by Steve Gannon
“Yes?”
“I just wish that…” Lauren’s voice trailed off.
Catheryn nodded somberly. “So do I.”
Outside in the parking lot, Catheryn sat behind the wheel of her Volvo. Numbly, she revisited her conversation with the newswoman. Nothing had gone as she had anticipated. To her chagrin, toward the end she had even found herself thinking that were it not for what had happened, she and Lauren might have even become friends.
Angrily, Catheryn started her car and jammed it into gear. After pulling around an array of gigantic satellite dishes, she sped past the guard gate and exited onto El Centro. A half block down she turned right on Sunset, heading west.
At the signal at Vine, a white van dropped in behind. Unobserved, it followed her all the way to the beach.
40
Nice threads, Dad,” said Travis, inspecting me with a nod of approval. “You look pretty good in a monkey suit. In fact, you look good enough to bury.”
“The ol’ dad can hob with the best of nobs,” I declared crossly, shooting the cuffs of my tuxedo. “Seen your mom?”
Travis peered across the terrace, searching a sea of women in evening gowns and men in formal attire. “We got separated a half hour ago, but she’s around here somewhere. Nate and Ali are with her.”
Turning, I scanned the Music Center plaza, squinting against a glare from one of several searchlights ringing the concourse, raking the sky with dazzling shafts of light. In days past the Music Center fundraisers had been large; this year it was immense.
Transported as if by magic to some earlier time, the plaza dividing the Mark Taper Forum from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion bore little resemblance to the deserted patio of my previous visit. Now a parade of white tents topped with colorful streamers covered the terrace, their billowing canopies reminiscent of a medieval fair. Beneath their canvas roofs, paintings, jewelry, sculpture, and other artwork donated by patrons and artists were displayed for sale, while white-gloved waiters carrying silver trays meandered among the crowd serving champagne, white wine, and hors d’oeuvres. From the north end of the plaza, the sounds of a string quartet floated over the assembly; from the south I could make out the drone of an auctioneer calling for bids on a diverse collection of items listed on the program ranging from Van Goghs to an Arabian stallion.
“There have to be at least a couple thousand people here,” I noted. “Maybe more. I’ll never find her.”
“You should’ve been here on time,” chided Travis.
“Some of us had to work.”
“If we don’t spot her out here, let’s try the Dorothy Chandler banquet hall,” suggested Travis. “They’re serving food there, and there’s a silent auction going on, too. Mom likes that kinda stuff.”
“Food, huh?”
“Nothing you would want. Barons of beef, honey-cured ham, leg of lamb, lobster Newburg, and a dessert table that won’t quit.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said. “Hold on. Is that your mom over there?”
“Where?”
I pointed toward the plaza fountain, where a small figure had just broken away from a group on the far side. Nate. Skirting the illuminated jets, he was running around the fountain perimeter, timing his advances and retreats to the rise and fall of the geysers.
“You’re right,” said Travis.
“Your eyes are better than mine, kid. Who’s your mom talking to?”
“Mr. West. Ali’s there, too.”
“Mr. West, huh? Who else?” I said harshly.
“The music director and some other musicians,” Travis answered, seeming puzzled by my glacial mood. “They’re probably discussing tomorrow night’s performance,” he went on, referring to a concert that the Philharmonic would be performing on Christmas Eve. I nodded, remembering that the special engagement had been scheduled to celebrate the orchestra’s return, as well as to culminate the final day of the Christmas fundraiser. “Mr. West will be playing the Dvorak Cello Concerto,” Travis added. “I heard it was the highlight of the tour.”
“Is that so?” Without another word, I began bulling my way across the plaza.
Catheryn glanced up as I approached, Travis in my wake. As I continued plowing through the crowd, I saw her excuse herself from the group. Linking her arm through Arthur’s, she started toward Nate, keeping the fountain between us.
I intercepted her and Arthur on the far side.
“Hello, Dan,” Catheryn said coolly. “Nice of you to make it.”
I stopped several feet away, scowling as I noticed that Catheryn and Arthur were still arm in arm. “I got jammed up at work.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Catheryn, making no move toward me in greeting.
“Good evening, Detective,” said Arthur. Faced with the choice of extending his hand in greeting or leaving his arm entwined in Catheryn’s, he chose the latter.
“We need to talk, Kate,” I said. “In private.”
“In private?” laughed Arthur. “In the midst of three thousand people? I think not.”
“I’m not talking to you, Arthur. Stay out of this.”
“Hi, Pop,” interjected Allison. “You’re looking sharp tonight,” she added, apparently sensing an approaching storm and trying to lighten the tension.
“Hi, Dad,” echoed Nate. By then he had rejoined his mother, surprisingly unscathed by his game of chicken with the fountain.
“You kids take a hike,” I ordered. “I need to talk to your mom. Nate, go up to the banquet hall with Travis and Allison and get some chow. We’ll see you there.”
“We already ate,” said Nate.
“And now isn’t the time or place,” added Catheryn.
“Oh? Would a hotel room suit you better?”
Catheryn frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Before I could reply, Arthur spoke. “Listen, Detective. You’re clearly upset about something, but Catheryn and I have obligations to the Philharmonic tonight that-”
“I told you to stay out of this,” I broke in, my voice ominously flat.
