by Steve Gannon
***
Stepping back inside, Catheryn found her children gathered in the entry. They had obviously been listening. “I’m sorry you heard that,” she said numbly.
All three children remained silent.
Catheryn gazed at each in turn, Allison the longest. Finally she spoke. “I think it’s time we had a talk.”
Allison averted her eyes. “About what?”
“I want to know why your father gave you those pictures. And I want to know whatever it is you three haven’t told me. I want to know what this… this thing is that you’ve been hiding. I want to know everything.”
“Mom, I-”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” Catheryn said. “I know that all three of you had a talk with your father while I was in Europe. I want to know whatever it was you told him, and I want to know now. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Allison quietly.
“And afterward, I’m going to ask something of each of you.”
“What?”
“I’m going to ask for your word on something. And I want you to give it. Will you do that?”
All three children nodded solemnly, sensing the gravity of their mother’s mood. “What’s the promise, Mom?” Nate asked timidly.
“Simply this,” said Catheryn. “I want each of you to promise that there will never be secrets between us. Ever again.”
44
Officer James Odegard squinted at the line of condos sliding past his window. “Hang a left and then pull into the next alley,” he instructed. “There’s parking around back.”
“Right.” Officer Donny Greenbaum accelerated to the corner and turned left. Sure enough, there was the alley. “You been here before?”
Odegard had worked the streets for thirteen years, and everything about him said he’d been there, seen it, done it. “Yeah,” he said. “Seems like I’ve been to every one of these places, one time or another. Matter of fact, I was called to that one last Christmas,” he added, tipping his head toward a three-story apartment building on the right. “Guy punched out his girlfriend. Said she ruined his Christmas.”
“What’d she do?”
“Burned the mashed potatoes.”
Greenbaum slowed as he approached a parking area. “Can’t say as I blame him. What’s turkey without mashed potatoes?”
“That’s what he said.” Odegard pointed past a cluster of detached garages to a walkway marked “No Parking.” “There’s a spot over there.”
“I see it. We’re sure gettin’ a lot of domestic calls this Christmas, huh?”
“Worst time of the year.”
Greenbaum pulled onto the walkway, parking beside a blue Toyota. “Why’s that, do you think?”
“Who knows?” Odegard glanced at the mobile digital terminal mounted below the dashboard, rechecked the call address, grabbed his baton, and piled out of the cruiser. “C’mon, kid. Let’s do it.”
“Right.” Greenbaum grabbed his own baton and hurried after his partner.
Smart, willing, and physically fit, Greenbaum had graduated near the top of his academy class. He was going to be a good cop-move up to detective in four or five years, maybe even eventually make lieutenant-but he knew he had a lot to learn. In the time since he’d started riding patrol, his training officers had opened his eyes to a lot they didn’t teach in the classroom. Some Greenbaum agreed with, some he didn’t, but he’d resolved to reserve judgment until he had the full picture. Although he was only six months into his probationary boot year on the force, one thing he had already learned: Things weren’t always as they seemed.
He caught up with his T.O. inside the complex. “That’s it,” said Odegard, stopping in front of a two-story unit on the left. “One fifty-seven. You do the knocking.” Without awaiting a response, he stepped into the shadows, moving behind a clump of palms.
The condo was quiet, but lights burned in several windows-one downstairs, another on the second floor. Greenbaum pushed the bell. Listened. Rang it again. Then, thinking the button might be broken, he knocked. Finally the door swung open.
“Detective Shelby, West LA,” said a dark-haired man standing on the other side. Greenbaum noticed an LAPD shield hanging from the man’s belt.
“Yes, sir. We got a call-”
“I know.” The man squinted into the darkness. “You got a partner?”
“Right here.” Odegard stepped from the bushes. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Family disturbance,” the detective answered. “Wife got beat up by her ex. She knows a friend of mine-Dan Kane. I live in the area and he asked me to swing by.”
“I know Kane,” said Odegard. “Works homicide.”
“That’s him.” The detective glanced into the condo. “I already requested emergency services. Right now I need one of you to take the woman’s statement,” he added, addressing Odegard. “And you-Greenbaum,” he continued, reading the young officer’s plate, “wait out here. The lady said that her ex-husband is drunk and may come back. If he does, grab him.”
Greenbaum stepped aside to let Odegard pass, watching as the detective closed the door behind them. For the next several minutes he stood on the front steps, wondering whether the ex-husband would be stupid enough to return. Probably not with a cop waiting outside, even if he is drunk, he decided, considering moving into the bushes as his T.O. had earlier. Suddenly a muffled whump sounded inside the condo, like someone dropping a phone book.
Seconds later the front door cracked open again. “I need you,” the detective said.
“Yes, sir.” As Greenbaum stepped inside, he smelled the odor of something burning. Newspaper? Matches? “What was that noise?” he asked.
“I heard it, too,” the detective answered. “That’s what I want to show you. Upstairs.”
At the detective’s direction, Greenbaum climbed a staircase, the dark-haired man close at his heels. “The room at the end,” the detective instructed when they reached the top landing. “You won’t believe this.”
