by Steve Gannon
Nevertheless, even when I reported on an unrelated story like the power-plant leak, I suspected that the Jordan French factor, as I had come to think of it, was in play. Because of my family ties, I had become solidly linked in the public consciousness with the ongoing murder investigation. Though to date CBS had made no on-air mention of it, my Dad’s being the lead investigator on the case was something about which every other network, newspaper, and tabloid had reported in depth. In a sense, I had progressively become part of the story, and as such I often found myself dodging aggressive, irritating questions from other correspondents. Since Sunday’s reservoir report, in order to avoid a gaggle of waiting reporters outside work, I had started parking my car in the Farmers Market lot and using the back-alley door into the newsroom. It was a situation I didn’t relish, but one that I hoped would ease with time.
Mike shifted on the rock outcrop, trying to get comfortable. “Congratulations on the reservoir piece,” he continued. “That spot you did on the San Onofre power plant was excellent, too. I knew you were going places.”
“You did, huh?” I said, feeling myself flush with pride. “Well, a lot of it is thanks to you—including my getting the job at CBS in the first place. I couldn’t have done the reservoir piece last weekend without you, either. I really appreciate your help, Mike.”
“My pleasure,” said Mike. “Speaking of which, you didn’t tell anyone I shot that footage, did you?”
“No. I think Brent suspects, but he hasn’t said anything.”
“What about Lauren?”
“She didn’t push it. Don’t worry. It’s our secret.”
“Good. Like I said, if that information were to get out, I would definitely be in hot water over at Channel 2. Speaking of which, how’s everyone at network handling your success? Liz, for instance?”
I smiled. “Green with envy. As for Brent, he was furious about my scooping him again. Lauren, on the other hand, has been surprisingly supportive. Management called from New York on Friday to offer me a full-time position. I think she had something to do with it.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Full-time? Are you going to accept?”
I nodded. “I can’t pass up an opportunity like that.”
“I’m happy for you, Ali,” Mike said quietly. “As long as it’s what you want.”
I couldn’t read what was in Mike’s eyes. “They may have something big for me coming up soon,” I went on. “CBS has been negotiating with the Frenches’ publicist and lawyers, trying to set up an interview. Assuming it happens, guess who stands a good chance of being involved.”
“You?” said Mike, his expression still betraying nothing.
“Uh-huh. Oddly enough, it was at the request of Mr. and Mrs. French. In fact, it was one of their stipulations. I’m not sure network will go for it, but if CBS gets the interview, Jordan’s parents want me there.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I suppose that aside from the obvious tie-in with my father, they think the interview will play better to the public if they’re being questioned by a young woman not much older than their daughter. You know, like when a rapist hires a female attorney to handle his defense, or when someone accused of a hate crime gets an African-American lawyer to plead his case. Plus, after my interview with Mrs. French at the museum, Jordan’s parents probably think I’m sympathetic.”
“Are you?”
“I was at first. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Mr. French’s knowing about the reservoir location changed your mind?”
“There’s more to it than that,” I said, recalling the material I had seen in my father’s murder book.
“We talked about that last Sunday,” said Mike. “You indicated there was something in the autopsy report implicating the parents.”
“I didn’t say that. You did.”
“And you didn’t argue,” Mike pointed out. “I can keep my mouth shut, Ali. I’m right, aren’t I? There’s something in that report. That’s why your dad kept it sealed.”
Once again I regretted having broached the subject. I trusted Mike, but I had made a promise to my father. When I didn’t reply, Mike pushed on. “The body was submerged in water for weeks, so there couldn’t have been much evidence left—fingerprints, fibers, and the like,” he reasoned. “It had to have been something else, such as her being beaten, or maybe even sexually molested. But how could that tie in with the parents, unless …”
“Let it go, Mike. Please.”
Mike snapped his fingers. “That’s it, isn’t it? There was some kind of sexual abuse going on, and it showed up in Jordan’s autopsy. That’s why the police are all over her parents, just like the tabloids have been saying.”
“Mike, I can’t talk about this.”
Mike looked at me quizzically, then lifted his shoulders. “Whatever you say. I guess I don’t blame you for wanting to protect your story.”
“It’s not that.”
“Right.” Mike stood, stretched, and checked the sky. “You know, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I overheard my news director talking about you the other day. Something about stealing you away from network and hiring you as a local announcer for KCBS.”
“Really?” I said excitedly.
Mike smiled. “Really. See, you’re not the only one with secrets. C’mon, let’s hit the trail.”
Mulling over Mike’s surprising revelation, I followed him down an embankment, rejoining Mike by the stream a dozen yards farther on. From there the walls of the canyon closed in again, once more making for difficult going. Eyes lowered, I picked my way over the tricky terrain, concentrating on my footing. As we turned a bend, I was struck by a rush of mist and the roar of falling water. Startled, I raised my head.
We had come to a stone grotto. Rock walls towered over us on all sides. Fifty feet up, gigantic boulders were wedged in a narrow opening of the waterway. Over the top of the uppermost boulders, a curtain of water hissed through the morning air, falling in a broad, crystalline sheet to a shallow pool near where we stood.
