by Steve Gannon
“I saw them this morning.”
“I mean really looked. When was the last time you looked into their eyes and asked what they were thinking, what they were feeling?”
I didn’t respond.
“They think you’re some kind of hero, Dan. It’s almost painful to see how much they want to please you. They need something from you that I can’t give them. I’m not sure what, but whatever it is, you’re not giving it. They need you, and you haven’t been there for them. Not for a long time. Not since Tommy died.”
At the mention of Tom, my heart fell. “I have to work,” I said. “I can’t always be there holding their hands.”
“That’s not what I mean. You may be a cop, but you’re also a father, with responsibilities that far outweigh any commitments you’ve made to the LAPD. This wall you’ve built around yourself is hurting everyone. Especially your children.”
“Kate…”
“People usually deal with tragedy in one of two ways,” Catheryn pressed on. “Religion or humor. You’ve shied away from both. Maybe somebody could help.”
“Let’s drop this, Kate.”
“And talk about it tomorrow?” she said bitterly. “Dan, it wouldn’t hurt to see a counselor.”
“A shrink? That subject is closed.”
“Think about it. Please,” Catheryn said softly. “We could go together. Tom’s gone, but Travis, Allison, and Nate are still here. They need you. So do I.”
When our entrees arrived, Catheryn and I ate in silence. Catheryn finished her champagne; I stuck with water. We both had decaf following the meal, deciding to skip dessert.
Regretting the turn of our earlier conversation, I sat back in my chair, for the first time noticing a delicate piece of jewelry pinned to Catheryn’s blouse. I had given her the emerald pin after Tom’s birth. With the subsequent arrivals of Travis, Allison, and finally Nate, I had presented her with other emerald pieces. All were modest, but over the years the green stones had grown to become not only reminders of the joy we had shared at the birth of each of our children, but also as an affirmation of our family’s strength and love. “I see you have on Tom’s brooch,” I said cautiously. “Haven’t noticed you wearing that for a while.”
Catheryn raised a hand to touch the pin. “You gave me this at the hospital,” she said. “Remember what you said?”
“I told you I loved you,” I answered without hesitation. “That I would always love you.”
Catheryn smiled. “What else?”
I thought a moment. “I thanked you for giving me a son and making us a family.”
Catheryn took my hand. “Dan, we need to talk about Tommy. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. Things haven’t been right between us, not between any of us, since his death. I know we’re all to blame for that, me included, but you…” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “It’s time to let go, Dan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mourning is natural. It’s part of the healing process. But you’ve never moved on. It’s destroying you, Dan. And it’s tearing apart our family.”
Still holding my hand, Catheryn searched my eyes. Though I could tell she was disheartened by what she saw, she continued nevertheless. “Dan, if you don’t let go of life’s sadnesses, you’re letting them do something worse to you than they’ve already done.”
“ You may be able to forget Tom by throwing yourself into your music, but it’s not that easy for me,” I shot back, regretting my words the instant they were out of my mouth.
Tears sprang to Catheryn’s eyes, but she held my gaze. “Tommy was my firstborn child,” she said quietly, fighting to control her voice. “He was a part of me, a part of us. I’ll never forget him.”
Hearing the heartbreak in her voice, I looked down, too ashamed for words.
“Dan, I think we should get counseling.”
“I told you, that subject is closed.”
“Please think about it,” Catheryn pleaded. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”
Following dinner, Catheryn accompanied me out to the street in silence. Still not speaking when we reached the Dorothy Chandler parking garage, she slid in beside me on the front seat of the Suburban. As she did, she noticed two overnight bags in the back. “You going somewhere?” she asked icily.
I glanced at the luggage. “Not me, us. And not anymore,” I said regretfully, jamming the station wagon into gear and squealing the tires all the way up the ramps to the street above. “I had something planned for later,” I added as we wheeled onto Grand. “That idea’s obviously shot to hell.”
“What was it?”
“A romantic interlude.”
“Really?”