“Go away, Dan,” said Catheryn, tightening her arm in Arthur’s. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. Later, maybe. Not now.”
“All right. You want to be with this turkey, go ahead. You seem to have made your choice.”
“ I’ve made a choice? That sounds strange coming from you.”
I noticed that Travis, Allison, and Nate were watching our exchange in shock. Like all married couples, Catheryn and I occasionally quarreled, but humor had always leavened our differences and rarely did we fight in the presence of our children-let alone in front of a crowd of strangers. All at once Nate, with the unerring instinct of youth, sensed the heart of the matter. Rushing forward, he squirmed between Catheryn and Arthur. “Leave my mom alone,” he said, trying to disentangle the cellist’s arm from Catheryn’s.
“This is simply too much,” said Arthur. Using his thumb and forefinger, he pinched Nate’s earlobe and dragged him out to arm’s length. “Mind your manners, boy.”
“Ow!” yelled Nate, throwing an ineffective swing. “Lemme go!”
“Arthur, don’t,” said Catheryn. “He’s just-”
My arm shot out. Without thinking I closed my fist on Arthur’s hand. Nate broke free of Arthur’s grasp an instant later, but I didn’t let go. Angrily gripping the cellist’s hand in mine, I squeezed. Arthur paled, his lips drawing back in a wordless grimace.
“Dan, no!” Catheryn screamed.
“Let him go, Dad,” pleaded Travis, tugging at my arm. Allison and Nate stood paralyzed, watching in horror.
I released Arthur’s hand and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “You may think you can put your paws anyplace you want on my wife,” I said softly, “but keep them off my kids.”
Though my warning had been meant only for Arthur, Catheryn heard. I saw her eyes widen in comprehension. Furious, she threw herself between us. “Let him go, Dan.”
With a snarl I shoved Arthur away, sending him st
umbling into a circle of stunned onlookers. Cradling his hand, he glowered at me, his face ashen. “You animal!” he spat.
I stepped forward. Catheryn moved to block me. “Arthur, get out of here,” she hissed, her eyes locked on mine. “Go find some ice for your hand.”
“Catheryn, this is inexcusable,” Arthur moaned. “If he thinks he can-”
“Leave, Arthur. Now!”
Arthur glanced at me. Swallowing whatever he had been about to say, he hurried off, still clutching his hand to his chest.
“Travis, take Allison and Nate to the buffet room,” Catheryn commanded, still eye to eye with me. “I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”
“Mom, I-”
“Do it, Travis.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After the children left, Catheryn and I stared at each other for a long moment. At last she spoke. “Congratulations, Dan,” she said quietly. “You’ve outdone yourself this time. I didn’t think it was possible, but I guess you never know about somebody. Even your own husband.”
“Having a husband doesn’t seem like something you take too seriously these days,” I said.
“You don’t own me,” Catheryn retorted. “I’ll be with whomever I want.”
“With whomever you want, huh?” I said, reeling with surprise at her tacit admission. I had expected an excuse, a denial… something. Anything but this. “Fine. You want to be with that narcissistic bastard, suit yourself. But tell Arthur if he ever lays a hand on one of my kids again, tonight was just a prelude.”
Catheryn’s lips set in a hard, thin line. “I don’t want to see you for a while, Dan,” she said.
“No problem. I’ll be staying at Arnie’s.”
“You do that.” Eyes brimming with anger and hurt, Catheryn turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Following a sleepless night of self-recrimination and regret, I telephoned home early the following day. Allison answered. “Hi, Pop,” she said somberly. “Where are you?”
“Work, where else? Listen, kid, put your mom on.”
“I mean where did you go last night?”
“I stayed at Arnie’s. I’m bunking back there again. Is your mom around?”
“No. What’s going on, Dad? Mom wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, but she was really upset. Why are you being so nasty?”
“Where’s your mom? I need to talk to her.”
“Answer my question first,” Allison said obstinately.
“You’re treading on thin ice, princess. Get your mom.”
“What’s that, Pop? You’re breaking up. There must be something wrong with the phone connection.”
“Damn it, Ali…”
“Hold on.” Apparently Allison slammed the receiver on the table several times, causing me to pull the phone from my ear.
“Allison?”
“That’s better,” said Allison, coming back on. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. The fight between you and Mom.”
“I swear, when I get my hands on you, Ali…”
“You’re breaking up again, Pop. If it continues I’ll have to hang up.”
A long silence.
“Dad?”
“I’m still here.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this. Especially your timing. Mom just got home yesterday, and Christmas is tomorrow. At this rate the holidays are going to be just peachy.”
“Your mom and I are having a disagreement that doesn’t concern you or your brothers.”
“You’re jealous of Mr. West, aren’t you?”
“Did Kate tell you that?”
“I was there last night, Dad. Only someone with a room temperature IQ could’ve missed what was going on-which probably explains why Nate and Travis are still in the dark.”
“I’m sorry you kids saw that,” I said guiltily. “This may be hard for you to swallow, but my actions occasionally fall short of perfect. And maybe sometimes your mom’s do, too. That’s all I’ll say, except that your mother and I have some things to work out. Okay?”
