Allison (A Kane Novel) (25 page)

Dad stepped outside.  After he closed the door behind him, I walked to the window, staring out at the lights of the city.  Idly I listened to my father talking in the hallway, taking comfort from the gruff resonance of his voice.  His words, at first fatigued, gradually rose in volume, turning angry.  “Let me get this straight,” I heard him say, his tones now rumbling through the door like distant thunder.  “You’re telling me that even with all the discrepancies in their stories, the DA
still
won’t go for another warrant?”

A pause.  “Dammit, Lieutenant, we’re coming up cold on every other front.  The parents are the only—”

Another pause, this time longer.  “Yes, sir.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I waited for my father to return.  After several minutes when he didn’t reenter the room, I glanced one last time at Mom and left.  I found my father leaning against a wall outside, a scowl darkening his face.  “Trouble at work?” I asked.

“You might say that.”

“The French case?”

Dad looked at me sharply.

“Sorry.  Couldn’t help overhearing.”

Dad took my arm.  “C’mon, princess,” he said, marching me down the hall.  “You and I need to talk.”

“About what?”

Instead of answering, Dad escorted me to a nearby stairwell.  Once away from the hospital rooms lining the corridor, he said sternly, “What I want to discuss is this job of yours.  I had an enlightening talk with Deluca today.  You were the reason that a CBS news van showed up at the Frenches’ house last Friday, weren’t you?”

“I . . .”

“The truth, kid.  It was you who tipped the news crew about my search warrant.”

“What if it was?” I replied nervously.  “I did the same thing anybody would have—put two and two together and came up with four.”

“Great defense,” Dad snapped.  “You’re no worse than all the other media scumbags.”

“Don’t you think scumbag is a bit harsh?” I shot back, unable to hold my tongue.  “
Everyone
in the news is not the enemy.  People have a right to know what’s going on.  Brent says—”

“That would be Brent Preston you’re referring to?”

“Right.  He says—”

“I don’t give a damn
what
Mr. Preston says,” Dad snapped.  “I don’t like it when someone gets in the way of my investigation.  And that includes you.”

“Dad, we don’t have to be on opposite sides on this.  We both want the same thing.”

Dad sighed.  “You want a handful of aspirin, too?”

“No, we both want to find Jordan’s killer.  Besides, nobody got in the way of your investigation.”

“This time, maybe.  What about the next?  Ali, when I agreed to let you work at CBS, it was despite your mother’s objections.  She was mad enough to spit tacks about your dropping out of summer session, but I—”

“I already apologized for not talking with her first.”

“Did it sound like I was finished?”

“No, sir.”

“Then button your lip.”

“Dad, I—”

“Allison, your role in this conversation is to listen,” Dad warned.  “As I said on the night you sprung this news intern job on us, I let you take it because it’s the first thing you’ve shown any interest in for quite some time.  Plus, I figured you’re old enough to make a few of your own decisions.”

“Even if they’re wrong?”

Dad frowned.  “Yes, even if they’re wrong. 
Especially
if they’re wrong.  It’s one way to learn.  It’s no secret what I think of the press, but if that’s what you want to do with your life, I’ll support your decision—on two conditions.  First, and most important, I don’t want you doing anything else to upset your mother.  I told you that before.  Our family has enough problems right now without your making them worse.  Understood?”

I nodded guiltily.

“Second, I want you to steer clear of the Jordan French investigation.”

“But . . .”

“No buts.  Every time there’s a news leak on the case, I’m the one who catches hell.  From now on, anything you hear me say that relates to work,
including
my discussion just now with Lieutenant Long, is off the record.  Cross that line again and you’ll wake up in the next zip code.  I swear, I knew this job of yours was going to cause trouble.”  Dad shook his head.  “Granted, you’re bright and capable and I’ve never know anyone who works harder than you to succeed, but do you really think those are the only reasons Van Owen hired you?”

I started to fire back a caustic retort but hesitated, for the second time that evening struck by a truth I didn’t want to hear.  “Actually, I thought it might have been because you and she . . .”

Once more Dad shook his head.  “I told you, that was over a long time ago.  Lauren and I are on good terms, and I consider her a friend.  A good friend.  But there’s no way my past association with her would rate any special treatment for you.  When it comes to the news, that woman is all business.”