I nodded glumly. “Bad timing, huh?” I paused a moment, then continued. “Listen, Kate. I came here tonight to try to patch things up before you left. I’ve missed you so much these past weeks. Things aren’t the same without you.”
Catheryn regarded me for a long moment. “What sort of romantic interlude? X-rated motel, vibrating bed, Jacuzzi tub?”
“A lot better than that, I promise,” I said with a hopeful smile. “I packed us each a change of clothes, and Christy’s staying over to get Nate off to school in the morning. C’mon, Kate. What do you say to putting aside our differences, just for tonight? I’m truly sorry about how things went at dinner.”
Catheryn looked at me suspiciously. “What hotel?”
“It’s a surprise. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Kate, I can’t stand our being like this. Let’s give tonight another chance. Please?”
Understandably put off by the evening’s earlier turn, Catheryn shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Please, Kate.”
Catheryn hesitated. “After what’s been going on between us, I certainly don’t feel like-”
“Please?”
Catheryn hesitated a moment more, then finally relented. “Well, I am leaving for almost six weeks, and I do hate to waste a perfectly good babysitter. But I’m definitely not making any promises about what happens when we get there.”
I smiled, encouraged to see that Catheryn was making an effort, too. “One step at a time.”
Avoiding the freeway, I jogged over to Beverly Boulevard and turned west, my eyes sweeping side streets and alleys along the way-a habit from patrol days I had never been able to shake. Twenty minutes later, after cutting across Santa Monica Boulevard, I took Palm to Sunset, then backtracked at the first light and headed toward the beach.
Catheryn, who on our cross-town trek had repeatedly asked where we were going, suddenly sat erect. “We’re staying here?” she asked in amazement as I pulled into the palm-lined entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel. “We haven’t been here since…”
“… that second honeymoon we took a few years back,” I finished. “I got the same bungalow we had then. That was one hell of a weekend, Kate.”
Catheryn’s cheeks colored. “Yes, it was. But Dan, what about the expense?”
“We’ll just have to get along without the new Ferrari,” I joked.
As we proceeded up the curving drive, I studied the four-story Crescent Wing that had been added to the hotel during the early fifties, its walls now partially concealed behind a thicket of tropical trees and flowering plants. As we passed, the thought struck me that for some reason the uniquely opulent building, with its pink stucco exterior, red tiled roof, and arched perimeter walls somehow seemed to exude an aura of hospitality that contrasted its near-garish appearance.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” said Catheryn.
“Believe it. This is where I bring all my women.”
Again making an effort to forget our previous argument, at least for the moment, Catheryn shot me a playful look of admonishment. “There had better be only one woman in your life, mister.”
“Don’t worry, Kate. I’m saving my godlike body just for you.”
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br /> “You’d better.”
As I jammed the Suburban into park, a valet in a pink polo shirt stepped to Catheryn’s door to help her out. A tall doorman wearing a forest-green jacket with contrasting white and gray cuffs appeared at my window on the other side. “Good evening, Detective,” he said, his eyes twinkling with the unmistakable humor of someone who has at one time or another seen almost everything, and who by nature chooses to view the lighter side of life. “It’s been a while. Will you be staying with us tonight?”
During the early eighties, prior to moving up to homicide, I had served on an FBI/LAPD task force investigating organized crime figures-some of whom had briefly resided at the Beverly Hills Hotel. While there on a three-week stakeout I had grown to know many of the employees, including the doorman, and over the years I’d stayed in touch. “That’s the plan, Chris,” I answered with a grin. “Glad to see they haven’t fired you yet. Still got ’em fooled, eh?”
Chris grinned back. “Same as you, Detective. Same as you.”
Waving off an approaching bellman, I reached into the Suburban and retrieved our overnight bags, then escorted Catheryn up the red-carpeted walkway to the entrance. I glanced back as we reached the door, noting that Chris had directed a valet to park my Suburban in an area up front reserved for the hotel’s most prestigious patrons-close enough to the entrance that vehicles left there could be retrieved before departing owners arrived at the curb. Smiling, I watched as my station wagon shuddered to a stop between a sky-blue Porsche and a gleaming silver Rolls. Though a small token of respect, Chris’s gesture was not lost on me.
