Allison (A Kane Novel) (35 page)

“What the hell are you doing?”

I turned, my heart dropping.  “Uh, hi, Dad.”

My father’s eyes narrowed.  Furious, he strode across the room and ripped the murder book from my hands.  “Damn it, Allison!” he thundered.

“Dad . . .”

“What gives you the right to go through my files?”

“I . . . I didn’t mean to pry,” I stammered.  “I came in here to find you and Mom.  When I saw the book, I just thought I’d take a peek.  I apologize, Dad.  I have no excuse for going through your stuff.  None at all.  I’m sorry.  I’m really, really sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

I looked down, unable to meet my father’s glare.

“If details in these files are made public, it could ruin any chance I have of closing the investigation.  Not to mention getting me fired.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“How much did you see?”

“Not much.”

“The truth, Ali!  What did you see?”

“I looked at a few pictures, read a bit of the autopsy report.”

“What part of the autopsy report?”

“The part about there being signs of chronic sexual abuse.”

“What else?”

“That the stomach contents had been digested three to four hours before she died.”

“Damn!” Dad exploded.

“Dad, I won’t say anything about this to anyone.  It’s off the record.”

“Like the last time?”

“No, not like the last time.  I screwed up then.  I won’t do it again.”

“You may not live to do it again,” Dad warned.  Then, as if struck by something in his own words, his thoughts seemed to turn inward.  Slowly, the anger bled out of him.

I hesitated, puzzled by his abrupt change of mood.  “Dad, I really am sorry,” I repeated.  “I was wrong to look through your files.  But now that we’re on the subject, can I ask you a question?”

“No.”

I continued anyway.  “I understand how releasing the sexual-abuse material could compromise your case, but what do the gastric contents have to do with anything?”  When Dad didn’t reply, I pondered a moment.  “I suppose if you know when a final meal was eaten, the degree of digestion could be used to determine when someone died,” I reasoned, answering my own question.

“Drop it,” Dad ordered.

“So the stomach contents are important, and your circling the digestion duration could mean there’s a discrepancy in the time of death,” I went on.

“I said drop it.”

“Yes, sir.”

My father scowled at me, then turned toward the door.  “C’mon.  Time for dinner.  We’ve been waiting to eat till you got here.”

“Dad?  You think they did it, don’t you?  Off the record?”

My father turned back.  Wearily, he passed a hand across his face.  “To tell you the God’s honest truth, I don’t know,” he replied, still seeming oddly distracted.  “My head’s telling me one thing; my gut’s saying something else.  Now, let it go, Allison.  Please.”

“There’s a reason I asked,” I said.  “I learned something today about Mr. French.”

“And that is?”

“First of all, he’s a mountain biker.  He rides the trails and fire roads behind his estate.  At least he did before he and his wife moved out of their house.”

“Deluca mentioned that.  So?”

“So I went up there this morning with a friend and retraced one of the routes Mr. French rides,” I explained, having trouble containing my excitement.  “Guess what?  The dirt trail he takes runs in plain sight of Encino Reservoir.”

Dad shook his head.  “Just because he knows the reservoir is there doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

“But there’s a road from Mulholland down to the water.”

“A locked gate is at the top.  Nothing was touched.”

“It looked that way to me, too,” I admitted, disappointed at my father’s reaction.  “There were no tracks on the other side, and none of the six or so padlocks on the chain appeared to have been tampered with, either.  But I got to thinking.  What if someone had a key to one of those locks?”

“We interviewed everybody who has or could possibly get a key,” Dad replied impatiently.  “Southern California Edison personnel, fire department workers—even LAPD cops.  We came up empty.”

“Oh.”

Dad again started for the door, then turned back.  “How many locks did you say?” he demanded, his eyes suddenly gleaming like a gun barrels.

Puzzled, I pictured the gate in my mind.  “There were two big ones,” I answered.  “They had DWP stamped on them.  Three smaller locks were linked between those two big DWP locks, and a final padlock at one end.”

“So that makes six total?  You’re absolutely certain?”

I nodded.  “I’m positive.”

My father’s expression hardened.  “Damn.  I should have checked that myself.”

“What’s wrong?”

Dad didn’t answer.

