Kane

by Steve Gannon

  “So why didn’t he?”

  “Hide the bodies? Who knows? Maybe he changed his mind. Hell, the guy’s a psycho-maybe he came down here to run around naked in the moonlight and didn’t want anybody watching. Bottom line, if he did mess with the lights, he went to a lot of trouble to make sure they couldn’t be fixed before he came back.”

  “Pretty far-fetched. If he didn’t want the lights coming on, why didn’t he simply unscrew them? Or better yet, open the door manually?”

  “I don’t know. I admit it’s a long shot, but something’s going on. Let me make a call and see what we come up with at the Palisades scene.”

  “Go ahead,” said Barrello doubtfully.

  I retrieved my cellular phone from the front seat of the Chevy. Returning to the shade of the portico, I punched in Paul Deluca’s number.

  Deluca, who for the past hour had been at the Palisades crime scene awaiting the arrival of a technician from the security company, sounded testy when he answered. “I phoned that hump twice to remind him,” he complained. “Son of a bitch still forgot. I hate putting up with that kinda crap.”

  “That’s why we’re getting the big bucks, Paul. Listen, go out to the garage and examine the door-opener lights. They’re dead, and I want to know if they’ve been tampered with. And don’t screw up any possible prints.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Deluca. “I have done this kinda thing before. By the way, the missing car turned up. It’s in a Santa Monica body shop.”

  “One mystery down. I still want the opener examined. Do it now, okay? I’ll wait for you to call back, so don’t take all day.”

  After closing the garage and relocking the house, Barrello exited the front door in time to hear the last of my conversation. “So are we gonna cooperate on this?” he asked.

  “Think you can handle working with a hotshot big-city detective such as myself?”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said dryly. “What’s first?”

  I thought a moment. “For one, we can have our labs cross-compare all physical evidence. We’re currently examining the Larsons’ personal records, and we’ll be interviewing every friend and family member we can turn up. I’m sure you guys have already done the same, so let’s cross-check those areas, too. It would be helpful to establish a link, even if it’s only marginal.”

  “So we’re goin’ on the assumption that the killer knew both families?”

  “Oh, he knew them,” I said, my eyes searching a ridge west of the house. “Maybe only peripherally, but he knew them. The women are the key. You don’t turn up two women that beautiful at random. He selected them, stalked them, and when the time was right, he killed them.”

  Noting my stalking reference, Barrello glanced up at the ridge, where the framed skeletons of three homes under construction were silhouetted against the skyline. “Think he lives in the complex here?”

  “Not necessarily, but close enough to know the area. By the way, I talked to a kid at the gate. Anybody can get through, especially in the morning when work crews arrive.” My cellular phone rang. I flipped it open. “Deluca?”

  “The one and only, paisano, ” Deluca answered. “That prick from the security company finally called. He’s on his way.”

  “What about the utility light on the door opener?”

  “It was out, like you said. I pulled the cover and found what appeared to be two dead bulbs. I tried one in a house lamp, where it worked fine. But get this. As I was unscrewing the other bulb, I discovered that a wire had been cut on the light unit and tucked back into the housing.”

  “Good work, Paul. Get SID out there again. Have them dust the bulbs and light cover, and anything else on the opener the guy might’ve touched. As a matter of fact, have them take the whole thing back to the lab. I want all doorknobs in the house examined for fibers, too.”

  “Anything else?”

  I thought a moment. “Sample any oil and radiator coolant drips in the garage.”

  “I’m on it.”

  I broke the connection, then looked over at Barrello. “The light on the Palisades opener was disabled. On purpose.”

  Barrello nodded. “I’ll have our guys go over the Pratts’ opener. Doorknobs, too. Could be we’re on to something.”

  “Maybe.” I glanced at my watch, realizing there was no way I would avoid freeway traffic on the return trip to West LA-especially if I stopped to have the Chevy checked. “Time to hit the road. I’ll be in touch.”