The smell had grown stronger. Candles, Greenbaum thought absently as he proceeded down the hallway. Christmas candles.
The door at the end of the hall was closed.
“Open it,” the detective ordered, for some reason sounding amused.
Puzzled, Greenbaum twisted the knob. The door swung open, revealing a large bedroom. Candles lit the interior. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust…
He froze when he saw the woman on the bed.
Something hard pressed against the back of Donny Greenbaum’s skull. It was the last thing he ever felt.
45
I braked hard as I passed the Brentwood Country Club golf course, my heart heavy with thoughts of Catheryn. I checked for cross traffic and ran the light at Bundy, glancing at my watch as I jammed the Suburban’s accelerator to the floor.
Even driving on the shoulder past Caltrans cleanup crews and ignoring the speed limit all the way in, it had still taken what seemed forever to get there. I screamed through the next light, skidded onto Westgate, and squealed to a stop in front of Lauren’s condo. Leaving my car at the curb, I bolted up the walkway, a wave of apprehension coursing through me as I recalled the Lauren’s voice on the phone. She had sounded terrified, close to panic. And that bit about it being my idea to bring a news team into the task force briefings…
Clearly a warning.
The front door to Lauren’s condo stood open. I hesitated, noticing an unattended black-and-white LAPD cruiser parked in the rear alley. The troops must have arrived. Still I hesitated. Something about the house struck me as wrong. I stood on the landing and listened.
Silence.
I withdrew my automatic and slipped inside. Listened again.
Still nothing.
Quietly, I made my way into the family room. I passed the Christmas tree. Torn wrapping and a pile of toys lay at its base. I detected the smell of pine, and something else.
Smoke?
Nobody in the kitchen. The pantry, pow
der room, and den were empty, too.
Upstairs?
I returned to the entry and eased up the stairs. A bathroom door stood open at the top, tinges of red on the sink and floor. After a quick glance inside, I moved to a door on the right.
Inside, the bed was empty. The comforter was thrown back, the covers rumpled. A uniformed patrol officer lay sprawled nearby on the carpet. A crimson puddle outlined his head. I touched the officer’s throat. Warm, no pulse.
I backed from the room, a trickle of sweat gathering under my arms.
It hasn’t been long. Is he still here?
Without a sound I retreated down the hall to the other bedroom door. When I arrived, I heard a low moan on the other side.
Go in fast or slow?
Fast.
I slammed into the room. Swinging my automatic in a two-handed arc, I crabbed left, moving out of the lighted doorway.
Candle on the dresser, another by the window. Someone on the bed. Someone else on the floor. Nobody moving.
Finger tensed on the trigger, I flipped the light switch. A lamp on the nightstand came on. A second police officer lay at my feet, the back of his skull matted with blood. My eyes narrowed as I turned toward the bed. Lauren.
I rushed over. Hearing my approach, Lauren began struggling, fighting to free herself from ropes binding her to the bed frame.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, lifting Lauren’s head and unwrapping a blood encrusted gag that covered her lower face. She had been severely beaten. Her face was bruised, her nose broken. Both of her eyes were nearly swollen shut.
At the sound of my voice Lauren stopped struggling. “Kane?” she sobbed, peering up at me. “Kane?”
“It’s me,” I said softly.
“I can’t…”
“Lie quiet. I’ll call an ambulance. Where’s Candice?”
“At her dad’s. Will you-”
“I’ll take care of everything. Save your strength. Don’t talk.”
An opened Christmas present lay on the nightstand beside the bed. With a chill, I noted the box’s contents: a length of pipe, a coil of rope, a small scissors, a strip of unused prophylactics, and a second Ace bandage.
Several deep, oozing lacerations marked Lauren’s torso, along with a hideous pattern of bites and lesser knife wounds on her breasts and neck. After determining that she had no crucial arterial bleeding, at least none that I could see, I checked the other downed officer on the floor. He was beyond help. I returned to the bed and gently removed the ropes from Lauren’s wrists and ankles, then pulled a sheet over her savaged body. Next I made two quick phone calls-one to the West LA station, the other to task force headquarters. Then I sat beside Lauren and applied pressure to the worst of her wounds, using towels from an adjacent bathroom. “Hang on, Van Owen,” I said. “Help’s on the way.”
Lauren turned her head toward me. “He said he wouldn’t hurt me if I got you to come,” she said, her words leaden. “I’m sorry. I tried to warn you.”
“I know.”
“He said he found my newscasts offensive. But it’s you he really wants.”
“Me?”
“He blames you. He made me tell him everything.”
“Save your strength, Lauren. The medics will be here any minute. You’re going to be all right.”
Lauren’s head lolled to one side. “Kane…?”
“I’m still here.”
“Be careful.”
I stayed with Lauren until police backup arrived. By then, although the worst of her bleeding had slowed, she’d lost a lot of blood and seemed to be going into shock, drifting in and out of consciousness. After a hurried conference with the arriving officers, I returned to her side and remained there until the ambulance squealed to a stop out front.
