mike and I climbed progressively higher into the canyon. The path, which had initially paralleled the stream, gradually deteriorated—repeatedly forcing us to detour up the steep hillside to circumvent narrow sections of creek and impassable rock faces. After a strenuous section of boulder-hopping, Mike called a rest. “We’re nearly there,” he announced, sitting on a stone outcrop. “Let’s take a breather.”
“No argument from me,” I said, sitting beside him. A constricted section of streambed had forced us to bushwhack a route higher on the ridge, and from our elevated position we had a clear view down the canyon. From where we sat I could see no trace of habitation, no indication that man’s hand had ever touched the land below. Visible only were the sandstone cliffs, the rugged mountains higher up, and ominous banks of thunderheads rising on the horizon.
Enjoying the impromptu hike despite Mike’s continuing refusal to tell me where we were going, I closed my eyes and listened. In the distance I could hear the liquid trill of a bird piping its staccato song; nearer, over the rush of the stream and the rustle of wind in the chaparral, I could make out the intermittent “kr-r-reck—ck” of a Pacific tree frog. From higher on the ridge came the ghostly hoot of an owl. Amazed that such an untouched setting still existed so close to civilization, I opened my eyes. When I did, I found Mike studying me.
“So how’re things going at work?” he asked, not seeming the least bit embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“Great,” I replied. And they were. The numbers on Sunday’s exclusive reservoir report had been stellar, ratcheting me up the network ladder several rungs in one stroke. Unfortunately, my reservoir report had also fed a growing tension between Brent and me. Despite Brent’s ill feelings, New York had requested that I do another network spot, and later in the week Lauren had dispatched me to cover a heat-transfer-tubing leak at the San Onofre nuclear power plant south of Los Angeles. With Max Riemann’s help I turned in a short but professional clip that aired nationally, being used to fill a vacancy in the news schedule. Afterward Max had labeled me a natural, saying I possessed a “red-light reflex” that enabled me to connect with the camera. It seemed to me, however, that my on-camera composure was simply a matter of having a good memory, being able to ad-lib, and not being cowed by anyone or anythingtraits I had developed growing up in the Kane household. But whatever it wasmy seeming confidence, my cut-to-the-chase interviewing style, or even the spillover from my televised rescue effort at the wedgeone thing was becoming increasingly clear to everyone at CBS, especially corporate management: According to the numbers, the viewing public liked Allison Kane.