“Okay, Pop,” said Allison reluctantly.
“Now, where’s Kate?”
“The Music Center.”
“What’s she doing there this early? The concert’s not till tonight.”
“She’s in a special rehearsal with the music director.”
“What for?”
“Well, Pop, that little handshake you gave Mr. West put a crimp in his playing. The doctor says he’ll be out for a couple of days. In case you don’t know, it’s tough putting on a cello concerto without a cello soloist. The Philharmonic tried to get a virtuoso substitute, but on short notice they didn’t have any success.”
“So?”
“So Mom has the Dvorak in her repertoire,” Allison continued excitedly. “She’s never performed the solo part with the orchestra, but Mr. West has heard her play it, and he thinks she’ll do great. Plus, she accompanied every one of his performances in Europe, so it’s not as if she’s going into it cold.”
“Kate’s going to be the soloist tonight?”
“Uh-huh. Isn’t that exciting?”
“It is,” I said sincerely. “I’m happy for her.”
“Me, too. Mom was so nervous when she left. I’ve never seen her that flustered.”
“She’ll get over her butterflies once she gets up there and starts playing. I’ll bet she knocks them dead.”
“I hope so.”
“Any chance of getting tickets?”
“No way, Dad. This thing’s been sold out for weeks.”
Another long pause. “Is Travis around?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Why? Already tired of conversing with the only one of your offspring who can form a declarative sentence of more than four words?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. And don’t start in again, Ali, or I really will wring your neck the next time I see you.”
“When will that be?”
“Christmas, I suppose,” I sighed. “If I don’t get ahold of her, tell your mom I’ll be by tomorrow to cook. Can’t have the whole family starving because we’re…” My voice trailed off. Sadly, I found myself unable to put into words what was going on between Catheryn and me. “Anyway, put Travis on,” I finished lamely.
“He’s out on the beach taking a walk.”
“Well, when he gets back, ask him to throw together some clothes for me and drop them by Arnie’s.”
“Please get things straightened out with Mom soon, okay?”
“I’ll try, kid. I want to. I really do, but things aren’t that easy.”
“Yes, they are, Dad. Like you always tell us: Figure out what you want, then do whatever it takes to get it.”
41
After talking with Allison, I spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon interviewing various males between the ages of twenty and sixty who had made the mistake of attending one of the police-sponsored “killer awareness meetings” in Pacific Palisades, Mission Viejo, and Newport Beach. Though I conceded that the job needed doing, I held little hope of its bearing fruit, concurring with Dr. Berns’s assessment that the killer was far too careful to make that type of mistake. Nonetheless, other developments in the investigation had recently begun to appear more promising-talking with employees of the law firm of Donovan, Simon, and Kerr, for instance-although lately those assignments had all been funneled to other members of the unit besides me.
I knew that keeping me out of the loop was no coincidence. Following the killer’s escape from the Bakers’ house, Snead had done his best to keep me off the front line. Nonetheless, things could have been worse. Hotline calls had tripled after Lauren Van Owen’s on-air revelation of the FBI profile, and in response to increased demand, a number of task force members had been relegated to permanent phone duty. At least my current assignment got me out of the office.
Later that day, upon returning to task force headquarters, I found several message slips on my desk. One was from a woman who had refused to leave her name. Curious
, I dialed that number first, waiting impatiently as the phone rang. As I was about to hang up, someone answered.
“Van Owen.”
“Damn,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Why did you call me here?”
“This is important. Can you meet me in an hour?”
“No.”
“Later?”
“What’s this about?”
“I can’t talk over the phone. Please, Kane?”
I hesitated. “After work,” I said tersely.
“When do you get off?”
“Late.”
“Drop by when you’re done.” Lauren rattled off an address and hung up before I could object.
At a little past eight that evening, after stopping at a market for several items I still needed to cook Christmas dinner the following day, I drove to Brentwood, took a right off San Vicente Boulevard onto Westgate, and stopped three blocks down. I sat for a moment, inspecting a string of gray condos across the street. When Lauren had given me the location, I’d thought it sounded like a residential address. Now I was sure.
I climbed out of the Suburban and crossed the street, wondering what I was doing. I knew I had to see Lauren at least once more, but I would have preferred neutral territory for the meeting. Still, I went.
The sprawling complex I entered covered several acres of prime Westside real estate, with extensive landscaping between secluded, two-story units. Lauren’s condo lay in the back. I pushed the doorbell. Lauren answered the door on the second ring.
She was wearing tight fitting jeans and an oversized T-shirt, with just a trace of makeup accenting her eyes and lips. “I’m sorry, officer,” she said, a puzzled expression furrowing her brow. “You seem to have mistaken my house for a doughnut shop. Krispy Kreme is up on Wilshire.”
“Funny, Van Owen,” I laughed in spite of myself. “Where do you get your material?”
“TV sitcoms, mostly,” Lauren answered with a grin. She slipped the security chain and opened the door the rest of the way. As I stepped in, she placed an arm affectionately around a tall, coltish youngster standing beside her in the entry.