As I registered at the desk, I noticed that a number of changes had been made to the lobby since we’d last visited, but the original Art Deco theme had been maintained throughout, the reserved tone somehow now even more exquisite. After I finished registering, I led Catheryn past the Polo Lounge to a series of enclosed gardens beyond. A number of security men in suits and ties had been unobtrusively present in the lobby. Once outside, I noticed two more stationed near a bungalow on the left.
“Ex-LAPD guys working hotel security. Some big shot’s probably spending the night,” I explained to Catheryn, noting her glancing at the men as well. As we approached the pair of heavyset men, I barked, “Look alive, girls. No sleeping on the job.”
Both men momentarily straightened, then relaxed. “Kane. What are you doing here?” one asked.
“Slumming,” I answered.
Catheryn and I continued down a flower-lined walkway to the right, moving through puddles of light spilling from horn-shaped copper lamps, their downturned bells illuminating the path. “Am I imagining things,” asked Catheryn, “or do you know everybody in this town?”
“Everybody worth knowing,” I answered as we rounded a stand of palms. “Here we are. Four-A. Remember?”
Catheryn regarded the bungalow where we had spent a long weekend celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. Nearly hidden behind a wall of giant bird of paradise, the small cottage brought back happy memories. “I certainly do,” she said. “Plants are bigger, though.”
I led her to the door. “It’s been a few years, sugar. Check out the inside.”
Like the lobby, the interior of the bungalow had been tastefully refurbished since our last visit, but it was a vase of yellow trumpet daffodils on a bedroom nightstand that caught Catheryn’s attention. “Oh, Dan,” she said softly, bending to admire the bouquet of flowers. “They’re lovely. How did you find them at this time of year?”
I had begun giving Catheryn daffodils when we first started dating. “Had the concierge order them special,” I answered. “Needed a week’s notice. Can you believe they had to come all the way from Holland?”
“I know,” said Catheryn. “Thank you.”
I smiled, pleased by her reaction. Then, my smile fading, “Kate, I really am sorry about how I’ve been acting. I realize things have been hard on you, too. And I haven’t been making them any easier.
“No. You haven’t.”
“Sometimes I wonder why you’re even with me. There are times like tonight when I saw you up there onstage with the orchestra that I can’t help feeling you could do a whole lot better than me.”
“Dan, if you don’t know by now why I’m with you, I’m not about to tell. Your head’s already big enough.”
“I’m serious, Kate. Do you ever get the feeling that if things had been different, maybe you could’ve been happier with somebody more, I don’t know, more-”
“Normal?” Catheryn joked. Then, seeing my expression, she touched my cheek. “You are serious, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am.”
“I’m with you because I love you,” she said simply. “And I’ve missed you, too. More than I can say.”
And then she kissed me. Her mouth, at first soft, slowly grew insistent. Her tongue lightly touched mine, then became more demanding. I felt her breasts brushing against me, and sliding my hand down the strong curve of her back, I drew her to me, her body electric against mine. With a soft moan of desire, she returned my embrace.
I lifted her easily and carried her to the bed.
Our clothes came off in a rush between kisses, winding up in a scattering across the floor. Our earlier argument forgotten, at least for the moment, we began to make love quickly and hungrily, lost in a passion as unstoppable as a flood. Catheryn arched beneath me, her fingers digging into my back, her breath hot on my cheek.
I kissed her lips, running my hands over the smoothness of her breasts, smelling the fragrance of soap and the sweet scent of passion as her nipples grew hard beneath my palms. Moving against me in a rhythm as ancient as time, Catheryn entwined her legs around me and held me tightly, whispering endearments that hearkened back to the first time we’d been together.
She cried out softly when I entered her. Then closing her eyes, she joined me in a timeless celebration of our union, both of us swept away in a rapture as flowing and seamless as a waterfall.