All at once I understood.  Two DWP locks plus three more for the other agencies that Dad had mentioned—SCE, the fire department, and the LAPD—made
five
locks, not six.  “Someone cut the chain,” I reasoned aloud, everything falling into place.  “Then he repaired the cut chain by inserting an extra padlock.  Whoever did it even used an old lock so it would match.”

“This is off the record.  All of it.  You understand that,” said Dad.  It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” I agreed.  “But when the time comes, can I break the story about the locks?  I’m the one who—”

“Allison, is your new job all you think about?”

“What’s wrong with that?  If I don’t report this, someone else will.  It might as well be me.”

“And how is it supposed to look when it’s
my
daughter breaking an exclusive story on
my
case?” Dad demanded angrily.  “I’d have hell to pay explaining it to the department.  What’s more, every other news agency would scream foul.”

“That’s their problem,” I countered stubbornly.  “I came up with this.  And if they don’t like it—tough.”

Dad scowled.  “It will still look bad, no matter how it happened.”

“So when have you ever cared about how things looked?” I pointed out.  “Especially to the press.”

“You have a point there,” Dad conceded with a slight smile.  He thought a moment.  “You want to break the story when the time comes?  Fine, as it’s eventually going to come out anyway, you have a deal.  Provided you keep your mouth shut till I say.”

“Agreed,” I said.  “Now, what about tomorrow?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re going back to the reservoir, aren’t you?  I want to be there.”

“Out of the question.”

“I won’t reveal the part about the locks.  How about if—”

“No.”

“Think about it, Dad.  Some positive coverage right now could help your investigation.  You know—police are working hard to uncover new leads, and so forth.  And wouldn’t having me there on the ground be preferable to having some news helicopter circling around overhead?”

Dad glared.  “What do you mean, news helicopter?”

“Forget I said that,” I backtracked.  “C’mon, Dad.  Please?”

“You’re not going anywhere near that site.”  Dad hesitated, then continued.  “But if you want to do something from a public road, I guess there’s nothing I can do to stop you.  But I still don’t like it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Just then Mom called up from the music room below.  “Dan, has Ali arrived yet?  Nate and Travis are starving.”

Dad crossed to the window.  “She’s here,” he called down.  “C’mon up.  Let’s eat.”

Minutes later we all gathered at the dining room table.  I sat next to Nate, Mom took her customary place beside Travis, and Dad sat at the head of the table.  Dorothy, who had returned to Santa Barbara the day after the beach party, was conspicuously absent.  Though she would be rejoining us when Mom began her second phase of chemotherapy, everyone already missed her, especially Nate.

Dinner that night, normally a high point for our family, seemed hollow and reserved.  Like an unwanted guest, a shadow of uncertainty sat at our table, its presence sensed by everyone.  The meal, a thick lentil stew, squares of cornbread, and a mixed green salad that Mom had prepared, was hearty and filling.  Nevertheless, our family’s customarily freewheeling conversation fell flat at every turn.  Dad tried to be attentive, but his concentration drifted repeatedly during a discussion of Nate’s AAU baseball finals later that month.  Even Mom had trouble keeping her mind on Travis’s rundown of the pieces he planned to perform for his remaining summer recitals.

Throughout this I kept my eyes down, guiltily suspecting that the family tension was because of me.  Eating like a robot, I reviewed my confrontation with Dad, still puzzled by his reaction.  Though I had no intention of disclosing anything I had learned from his murder book, I knew that in examining it I had been completely and unforgivably out of line.  Dad’s reaction had been justified, but his anger had been nowhere near as scathing as I’d expected . . . or deserved.  He had even tacitly agreed to my presence at the reservoir the next day.  It had seemed as if his mind were elsewhere.

Following dinner, Nate and I cleared the dishes.  Dad brewed a pot of coffee while Travis helped Mom serve pecan pie and ice cream for dessert.  Ten minutes later we all rejoined at the table.  Nate finished his ice cream and pie in record time, and shortly afterward asked to be excused.

“Please wait till we’re all done, honey,” said Mom, taking a sip of coffee.

“Callie needs a walk,” said Nate.  “She hasn’t been out much all day.”

Hearing the word “walk,” our yellow Labrador looked up from her wicker basket in the corner, quizzically raising her ears.

“You can take her out in a minute.”

“Aw, Mom . . .”

