Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “Mike?” I said, determined to put my terrors behind me. “I know I’m asking a lot and that the moment has probably passed, but … do you think we could try again?”

  “Ali, you don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Can we?”

  Instead of answering, Mike took my hand and led me down the hallway to the bedroom I had seen earlier. When we reached the doorway, he scooped me into his arms and carried me into the room. After kicking off his sandals, he gently lowered me to the bed and lay beside me on the comforter, propping himself up on one elbow.

  “What happens next?” I asked nervously, feeling a wave of both apprehension and desire.

  “Anything you want,” Mike replied, combing his fingers through my hair. “But first you have to tell me.”

  “Tell you?”

  “Yes. For instance, would you like me to kiss you?”

  “I … I think so. Yes.”

  “Then tell me.”

  All at once I understood. Mike was giving me control. “I … I want you to kiss me,” I said, my voice trembling.

  Mike leaned closer and brought his lips to mine. I circled him with my arms, again detecting a sweet lingering of brandy as I opened my mouth to his. A rush of heat washed over me as Mike returned my embrace. Hesitantly, I slipped my fingers beneath his shirt and ran my hand over the hard, lean muscles of his chest.

  “Do you want me to touch you, too?” Mike asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want you to touch me.” Shyly, I unbuttoned my shirt, letting it fall open. My nipples were already pointed and hard. I inhaled sharply as Mike brushed his palm across them, teasing them even more erect. Then he slid the shirt from my shoulders and removed it. Next he unfastened the buttons of his own shirt, shrugging it off.

  Unsure of myself but unwilling to stop, I raised my lips to Mike’s and kissed him again, my tongue now tentatively exploring, my body reveling in the warmth of his bare skin and the strength of his hands on my back and hips and legs. Never suspecting it could be like this, I shuddered with excitement at his touch. Running my fingers through his hair, I pulled his face to my breasts. “Kiss me,” I whispered, shocked at my own boldness.

  Passion mounting, I writhed with pleasure as Mike’s lips moved lower, his hands cupping my hips, pulling me against him. Mike had said he would do nothing I didn’t want, and I was certain he would stop if I asked. I also knew I wouldn’t ask. I didn’t want him to stop. This was different from the horror I had experienced in the past, a terror that had so changed my life. Now it was what I wanted. And I wanted more.

  “Take off your clothes,” I said huskily, emboldened by a power I felt unfolding within. I lowered a hand to Mike’s belt and unfastened his buckle, then tucked my thumbs under the waistband of my sweatpants and rolled the soft cotton fabric over my hips. Drawing up my knees, I slipped off the sweatpants and dropped them to the floor. Mike stripped off his jeans and undershorts at the same time.

  I came into Mike’s arms once more, feeling the electric touch of our bodies and the burning hardness of Mike’s need pressing against me. He kissed me, his lips warm and demanding, his hands finding my breasts and thighs and the fiery liquid core at my center. And then his mouth was everywhere upon me, bringing me to the brink of ecstasy. I arched my back, shuddering as wave upon wave of rapture swept over me.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” Mike murmured again.

  My breath coming in gasps, I pushed Mike onto his back and straddled him. Taking him in my hands, I brought my lips to his, my breasts pressing against his chest, my hair fanning over my shoulders. Mike returned my kiss, then looked into my eyes. “Tell me, Ali,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you, Mike,” I replied, my fears dissolving, more sure of myself than I had ever been before. “I want you.”

  Fumbling at a nightstand beside the bed, Mike opened a drawer. Finding what he wanted, he slipped on a protective sheath as I kissed his cheek and neck, then lay still as I guided him inside. A moan escaped my lips as Mike entered me. Overcome with desire, I again brought my mouth to his. Then, moving with a rhythm as ancient as life, I slowly began rocking my hips, my need mounting with Mike’s, our bodies joined in a hunger neither of us could deny. I cried out softly when I climaxed, my passion cresting and surging and flooding like a relentless tide. And again, moments later, I cried out anew as Mike joined me, everything simple and flowing and complete.

  Afterward we lay together, our bodies entwined in comfortable silence. With my head cradled on Mike’s shoulder, I watched as shafts of light filtered into his room, tracing a pattern of shifting shadows on the ceiling. Neither of us spoke, for no words seemed necessary. And as I lay in Mike’s arms, I felt myself slowly filling with a certainty beyond understanding. Deep within, I knew that something inside me had changed … indelibly and for all time.

  28

  Monday. I sat at my desk in the CBS newsroom, staring at my computer screen. Though I tried to focus on work, my mind kept returning to thoughts of Mike. Several times I started to phone him but stopped, deciding it was too soon after the weekend to call and not wanting to give the impression of being clinging or needy. Besides, I wanted him to call me.

  Picking up a pile of notes instead, I scanned a list of questions that I had been considering—questions Lauren had asked me to compile for the upcoming network interview with the Frenches. Assuming it happened. The Frenches, their retinue of attorneys, and their publicist were still negotiating with CBS over terms of the interview, and it seemed to me that things were progressing at the rate of continental drift.