  Barrello shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Kane?” he said, gazing back at the house. “What’d you mean when you said it made sense? You know, when you found the fibers on the bathroom doorknob?”

  “Simple. I’m betting those fibers will match the clothesline rope our guy used.”

  “Gee, I’ll alert the media.”

  “Remember the missing eyelids?” I continued, ignoring Barrello’s sarcasm.

  “So?”

  “So here’s what I think. Before our guy went to work on the wife, he trussed up Mr. Pratt, choked him out, and snipped off his eyelids.”

  “But why?”

  “Can’t close your eyes without eyelids.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Barrello, beginning to understand.

  “Then, when the killer was ready to start on Mrs. Pratt,” I finished grimly, “he pulled the husband to his knees, tied him to the door, and made him watch.”

  9

  The drive back from Orange County proved as much of a pain as the trip there. By the time I had conferred with Lt. Long in West LA and then made the trek to Malibu to pick up Catheryn and the kids, it was after six. Glad to be finished for the day, I pulled off on the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway across from our house. As I waited for a break in the traffic to make a U-turn, I studied the beach-weathered structure that had been my home from the time Catheryn and I were first married.

  It’s a common misconception that everyone in Malibu is either rich, a movie star, or a rich movie star. Actually, although Malibu has more than its share of high rollers and celebrities, there are also plenty of ordinary, hardworking residents who’ve lived there for years-struggling to hold on to their homes as real estate values skyrocketed around them. Located near the mouth of Las Flores Canyon, our house sat on a sandy cove near the northernmost crescent of the Santa Monica Bay. A wedding gift from Catheryn’s mother, who had spent her childhood there years back, the dilapidated wood-framed structure, undoubtedly a detraction from the considerable value of the beachfront lot upon which it sat, appeared to rise in some organic fashion from a thicket of beach cane, aloe, and ice plant. Emperor palms framed it on either side, rising high above the second level, with tendrils of flowering bougainvillea climbing the ancient walls in a thicket of lavender that hid much of the cracked siding and sagging roof. It was a family joke that if the plants died and the termites moved out, the building would probably collapse. Nonetheless, it was our home, and every member of our family loved it.

  Inside, apparently having finished her homework and chores for the evening, I found Allison camped in the living room watching the evening news. Nate, who had been playing video games in his former bedroom loft above the entry, came down to join us. Travis was present as well, having driven from USC for Catheryn’s final evening home.

  “Kate, I’m here,” I called into the bedroom.

  “Be out in a sec, Dan,” she called back.

  “How’s it going, rookies?” I asked, dropping down on the couch beside Allison and reaching for the remote control.

  Before any of them could answer, a familiar face flashed up on the screen.

  “Hey, Mom!” yelled Nate. “Dad’s on TV again!”

  “Darn,” Catheryn answered from the bedroom. “Has the screen cracked yet?”

  “Not yet,” Nate laughed. “But you’d better hurry.”

  “Yeah,” added Travis. “Smoke’s coming out the back of the set.”

  Recognizing the Larsons’ Pacific Palisades house in the background behind my
image, I raised the remote control and flipped through the stations, pausing on the Channel Two news.

  “C’mon, Dad,” Nate complained. “Turn back to seven. We want to see you.”

  “Tough. Nobody ever said this family was a democracy.”

  “Perish the thought of anyone but Dad getting his hands on the remote control,” Allison complained. “This family needs two TVs. One for Pop, another for the Earth people.”

  “Maybe your new dad will buy you one,” I said. “Now hush. I’m trying to listen to this.”

  “Since when have you taken an interest in foreign affairs?” asked Catheryn, glancing at the television as she entered the room.

  “The sports roundup will be on in a sec, honeybunch.”

  Catheryn smiled, folding a blouse she’d carried in. “As if anyone here cares about football but you and Nate. I swear, Dan-oh, look. You’re on this station, too.”

  “Turn it up,” cried Nate.