“Oh,” I whispered.
Mike grinned with pleasure at my reaction. “Most of the year this stream is just a trickle. As you can see, it’s worth getting up here after a rain.”
I stared, at a loss for words.
“I knew you’d like it,” said Mike, taking my hand as he stepped into the water. “This is one of my favorite spots.” Then, making for the far bank of the pool, “There’s a way to the top. The view from up there is amazing.”
A stinging spray bathing my legs, I allowed myself to be led past the base of the falls, awed by the power of the rushing water. To the left, dangling from an unseen anchor, a knotted rope trailed down the face of a nearly vertical rock wall. When we reached the bank, Mike grabbed the rope and tested it, letting it take his full weight. “It’ll hold,” he said. “You go first. I’ll catch you if you slip.”
“We’re going up there?”
Mike nodded. “Unless you don’t want to.”
I squinted up the stone face. Thirty-five feet of strenuous climbing would bring me to a ledge, after which it appeared an easy scramble to the top of the falls. But first I had to get there. And if I slipped making it to the ledge, my landing would be crippling, even in the unlikely event that Mike managed to break my fall.
“Give it a try, Ali. If you can’t make it, just slide down the rope.”
Though I wanted to say no, I couldn’t. “I’ll make it,” I said. I grabbed the rope. It felt rough in my hands, the knots thick and knobby. I gave the line a tug. It felt solid, but still I had misgivings. Though fearless regarding most physical endeavors, I hate heights. Nonetheless, despite my fear, I leaned back and placed my feet against the wall.
“That’s it,” said Mike. “Now just walk your way up.”
Nervously, I started up the slippery rock, alternately moving my hands and feet. My forearms quickly felt the strain, but I resisted the temptation to stop partway. Forcing myself to continue, I inched
my hands up the rope knot by knot, progressively scrabbling my feet higher on the wall. Though it was a struggle, I made the ledge in one continuous effort.
“Way to go,” Mike hollered from below.
“Nothing to it,” I yelled back, fighting to catch my breath.
Mike grabbed the rope and began climbing, making it look easy. Seconds later he joined me on the ledge. Then, worming our way through a flared chimney formed by the boulders above us, we continued to the top. Once there Mike led me to a flat sandstone ledge overlooking the surging falls and the pool below. I sat carefully, dangling my legs over the edge. Seeming oblivious of the drop, Mike nonchalantly eased down beside me.
I didn’t say anything for several minutes, letting my eyes drink in the pristine landscape. Despite the effort required to get there, I conceded that Mike had been right. The view from the top was breathtaking. In addition to the expanded horizons provided by our airy vantage, the torrent sluicing past touched a powerful chord of excitement within me. Staring at the hypnotic arc as it fell to the pool far below, I felt as if I and the rocks and the whole world around us were vibrating with the thrum of some monstrous, well-oiled machine. Lifting my eyes, I gazed at the sky, drawn by a flash of movement. Wheeling above a distant ridge, a red-tailed hawk traced slow circles in the sky.
Noticing my glance, Mike leaned closer. “There’s still plenty of wildlife around here,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the water. “Deer, coyotes, bobcats, even mountain lions. But you have to be lucky to spot them.”
I tried to imagine the canyon as it must have been when the first Native Americans visited thousands of years ago. I could almost believe that nothing had changed since then. “Do you get up here often?” I asked.
“No. I usually save coming up here for special occasions.”
“Like during a flood?”
“Sometimes,” Mike laughed.
“I suppose you bring all your girlfriends up here,” I remarked, immediately wishing I could retract my words.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever invited,” said Mike. “I come here to be alone and think. It’s always been a good place for me to work things out.”
“I have a place like this myself,” I confessed, surprised by his reply. “My own spot where I go when I need to be alone.”
“Where is it?”
“The botanical garden at UCLA, across from my dorm,” I answered. “A stream runs down the middle and there’s a waterfall there, too. Nothing like this, but it’s beautiful too … and quiet. There’s a bench just past a footbridge, right beneath the tallest tree in the exhibit. From there you can’t see any of the campus buildings, or any of Westwood, either. Just flowing water and stands of bamboo and beds of exotic plants.”
“Sounds nice. Maybe I could visit it with you sometime.”
A gust whistled up the canyon, lifting my hair and raising a crop of goose bumps on my legs. My nylon jacket had kept my upper body mostly dry, but my shorts were soaked, as were my shoes and socks. Shivering, I lowered my head against the wind. Seeing this, Mike scooted closer and put an arm around me. I shifted uncomfortably, though I found I liked the feel of Mike’s touch. And his arm around me did make me warmer, though not simply by shielding me from the wind.
For a time Mike and I sat enjoying the stormy morning. Gradually, to the accompaniment of distant rolls of thunder, the sky darkened as yet another squall began sweeping onshore. Soon clouds tangled the sun in shadow, sailing in like a menacing armada. Seconds later it began to drizzle, threads of rain stitching the waterlogged hillsides around us. Before we knew it, what had started as a gentle sprinkle turned into a pelting deluge. Behind us, a creek that had been trickling down the slope abruptly swelled, carrying down a clatter of rocks and gravel from higher up.