Later we made love once more, this time slowing to bestow intimacies each of us knew pleased the other, sharing lingering strokes, leisurely touches, loving caresses. Able to wait no longer, Catheryn climaxed once again, but I delayed the ultimate moment as long as I could. At last, burying my face in the fresh-smelling tangle of her hair, I spent myself a final time, murmuring the words Catheryn had spoken earlier to me, wishing the night would never end.
Afterward, as Catheryn slept, I lay awake in the darkness, my mind roaming the landscape between consciousness and oblivion. Lulled by the sound of Catheryn’s breathing, I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts awash in a dreamy swirl of images: A brass marker set in a grassy hillside. The inquisitive stare of a long-eared rabbit. The smell of jasmine in a suburban back yard. Nate’s tears wet on my cheek. The ragged cuts on a young boy’s hands. And running through it all, like the clash of a dissonant chord, the anguish I had seen in Catheryn’s eyes as she’d spoken of our lost son.
6
Monday morning, at precisely 3:29 AM, Victor Carns awoke from a deep and dreamless sleep. He lay motionless for several heartbeats, taking slow, measured breaths as his mind spiraled to consciousness. Moments later he extended an arm and groped the nightstand, shutting off his alarm clock an instant before it sounded.
He lay still a few seconds more, then flipped off the covers and rose from the bed. Without turning on the light, he crossed to the window and opened the blackout curtains. Standing nude and unseen, he surveyed the predawn California landscape.
At the mouth of the canyon far below, guarded on the north by the twin peaks of Saddleback Mountain, the inky outline of Portola reservoir shimmered in the moonlight. To the west, over an encirclement of hedges and wrought-iron fences bordering his estate, Carns could see a single pair of headlights winding down Coto de Caza Drive. In their serpentine progression south, the beams occasionally swung wide, spilling over an expanse of golf fairways traversing the center of the valley. Above the road, in stands of sycamore and live oak, iso
lated glimmerings marked a smattering of residences climbing the opposite ridge. Most of the homes there were ensconced in high-end developments with names like “The Arbours,” “Upper Rancho Colinas,” and “The Woods,” titles Carns considered pretentious, typical of the Southern Californian gentry that had recently descended like locusts upon the area.
Although the sun wouldn’t rise for hours, a glow from the lights of Rancho Santa Margarita lit low-hanging clouds to the west. Urban sprawl had reached the base of the Santa Ana Mountains, with similar developments like Irvine and Mission Viejo gobbling up mammoth tracts that had once been Spanish missions and Mexican potreros.
Years before, after careful consideration, Carns had chosen the gated community of Coto de Caza as an appropriate site for his estate. Originally known as Gobernadora Canyon, Coto lay nestled in the brush-covered foothills of the Cleveland National Forest, twenty miles from the Pacific. In keeping with its ranching heritage, the canyon had been subdivided as an equestrian community, with homesites and horse riding easements throughout. Though not a horseman, Carns had selected Coto because of its access to urban centers, quality of lifestyle, and privacy. Over the years his choice had proved exceptionally satisfactory, at least on the first two counts. Arterial thoroughfares to the population centers of Orange and Los Angeles Counties lay within easy reach, and Coto’s 44,000-square-foot clubhouse, Robert Trent Jones, Jr., golf course, Olympic-class aquatic center, multiple tennis courts, and huge equestrian facility provided one of the finest residential environs in Southern California. Privacy, however, had increasingly become a problem.
Leaving the window, Carns crossed to his dresser and pulled on underwear, sweat pants, a cotton T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes. After descending a broad staircase to the main floor of his mansion, he proceeded through a gigantic living room, treading a collection of tribal rugs and flat-woven kilims from Persia, the Caucasus, and Turkey-many of whose value far exceeded an average family’s yearly income. Without stopping, he continued down a long hallway to a well equipped gymnasium. There for the next hour he exercised without pause, spending fifteen minutes on an inclined treadmill, thirty with free weights, and a final quarter hour on Nautilus and Gravitron machines.