The paramedics worked rapidly, ensuring that Lauren had an open airway, applying gauze pressure bandages to the worst bleeders, and starting a saline drip. Within minutes they had her on a gurney and were wheeling her out to the street. I trailed them to the ambulance.
“Hang on, Van Owen,” I repeated as the white-jacketed team slid her into the back. One medic followed her in; the other slammed the double doors and climbed into the front. Seconds later the van roared off. Choked with guilt, I stood at the curb, watching as the ambulance’s taillights disappeared into the night.
46
I was summoned into Lieutenant Long’s office in West LA early the following morning. After entering, I stood in the center of the room and surveyed the officers seated across from me. In addition to Lieutenant Long, two others were present: Captain Theodore Lincoln, the West LA Division commanding officer, and Lieutenant Snead.
No one was smiling.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you insolent bastard,” said Snead. “When I heard what happened, I knew your grubby Irish prints would be all over it. This time you’ve gone too far.”
I stiffened but said nothing.
Captain Lincoln cleared his throat. Snead, who had been about to add something, deferred to the senior officer. “Detective Kane, we’re here to discuss the propriety of your relationship with Ms. Van Owen,” said Lincoln, speaking slowly and deliberately. “And make no mistake, if even half of Lieutenant Snead’s accusations are true, you’re in deep trouble. Both the chief and the mayor phoned this morning concerning this matter. They want to know why a member of the task force has been associating with a news reporter. Especially as that very reporter has been receiving confidential information from inside the department.”
I remained silent.
“Nothing to say? According to Lieutenant Snead, you also sidestepped the chain of command by extending surveillance on the Baker family.” The captain turned to Long. “I believe you played a part in that, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir, I did. And as things turned out-”
“How things turned out is unimportant,” Snead broke in.
“I disagree,” said Long. “The way I see it, it was because of Kane that the task force actually had a chance of arresting the killer, and you blew it. If things had worked out differently, you’d be kissing Kane’s ass right now.”
“Even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut,” Snead countered. “The point is, Kane ignored a direct order. We’ve got a pattern going here. Your maverick detective seems to think he can pursue any agenda he likes. Well, this time somebody got hurt.”
“You think Kane is responsible for Van Owen’s attack?”
“Possibly.” Snead glared at me. “There’s no doubt he’d been feeding her information.”
“That’s ridiculous,” objected Long. “Captain, there’s clearly a personality thing going on here. Snead has no proof of any of this.”
“No?” said Snead. “We checked Kane’s phone log. Van Owen left a message for him on Monday morning, the day before her attack. He called her back, then went to her condo at eight-fifteen that night.”
“You had Kane followed? ” Long said angrily.
Snead shrugged. “I was told to plug the leak. As Kane seemed the most likely hole, I had friends at Internal Affairs look into things.”
“I wasn’t aware you had any friends,” said Long.
“Let’s stick to the issues,” Captain Lincoln broke in, shooting a scowl at Long. Then, to me, “How do you explain visiting Ms. Van Owen at her home, Detective?”
“Oh, his dealings with her went a lot further than a visit,” Snead snorted. “Last Thursday Detective Kane met Van Owen at a West Los Angeles bar. From there he took her to a little love nest in Brentwood, where the two spent the night. Like I said, we’ve got a pattern going here, Captain. Kane’s been screwing with the media, and in more ways than one.”
“Has anyone talked with Van Owen?” Lincoln asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Snead, clearly enjoying himself. “She wouldn’t say anything about Kane except that she had phoned him for help. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to give much of a description of her attacker. Apparently the guy took her down as soon as
she opened her door. She doesn’t remember much after that until waking up tied to her bed. Even with all he subsequently did to her, she never got a good look at him.”
Captain Lincoln returned his gaze to me. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Detective?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“In that case, pending additional investigation and at the request of Lieutenant Snead, you are hereby dropped from the task force. I could also suspend you from duty, but I’m not going to. Not yet, anyway. You can thank Lieutenant Long for that. In the meantime, you will resume your duties here at the West LA Division.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Kane, until this is over, I’d advise you to keep your nose clean. Dismissed.”
Later that day, after visiting Lauren at the UCLA Medical Center, I spent several hours catching up on all homicide investigations currently being handled by the West LA unit. Afterward I called Deluca at task force headquarters. Deluca, who was currently on hotline duty, seemed to welcome the diversion. “Damn, Kane,” he said. “Talk about screwin’ the pooch. And you, of all people, a straight-from-the-Old Testament, never-look-at-another-woman married man. Maybe you are human after all. But a reporter? What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” I said regretfully. “God knows, if I could go back and change things, I would.”
A long pause. “So why’d you call?”
“I need a favor.”
“No problem. What?”
“Clean out my desk for me and drop all the stuff by the West LA squad room tomorrow morning, okay?”
“So it’s true? You’re off the case?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too. Listen, I also need a copy of the task force database we’ve been compiling.”
Another long pause.
“Paul?”
“You’re joking.”
“No. Back it up on a computer disc and toss it in with the rest of my stuff.”