My mother glanced at Dad.  From my place across the table, I saw something pass between them.  Dad nodded, covering Mom’s hand with his.

Mom took a breath, then slowly let it out.  “Nate, there’s something I need to tell you, something I need to tell you all.”

“What is it?” I asked nervously.

Mom glanced once more at Dad.  “When I went in for my checkup on Wednesday, I got some bad news,” she said quietly.  “Dr. Kratovil says I’m undergoing a relapse.”

Abruptly, I realized why my mother had seemed so preoccupied during our lunch at the mall.

“What does that mean?” asked Travis.

“It means my cancer has come back.”

“I thought the chemotherapy was working.”

“So did I,” said Mom.  “Most patients achieve remission following the first round of chemo.  Apparently I’m one of the ones who don’t.”

“What about more chemo?” I asked.

“Dr. Kratovil thinks that would be a waste of time, even with a new combination of drugs,” Mom answered.  “She thinks we need to do something different.”

I shook my head.  “But—”

“Things aren’t all bad,” Mom interrupted, forcing a smile.  “I had a conference with the UCLA transplant team.  They think I’m a good candidate for a bone-marrow graft.  Unfortunately, given the aggressiveness of my cancer, there’s no hope of purifying my own stem cells for the procedure.  I’ll need a donor.  They’re hunting for someone with my exact marrow type.  If one isn’t found soon, I’ll have to ask you, Ali.”

Shocked by the news of my mother’s relapse, I swallowed hard, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under me.  “You don’t have to ask, Mom.  Of course I’ll do it.  I’m just glad I’m a good enough match.”

“You aren’t perfect, as we all know,” said Mom, making an attempt at humor.  “They may want to do a few more tests on you, but Dr. Kratovil thinks you’re close enough.”

“Slow down,” said Travis.  “I don’t understand how this transplant is supposed to work.”

“It’s fairly simple,” said Mom, seeming relieved to be shifting to a technical discussion of her treatment.  “Some of my white blood cells are reproducing out of control.  Prior to my bone-marrow graft, I’ll receive X-rays and a high dose of chemotherapy that will kill
all
of my white blood cells, good and bad alike.  Permanently.  The cancer will be gone, but then I’ll no longer have a functioning immune system.  That’s where the bone-marrow graft comes in.  I’ll be given someone else’s white blood cells, and they will reproduce and take over the job for my missing ones.”

“If a transplant is that easy, why didn’t they just do one to begin with?” asked Travis.

“Well, it’s not
that
easy,” Mom admitted.  “There can be complications.”

I recalled the transplant information I had read on the internet.  As Mom said, there could be complications.  Until the graft took, assuming it did, the recipient was subject to any number of life-threatening infections.  Worse, a transplant had to match its host closely or the graft cells would try to reject their new body, resulting in a condition known as graft-versus-host disease.  From what I had been able to glean from my research, a bone-marrow transplant was a risky, potentially fatal procedure.

“What kind of complications?” Travis persisted.

Mom’s control momentarily slipped, and for a split second I saw in her eyes the same flicker of doubt I had detected on the morning of the luau.  “I did some reading on that, Trav,” I said quickly.  “For one, a transplant recipient often gets the allergies of the donor.  Imagine, my white cells might make Mom allergic to housework, Brussels sprouts, foreign movies, and cleaning her room.  Worse, she could wind up with my biggest allergy of all—hating being told what to do.”

Though no one laughed, Mom gave me a grateful smile.  “Things can always go wrong, Trav,” she said softly.  “But I’m in good hands.  I’m going to recover.”

“I know, Mom,” said Travis.  “When will this be done?”

“My insurance authorization should come through soon, but the doctors want to give me a few weeks to regain my strength before proceeding,” Mom answered.  “I’ll probably be admitted to UCLA before the end of the month.  There was some talk of waiting until a better-matched donor than Ali turns up.  Unfortunately, that could take months or even years, if it happens at all.  Because Allison’s marrow type is acceptably close to mine, the doctors think the benefits of waiting are outweighed by the dangers of allowing the disease to progress.  They want to proceed as quickly as possible.  They’re going to keep looking for a better match, but if they don’t find someone soon, Allison will be my donor.  I’m telling you all this so you’ll know what’s happening.  But I don’t want you to worry,” she added.  “I’ll be fine.  I promise.”