“So you’re saying that the only reason she hired me is because of your connection to the Jordan French case?”

“It may not be the only reason, but it’s sure as hell part of the equation.  The thought must have occurred to you.”

Again, despite my doubts, I pushed aside the possibility.  “My working at CBS isn’t about you, Dad,” I replied stubbornly.  “It’s about me.”

17

The next day Brent Preston appeared on the
CBS Evening News
, reporting that Mr. and Mrs. French were under police investigation for the murder of their daughter.  He added that according to police sources, inconsistencies had turned up in the parents’ account of Jordan’s abduction, and that authorities had unsuccessfully attempted to procure a second and more comprehensive search warrant to reenter the Frenches’ estate.

Brent’s exclusive report, CBS’s lead story of the evening, ignited a media firestorm that quickly turned into an international news frenzy—with every network, newspaper, and magazine rushing to cover these new developments.  And though I tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, I knew this latest break in the story was again because of me.

The following afternoon found McKenzie and me sitting in the CBS cafeteria having lunch.  While I morosely toyed with a small green salad, McKenzie enthusiastically dug into an order of sushi, her eyes wide with excitement as she scanned the room for media personalities.  Earlier that morning I had suggested meeting at Farmers Market for our luncheon date.  McKenzie had insisted that we eat at CBS Television City instead.

“Jeez, Ali.  Intern job or not, I can’t believe that you talked with Brent about the case after your dad ordered you not to,” said McKenzie, taking a bite of sushi.  “Knowing your father, he has to be livid,” she added, her star-struck eyes darting like dragonflies about the cafeteria.

“Dad and I haven’t spoken since Brent’s newscast,” I said glumly.  “And that wasn’t exactly how it happened.”  In truth, I was embarrassed at the part I’d played in Brent’s latest exclusive, and regretful about how things had worked out.  I couldn’t believe I had trusted Brent.  It was a mistake I wouldn’t make again.

“So how
did
it happen?”

“Not to make excuses, but you had to be there.”

“So tell me.”

I sighed.  “There’s not much to tell,” I said, pushing away my salad.  “The morning after I talked with Dad at the hospital, Brent asked me point-blank whether I knew anything new about the case.  I admitted that I did, but I said that what I had learned was off the record.  Brent kept after me, saying we were professionals and promising that whatever I revealed to him would be off the record, too.  I didn’t have anything definite, except I knew that detectives from my dad’s unit had been watching the Frenches’ house.  I also knew they had followed Mr. French for some reason.  Along with what I overheard at the hospital, it added up to Jordan’s parents being under suspicion.  When I eventually shared my conclusions with Brent, he said he had been thinking the same thing, and that he was going to do some checking.  Guess what?  ‘Off the record’ means you can’t use something
unless it’s confirmed by an independent source.
”

“And Brent got confirmation?”

I nodded.  “It took a while, but a contact of his in the DA’s office revealed that the LAPD had tried for a second search warrant to reenter the Frenches’ house.  Brent also learned that my dad had asked for authorization to look for a murder weapon, nylon cord similar to that found on the body, blood and hairs in the Frenches’ cars, and material related to the ransom note.  The rest is history.”

“I’ll say.  It’s all I’ve seen on the news since.”

“Brent says it was bound to come out anyway.  It was simply a matter of time, and at least this way CBS got to break the story.”

“Thanks to you,” McKenzie pointed out.  “Not to sound crass, but Brent wound up looking really good on this.  What did you get?”

“There wasn’t any quid pro quo.”

“Not directly, but you got something, didn’t you?”

“I
am
being treated differently around the newsroom,” I admitted.  “No more running for coffee and typing other people’s stuff.  Instead, Lauren has me doing background research on the French case.  She’s given me added responsibility in other areas, too.  She’s sending me out with Brent this afternoon, for instance.”

“Back to the Frenches’ house?”

I nodded.  “Brent is doing another update.”

“With all that’s been going on, I’ll bet that place is a zoo.”

“It is.  I’ve heard that the vacant lot across from their house looks like a swap meet.  News vans everywhere.”

“Do you think they’re guilty?” McKenzie asked, lowering her voice.