  For reasons of their own, the Frenches had continued to stipulate that I be their interviewer. As much as I wanted to participate, the Frenches’ motive for wanting me notwithstanding, I knew it was a completely unrealistic demand, and it came as no surprise when CBS held firm on insisting that a more senior correspondent conduct the interview. After much discussion, however, to my delight a compromise was reached in which Brent and I would both participate. On another front, the Frenches had also demanded that a copy of all questions be submitted to them beforehand. CBS had refused. Although the parents had bowed to network policy on that particular point, many other contentious details still remained to be worked out. Nevertheless, despite ongoing problems, an interview date had been tentatively set for two weeks hence, with a national airing to follow.

  As much as I tried to concentrate, I repeatedly found my thoughts returning to Mike. At last I reached for the telephone, realizing that if I wanted to get any work done at all, I needed to speak with Mike first. I dialed his home number from memory. Getting his answering machine, I listened to Mike’s recorded voice but didn’t leave a message. Next I phoned Channel 2. After numerous delays, someone transferred me to one of the editing bays. Mike picked up on the third ring.

  “I’m glad you phoned,” Mike said, sounding tired. “I’m leaving for Telluride early tomorrow, but I was planning to give you a call and see whether we could get together tonight.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Mom is being admitted to UCLA this afternoon. I’m visiting her after work, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. Can I call afterward?”

  “Sure. Give your mom my best, will you?”

  “I will,” I replied. Then, changing subjects, “How are the changes to your documentary coming?”

  “Getting there,” Mike sighed. “After you left, I worked on revisions straight through the night.”

  “You were up all night?”

  “Yep,” Mike answered wearily. “The only thing left to do now is to lay down a new music track over the ending montage, per your suggestion. By the way, you were right. Your changes are exactly what Forgotten River needed.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said, noticing Brent making his way across the newsroom. “Everyone at Telluride is going to love it.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  �
�Don’t worry, they will. How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m not certain, but at least a week,” Mike replied. “Screenings don’t start until Friday, but I’m flying out early to get the lay of the land.”

  “Well, break a leg, or whatever you film people say.”

  “Thanks, Ali. Let’s talk later. If it turns out we don’t see each other tonight, I’ll call from Colorado. In fact, I’ll call every day. I miss you already.”

  “You’d better. See you, Mike.”

  After replacing the receiver, I glanced up to find Brent standing beside my desk.

  “Mike?” he guessed.

  I nodded.

  A canny look flitted across Brent’s face, quickly replaced by a smile. “So you two have been seeing a lot of each other?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, not missing Brent’s brief expression of what I construed to be disapproval. “Something wrong with that?”

  “No, of course not,” Brent said quickly. “Mike and I have been friends for years. He’s a great guy. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brent hesitated. “Look, I’m only saying this because I know Mike,” he went on reluctantly. “The guy’s a regular Don Juan—girlfriends lined up around the block. There’s no way he’ll ever get serious about anyone, including you. As long as you realize that, fine.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said, staring down at my desk. “Did you want something else?”

  “Not really, except I thought it was high time for you and me to bury the hatchet,” Brent said with a shrug. “I admit I was angry at first about your reservoir piece, but I have to give you credit. You showed plenty of hustle on that, just like when you got your interview with Mrs. French.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brent extended a hand. “As it appears we’ll be working together on the French interview, how’s about we let bygones be bygones. Friends?”

  I took his hand, relieved that our unspoken feud of the past weeks finally seemed over. “Friends.”

  “Good.” Brent squeezed my hand, then released it. “I have work to do, but let’s get together later and discuss how to structure our meeting with Jordan’s parents.” Without awaiting a reply, he started back across the newsroom.

  *

  On the way to his cubicle, Brent pondered the wounded, doe-eyed expression he had seen on Allison’s face when he’d spoken of Mike. She had been unable to hide her hurt, although she’d certainly tried. Things between her and Mike must have progressed further than he had thought. In fact, from the lost-little-girl look in her eyes, she was already in love with him, though she would probably never admit it.

  Following the airing of Allison’s reservoir piece, Brent had questioned every news cameraman at CBS. No one he had talked with had admitted shooting the footage she’d used, but someone had. At the time Brent had been fairly sure it was Mike. It was a bit of knowledge he had kept to himself, suspecting it might come in handy. Given present developments, Brent was now certain that Mike had accompanied Allison to the reservoir and shot her footage. The real question was: How had Allison known to be there in the first place?

  Brent had contacted all his sources in the DA’s office. He had also phoned an informant at the coroner’s office. He had learned nothing. Whatever tip Allison had received about the reservoir must have come from another direction, and only one avenue came to mind: Detective Daniel Kane. But the lead detective on the Jordan French case wouldn’t have simply handed over inside information to Allison, even if she were his daughter. She had to have procured it another way. Brent hadn’t figured out that part yet, but it was the only thing that made sense. Which begged question number two: Did Allison know anything else? And if so, had she told Mike? On impulse, Brent lifted the phone and dialed KCBS. Moments later he had Mike on the line.

  “How’re you doing, buddy?” Brent asked casually. “I know you’re probably swamped with getting ready for Telluride and all, but I wanted to call and wish you luck.”