Mike glanced up the hillside, then at the roaring stream spilling over the falls. “We have to get out of here,” he said.
“Do I detect a note of urgency?” I asked.
“If the water rises much more—and it will if it keeps pouring like this—we won’t make it out,” Mike answered tersely. “Sorry, Ali. I didn’t think it would start raining again till later.”
“Can’t we climb up and find a trail higher on the ridge?” I asked nervously.
Mike stood, pulling me to my feet. “Maybe farther down. The canyon’s too steep here. Let’s go.”
Mike and I retreated through the boulder caves, pausing when we came to the rope ledge overlooking the pool. My breath caught as I stared over the sheer drop.
“I’ll go first,” said Mike. Without awaiting a reply, he grabbed the rope and leaned backward. Feet against the sandstone wall, he rapidly worked his way down, quickly arriving at the edge of the pool. “You ready?” he shouted up the face, taking a position below me at the base of the cliff.
“Not really,” I called back, my stomach churning as I placed my hands on the top knot. Belatedly remembering that Travis had once told me that down-climbing is often more difficult than going up, I backed to the edge of the precipice, sensing the void looming behind me. I hesitated when my heels reached the drop-off.
“You can do it,” Mike yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth.
A streak of lightning sizzled across the sky, striking a ridge not a half-mile distant. An instant later the thunderclap startled me into action. Narrowing my eyes against the rain, I leaned back and began inching my feet down the wall.
Fear and adrenaline gave me an initial burst of strength. Nevertheless, my hands and forearms, exhausted from the climb up, soon cramped. Worse, rain had wet the rope, making it difficult to grasp. In an effort to descend more quickly, I accidentally let one of my feet slip off the rock. The other foot quickly followed. A heartbeat later I found myself dangling, suspended only by my hands. I glanced down, instantly wishing I hadn’t. I attempted to get my feet back on the wall. Couldn’t. Willing myself not to panic, I struggled to wrap my legs around the rope, trying to keep from falling. No good.
“Slide down the rope, Ali.”
“I … I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll catch you if you fall.”
I knew I had to do something. Soon. My hands were failing. My legs were all but useless on the slick rope.
“Move, Ali. Now!”
I forced myself to slacken my grip. I began sliding downward. Slowly, I descended in jerky stops from knot to knot.
I eased down several feet.
And another foot.
And another.
Nearing the rocks below, my grip suddenly gave out. I was falling! I heard myself scream as the slippery knots began banging through my hands …
Mike’s strong arms caught me before I hit the ground.
Unnerved by my fall, I lay in Mike’s embrace, resisting the impulse to bury my face in his chest. Gently, Mike set me on my feet. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied shakily, grateful for Mike’s strength and filled with a new respect for Travis’s sport of rock climbing. That, and the realization that it was definitely not for me.
“Good.” Mike brushed a dripping strand of hair from my face. “Let’s get out of here.”
With Mike in the lead, we fought our way downstream, at times crossing waist-deep torrents, at times circumventing narrow sections by scrambling up slick, muddy slopes—all the while pelted by the wind-whipped downpour. After what seemed like hours, we finally arrived back at Mike’s truck—wet, tired, chilled to the bone, and laughing at our folly.
“I swear, Mr. Cortese,” I said, attempting to wipe a spatter of mud from my legs, “you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Mike replied, scraping his boots on the curb beside his Toyota. “I’ll be sure to call you when we get our next monsoon.”
“You do that,” I retorted, still shaken by my fall but giddy with relief that we had made it back. Then, gazing at my filthy hiking shoes and mud-smeared legs, “In the meantime, is there somewhere I can hose off bef
ore going home?”
“We can clean up at my place,” said Mike. “It’s on the way.”
27
Mike’s house, a modest, one-story bungalow that he had inherited from his parents, sat behind a hedge of holly trees on the corner of Galloway and one of the east-west streets dividing Pacific Palisades above Sunset Boulevard. Though small, the house was attractive and well maintained, with stained-glass windows, hardwood floors, and white plastered interior walls that curved at the top to spacious, nine-foot ceilings. The rain had stopped by the time we arrived, at least for the moment. Mike cleaned our boots with a hose near the garage, then offered to toss my mud-encrusted clothes into the washer while I warmed myself in a hot shower. Still shivering from our hike, I gratefully accepted.
Twenty minutes later, my skin pink and tingling from the shower, I dried myself with a thick towel, brushed my hair back from my forehead, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a soft cotton workshirt that Mike had given me to wear while my clothes were drying. Not finding him when I padded barefoot from the bathroom, I wandered into the living room, idly checking the contents of an oak bookcase against the far wall. Three upper shelves contained hardcover novels by popular authors: Clancy, Grisham, Conroy, King. Another held a collection of leather-bound classics by Stevenson, Melville, Dickens, and the like. But it was a small section of books on the bottom shelf that caught my eye.