  “Turning it off’s more like it,” I said. “You kids don’t need to see this kind of stuff.” As I raised the remote, however, a map of southern California flashed up on the screen. The cities of Pacific Palisades and Mission Viejo were both circled in red. I hesitated, realizing the implications.

  “Come on, Dan,” said Catheryn. “I want to see this.”

  Steve Gannon

  Kane

  Reluctantly, I lowered the control, watching as the scene shifted to a foggy street outside the Larsons’ house. Police, neighbors, and reporters clogged the narrow road. The coroner’s wagon had already departed, but additional squad cars and news vans had arrived by the time of the news conference. Feeling an unsettling sense of deja vu, I listened to my televised image fielding questions, the most difficult being posed by Lauren Van Owen. The coverage ended with an out-of-sequence shot of me saying, “Sooner or later, we’ll get this maggot.”

  Once again the Channel Two news anchor came back on. The shot widened to include the co-anchor, Lauren Van Owen. “KCBS has recently learned from LAPD sources that the Pacific Palisades murders have now been linked to last month’s deaths in Orange County,” she said solemnly. “Authorities are searching for a serial killer they believe to be operating in the Southern California area.” Then, as she turned to a new camera angle, “In other news today…”

  “Damn,” I groaned, thumbing the off button. “How’d that bimbo find out so fast?”

  Catheryn frowned. “Dan. Watch your language.”

  “Excuse me, Kate. Didn’t mean to offend the innocent ears of our offspring here.”

  “Which bimbo is Dad referring to?” asked Nate.

  “Nate!” scolded Catheryn, shooting me another look of irritation.

  “That cute little number on Channel Two who’s always picking on Dad, that’s who,” Allison piped up. All the children knew of my general disregard for reporters. They were also well aware that over the years I’d had more than one confrontation with the crime correspondent in question.

  “You mean Lauren Van Owen,” said Travis, joining in.

  “The one Dad says is such a tightass?” asked Nate, ignoring Catheryn’s renewed look of irritation.

  “Right,” said Allison. “Whatever that means.”

  “She’s quite a dish,” Travis persisted. “Don’t you agree, Dad?”

  Sensing myself outnumbered, I rose from the couch. “If you like sharks,” I answered tersely. “Speaking of which, let’s go grab some grub. The Sea Lion will be packed before long,” I added, referring to a nearby Malibu restaurant that offered an excellent selection of reasonably priced seafood.

  “Do I have time to finish packing?” asked Catheryn. “I’m almost done.”

  “Do it when we get back, sugar. I’m starving.”

  Just then my cell phone rang. I glanced at caller ID. Lieutenant Long.

  “Damn,” I said aloud as I flipped open my phone, realizing this wasn’t going to be good news. “Evening, Lieutenant.”

  “Kane,” Long’s gravelly voice came back.

  “Hold on a sec.” Covering the mouthpiece, I turned to Catheryn. “I’m going to take this outside. Get the kids ready. I’ll be done in a minute.” Without awaiting an answer, I made my way to the kitchen and stepped through a beachfront window, exiting onto a second-floor deck I’d added to the house some years back. Access to the deck was still via the window only; I had originally intended to install a door but had never managed to find the time. Like so many of the additions, bootlegged rooms, and quick fixes made to the house over the years, time had lent the window-doorway arrangement the air of permanence.

  “Kane. You still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “More than I wanted.”

  “Ditto that. I spent an hour with the captain after you got back from Orange County. Mayor Fitzpatrick wants us to take an aggressive stance on the situation before it gets out of hand. I get the feeling he’ll be squeezing as much political juice out of it as possible, too. And I just now got a followup call from the captain. He informed me that Fitzpatrick came unglued when he saw tonight’s newscasts. Says if we can’t put a lid on our own people, he’ll do it for us.”

  “That’s all we need,” I said, gazing over an expanse of seaweed-strewn sand to the ocean beyond. The sun had set, and several couples were making their way along the water’s edge, enjoying the final light of day. “Any idea who leaked to the press?”

  “No. Although if I had to guess, I’d say it was somebody in the mayor’s office. Naturally, they’re pointing their fingers at us.”