“Mr. and Mrs. French?”

“No, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.  Come on, do you think they did it?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “But if they did, there’s a good chance some kind of sexual abuse was involved—at least according to the research Lauren’s had me doing.  Most abused kids are mistreated by family members, neighbors, or persons they trust, and it’s more widespread than you’d think.  Did you know that roughly a
third
of all American women admit to having experienced childhood sexual abuse at the hands of an adult male?  For some reason, kids often keep it secret.”

“That has to be a hard thing for a youngster to carry around.”

“Really hard,” I agreed, remembering the humiliation of my own rape, a shame I had kept hidden from my parents for more than a year afterward.  “I still have trouble believing someone could do that to his or her own child.”

“Jordan struck me as being a normal kid, at least from what I saw of her on TV,” noted McKenzie.  “It wasn’t like she had any deep, dark secrets.”

“She was an actress.  Maybe she was good at hiding them.”

“Maybe.”

“So,” said McKenzie, popping a final piece of sushi into her mouth.  “Gimme the vitals on your date with Mike.  That was the purpose of this little get-together, as I recall.”

“In your mind, maybe.  Not mine.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes, if it’s any of your business,” I replied.  “When he’s not irritating me, I like him a lot.”

McKenzie grinned.  “Good.  And of course it’s my business.  I’m your best friend.  Where did he take you?”

“We went to a screening at the Directors’ Guild, then to a Mexican restaurant.”

“For a writer, you’re sure stingy with details,” McKenzie complained.  “C’mon, it’s me you’re talking to.  What’s he like?”

“Well, he’s not what I expected,” I replied.  “According to a friend of his, Mike is a talented cameraman and filmmaker.  A documentary he wrote, shot, directed, and edited is being shown at the Telluride Film Festival this fall, but for some reason Mike is reluctant to take the next step up in his film career—even though his friend offered to help.”  I shrugged.  “I haven’t figured him out yet.  I suppose changing jobs and putting yourself on the line can be scary, especially when it comes to doing something creative.  Maybe he’s afraid of failing.”

“Did you share that trite little observation with him?”

I smiled.  “Despite what you consider to be my lack of tact with men, my judgment’s not
that
bad.”

“Good to hear.  Has he called you since?”

“I talked with him last night.  He invited me out this weekend.”

“And?”

“And I asked for a rain check.  With things heating up at CBS, I’m pretty busy.”

McKenzie shook her head disapprovingly, then changed the subject.  “Anything new with your mom?”

“This is her last day of chemo,” I answered.  “After that she begins three weeks of recovery.”

“And then she’s cured?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I’m sorry, Ali,” said McKenzie.  Reaching across the table, she took my hand.  “If I can help in any way, please let me.”

I abruptly felt myself on the verge of tears, something that recently seemed to be happening more and more.  “Thanks, Mac,” I said quietly.  “I appreciate the offer.”

*        *        *

At that precise moment Kane was leaving the West L.A. station house, taking the stairs down from the second-floor squad room two at a time.  He bumped into Deluca as he hit the bottom landing.  Deluca appeared harried, a scowl darkening his features.

“That doesn’t look like happiness I see on your face, partner,” noted Kane. 

“After you run the news gauntlet outside, you won’t be oozing joy either.”

“The camera crews are still out there?”

“That’s an affirmative.”

“Damn,” said Kane, belatedly wishing he had parked behind the station rather than in the police lot across the street.  “I figured they’d be gone by now.”

“No such luck.”

Since Brent Preston’s latest on-air revelations, the West L.A. station had been besieged by the press.  Worse, Jordan’s parents had retained the services of a prestigious Beverly Hills law firm.  Subsequently, on advice of their new attorneys, they had refused to undergo polygraph testing, submit hair and blood samples, or speak with police without legal representation, if at all.  In a later press release, however, they had announced they were perfectly willing to assist authorities in any efforts directed at finding their daughter’s
real
killer or killers.  Sensing the mood of the media, the district attorney had expressed confidence in the investigation, while at the same time distancing himself from any accusation of the parents.  Furthermore, despite Kane’s renewed request for additional warrants to collect hair and blood samples from the parents, the DA had again played it safe—maintaining that there was insufficient evidence to justify a new search.