  “Thanks,” said Mike. “And swamped doesn’t come close to describing it. I haven’t even packed yet, and I’m still making last-minute changes to the film.”

  “One question and I’ll let you go. Allison and I are hammering together another report on the Frenches. We’re under time pressure, and Lauren asked me to double-check Allison’s research and get corroborating statements.”

  “Ali’s doing another spot on the Frenches? She didn’t mention it to me.”

  “She’s the secretive one, isn’t she? Believe me, there are wheels within wheels in that girl.”

  A pause. “So what do you want to know?” Mike asked.

  “Well, when Ali told me you were the one who shot that exclusive reservoir footage for her, I—”

  “She told you? Damn.”

  Brent’s pulse quickened. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I realize if it got out, it would create problems for you over at Channel 2. Incidentally, that was clever the way you two came up with the reservoir angle in the first place.”

  “I just invited Ali on a bike ride,” said Mike. “Whatever credit there is goes to her. She’s the one who wanted to retrace Mr. French’s mountain-bike route.”

  Brent thought quickly. “And she figured out Mr. French knew the location of the reservoir because he passed it on his bike rides,” he said, part of the puzzle falling into place. But lots of people knew the reservoir was there. There had to be more.

  Brent hesitated, reasoning that at some point Allison must have confided her discovery to her father, and whatever she had told him carried enough weight to spark his revisiting the area. That analysis was satisfactory as far as it went, but a piece of the puzzle was still missing. Not immediately coming up with an answer, Brent pushed on. “How much did she tell you about the autopsy?” he asked, taking a stab in the dark.

  “The sexual-abuse angle? Just hints, like insinuating her father had solid cause to suspect the parents,” said Mike. “At the time I thought she was being cagey to protect her story. Appears I was right.”

  Sexual abuse? Jesus! thought Brent, struggling to contain his excitement. The police must have evidence that old man French was molesting his daughter! But if that’s the case, why hadn’t Allison reported it? Maybe she hadn’t been able to get confirmation. Well, maybe she can’t, but I can, he thought. “On something this big you don’t really blame her, do you?” Brent continued smoothly. “Anything you want to add?”

  “Not really. Listen, Brent, I’ve gotta run, but please keep quiet about my shooting that footage for Allison.”

  “No problem,” said Brent, his mind still racing. “Good luck at the festival.”

  “Thanks. See you when I get back.”

  After hanging up, Brent remained at his desk for several minutes, putting it all together. The part about Mr. French’s bike rides resulting in a second police search of the reservoir still didn’t make sense, but the fact Mr. French knew of the secluded reservoir site prior to the murder was newsworthy in itself. The real bombshell, however, was the child-abuse angle. Police investigators had to have cause for their dogged concentration on the parents, and the sexual abuse of a fourteen-year-old, especially chronic abuse, could have shown up at autopsy—even though the body had been submerged for weeks. Several of the tabloids had speculated on the child-abuse possibility from the very beginning, but this was different. This was real. And if there were evidence of sexual abuse in the autopsy report, Brent intended to reveal it.

  He lifted the phone again. He needed independent corroboration, either from the DA’s office or the coroner’s office. Preferably both. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had done this kind of thing before. When he told his contacts that CBS knew for certain that the autopsy results were consistent with chronic child abuse, someone would crack—especially if Brent said he was merely seeking confirmation from a second independent source.

  It turned out to be more difficult
than expected. Among other things, Brent had to call in markers and make promises he wasn’t certain he could keep. But none of that mattered. Within an hour he had everything he needed: quotes, corroborating statements, even a pro forma “no comment” from the LAPD.

  Time to talk to Lauren.

  *

  I stuck my head into the bureau chief’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

  “That’s right,” said Lauren. “Come in and close the door.”

  Glancing curiously at Brent, who was lounging cross-legged on the couch across from Lauren’s desk, I stepped inside. “What’s up?”

  “Brent has put together a new piece on the French case. We’re running it this evening,” Lauren replied evenly. “Given the circumstances, I want to know whether you have anything to add.”

  Puzzled, I shrugged. “What story and what circumstances?”

  “I’m sorry, Ali,” Brent jumped in. “Mike called me this morning. He told me all about your bike ride and how you had discovered that Mr. French knew of the reservoir location—well before the murder.”

  I paled. “Mike told you that?”

  Brent smiled sympathetically. “He also told me that you said there was evidence in the autopsy report proving that Jordan had been sexually abused. I just got confirmation from several independent sources. Ali, you know I had to follow up on this. I can’t imagine why you didn’t come forward with the story earlier, but this is too big to ignore.”

  Silently, I cursed myself for having confided in Mike. Although I hadn’t told him that much, look what had come of it. Thank God I hadn’t mentioned the time-of-death discrepancy.

  “Why didn’t you come forward with this?” demanded Lauren.

  “I couldn’t,” I replied, still not wanting to accept that Mike had betrayed me, but seeing no way around it. “The sexual-abuse angle was something I got off the record.”

  “You could have gone to another source for corroboration,” Lauren pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

  “I know. But my father said that if it got out, it would jeopardize his case.”