  “Back up a sec, Lieutenant. What does Fitzpatrick mean by ‘taking an aggressive stance’?”

  “That’s why I called. First thing tomorrow, Fitzpatrick’s announcing the formation of an interagency task force. LAPD’s gonna be working with the OC Sheriff’s Department. Under the auspices of Mayor Fitzpatrick, of course.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I exploded. “Politicizing the investigation will foul up everything. I’ve already got the ball rolling with the detective handling the case in Orange County. Why can’t we just-”

  “As usual, you’re not listening,” interrupted Long. “It’s out of my hands. Be downtown at the new Police Administration Building tomorrow morning at ten. Ask at the desk. We should have a room assigned by then.”

  “But…”

  “No argument. Be there. And Dan?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Once this thing gets rolling, watch your back.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll see tomorrow.”

  After hanging up, I stepped through the window back into the kitchen. Catheryn stood waiting with the children by the front door. “What’s wrong?” she asked, apparently noticing something in my expression.

  “Nothing. Let’s go.”

  “I know you better than that. What is it?”

  “They’re forming a task force. I have to be downtown at headquarters first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “A task force. That’s bad?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “For one thing, it means that from now on I’ll have a bunch of useless humps looking over my shoulder.”

  “Why don’t you consider it as an opportunity to improve your social skills?” suggested Allison. “You know, learn to play with the other kids.”

  “Thanks, Allison. I’ll do that.”

  “Will you still be able to drive me to the airport?” asked Catheryn. “If you want, I could catch a ride with Arthur.”

  I frowned. “I’ll take you.”

  “No more talking,” clamored Nate. “Let’s go eat!”

  “I agree, squirt,” I said, happy to change the subject. “What are you having tonight? Your usual fish sticks and fries?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about the rest of the troops? Allison?”

  “I’ll be partaking of the grilled snapper,” said Allison. “Predictably, Mom and Travis will undoubtedly choose th
eir customary-and, I might add, boring-shrimp and scallop salad. How about you, Pop?”

  I thought a moment, still irritated by Long’s news. “Me? Tonight, I have a hankering for something different.”

  “What?”

  “Tonight, I’m having shark.”

  10

  I left Arnie’s house early the following morning, allowing plenty of time to drive Catheryn to LAX and still make it downtown to the LAPD meeting on time. Nonetheless, by the time I’d picked her up in Malibu, reversed direction, and cleared the McClure Tunnel in Santa Monica, the flow of early-morning commuters had already begun to slow. Deciding to take surface streets to the airport instead, I exited on Lincoln. Thirty-five minutes of stop-and-go driving brought us to the far end of the Los Angeles Airport Departure Concourse, where I pulled to a stop in front of the Tom Bradley International Terminal.

  Conversation on the way in had been minimal-me stretching the yellow lights and jumping the reds, Catheryn reviewing her checklist, certain she had overlooked something. “Don’t forget that Nate’s bus arrives at seven-twenty sharp,” she reminded me for the third time as I stepped from the car and began unloading her bags. “Allison said she would-”

  “I’ll make sure everything goes as smooth as glass,” I interrupted. “Sugar, you’re acting like a nervous hen. Nate will catch the school bus every morning, Allison will get to class on time, and Travis will be coming home on weekends to help. If I have to work late, Christy said she would stay over. Don’t worry, when you return you’ll find all the Kanes well fed, relatively clean, and definitely happy to see you. Jeez, Kate. Don’t you trust me?”

  Catheryn smiled. “Absolutely not.” Then, again referring to her list, “I left my tour schedule on the bedroom dresser. Dates, locations, and hotels are all listed, although some might change. I included hotel phone numbers, too. My cell should work most places over there, but if you can’t get through, try me at my hotel. I’ll try to call as often as possible, but the time difference will make it difficult.”

  “We can talk on weekends. Keep the phone bill down.” I slid from behind the wheel and crossed to Catheryn’s side of the car.