Kane (15 page)

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.

“Okay,” she said as I helped her out.   She hesitated a moment.  “One more thing, Dan.”

I noticed a tall, distinguished-looking man climbing from a cab three cars back.  Arthur West.  “What?” I asked.

“While I’m gone, will you think about what we discussed Sunday night?”

“We talked about a lot of things.”

“You know what I mean.  I’m serious about our getting counseling.  Think about it.  Please.”

“Catheryn!” called Arthur, spotting us by the curb.  “There you are.”  As a porter began loading his suitcases onto a handcart, Arthur hurried over.  Ignoring me, he kissed Catheryn on the cheek.

“That’s right,” I said.  “Here
we
are.”

Arthur nodded curtly.  “Good morning, Detective.”  Then, turning back to Catheryn, “It’s getting late.  We should get our bags checked in.”

“You go ahead.”  Catheryn gave Arthur a gentle push toward the terminal.  “I’ll meet you at the departure desk.”

“Please hurry.  I’ll have the agent arrange for us to sit together.”  After signaling the porter to add Catheryn’s bags to his, Arthur started for the entrance.

I watched Arthur ascend a ramp to the terminal.  “I guess this is it,” I said as the cellist entered through the glass doors.

Catheryn put her arms around my neck and kissed me lightly on the lips.  “Good-bye, Dan.  I’ll call when I arrive.  And I’ll be back before the Christmas Mercado,” she added, referring to a Music Center fundraiser that had been scheduled to coincide with the conclusion of the Philharmonic’s tour.  “It won’t be that long.  In the meantime, will you think about our discussion?”

“Kate …”

“Please?”

I shrugged.  “All right.  I’ll think about it.”

Catheryn smiled and kissed me again.  “Thank you.”

*       *       *

Minutes before the scheduled ten AM meeting, I arrived at Los Angeles Police Department  headquarters, better know as the new Police Administration Building, sometimes shortened to PAB.  Ten levels above street grade of stone and glass, the huge, 500,000 square-foot structure had replaced the aging Parker Center LAPD headquarters in 2009, and it’s modern architectural elements and extensive gardens, terraces, and green space occupied an entire city block on West First Street.  Located near the new city hall building, it served as the command center for a law enforcement organization that encompassed twenty-one far-flung patrol divisions, and its closeness to the city’s political seat of power was more than just physical.  It was common knowledge that the administration of the LAPD via the mayor, city council, and police commission had increasingly become a political wild card—and one that no politician, especially Mayor Fitzpatrick, could afford to ignore.

As I drove past the entrance, I noticed a fleet of newswagons jamming the street outside.  From each van tangles of thick black cable ran toward the building, trailing past a decorative waterfall and a lattice of planters that served as an effective vehicle barricade.  Wondering about the media’s presence, I circled the block to a nearby parking structure, leaving my car in a slot clearly reserved for the bomb squad.  The Larson murder files tucked under my arm, I made my way back to the main building.

Upon arriving at the ground-floor lobby, I hung my ID from my coat pocket, glancing around the crowded room.  It appeared that representatives from every conceivable news organization were present, with more clustered around the entrance to the 400-seat civic auditorium.

I threaded through the crowd to the reception desk.  “May I help you, sir?” asked the duty officer there, an Asian woman in her early twenties.

“Hell of a mess,” I observed.

The officer eyed my ID.  “Yes, sir.”

“I’m attending a ten AM meeting with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.  Any idea where that might be?”

The woman referred to a handwritten list.  “Seventh floor,” she said, finding my name.

“Thanks.”  After signing in and receiving a temporary pass, I started for the elevators.

“Detective Kane!” a woman’s familiar voice called across the lobby.  “Detective Kane!”

I turned, cursing inwardly as I spotted Lauren Van Owen threading toward me through the crowd.  She flashed a smile when she arrived.  “You don’t seem happy to see me.”

“For once you’ve got something right.”

“No need to be hostile.  You know, Kane, if you ever gave me a chance, you might find I’m not half as bad as you think.”

“And it might rain dollars tomorrow, too.  Look, I’m late for a meeting, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“How about getting together afterward for lunch?  On me.  We could go over the case.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No.  So how about it?”

“Frankly, I’d rather be locked in a closet with a chainsaw juggler.”

“I’m not
that
bad,” Lauren laughed.  “I’m just saying that perhaps we can help each other.”

I shook my head and turned again for the elevators.  “Not in this lifetime, Van Owen.”

Upstairs, in a large office overlooking the southern skyline, I found a number of police personnel already assembled.  Present from the LAPD were Lieutenant Long and Captain Theodore Lincoln (the West LA Division’s commanding officer), Paul Deluca, and two other detectives I recognized from the Hollywood Division.  The OC Sheriff’s Department was represented by Lou Barrello and a younger man I took to be his partner, and a second detective pair that had been detailed to the squad.  Most of the men had assumed places at various desks and chairs, but some still stood at the windows gazing out at the high rises and industrial buildings beyond.

“Nice of you to make it,” noted Lt. Long as I took a seat beside him.

“Bad traffic,” I said.

Long started to say something more, stopping as Mayor Fitzpatrick marched briskly in, with Police Chief Ingram, Sheriff George Baskin, and several ancillary officials from Orange County close behind.  Bringing up the rear was Lieutenant William Snead, a tall, hatchet-faced man with whom I had a less than pleasant history.  In each hand, Snead carried a cup of coffee.  He passed one to Chief Ingram; the other he set on a chair beside the mayor.  Then he stepped back, his eyes sweeping the room.  I noticed them turning as hard as ice when they arrived at me.

“What’s that hump doing here?” I asked.  “He still in Internal Affairs?”

“Snead recently moved up to lieutenant-two,” Long answered.  “He’s Pacific Division’s detective commanding officer now.”

Mayor Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and addressed the group.  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.  As the room quieted, Chief Ingram and Sheriff Baskin moved to stand beside Fitzpatrick.  He glanced at them briefly, then made eye contact with several others in the room, including Captain Lincoln.  Absently, I noticed that the mayor’s face seemed even more flushed than usual, with a new crop of ruptured capillaries adorning his whiskey-bloomed nose and sagging jowls.

“You all know why you’re here,” Fitzpatrick continued.  “Over the years many cities—Seattle, San Diego, New York, and Chicago, to name a few—have faced situations similar to the one challenging us today.  They chose to ignore the political dangers involved, and when their problems didn’t go away, everyone wound up with egg on his face, politicians and law enforcement personnel alike.  That is
not
going to happen here.  In a few minutes I’m going downstairs to announce the formation of an LAPD/Orange County Sheriff’s Department interagency task force.  I do this with the utmost confidence that our two organizations, proceeding under the direction of my office, will work cooperatively to apprehend the killer now threatening our citizens.  With increasing pressure to cut law enforcement budgets and a political climate swinging progressively to the left, it’s essential that we end this thing quickly and decisively.  Anything less, and the media will walk all over us.  You men are an elite group.  You’ve been chosen for your outstanding investigative records, staunch discipline, and unquestionable ability.  You’re the best of the best.  I know you won’t let me down.”

“I think I’m gettin’ a hard-on,” whispered Deluca.

A number of nearby detectives chuckled, including me.  Fitzpatrick glared in our direction, then continued with what was obviously a dry run for his speech to the media downstairs in the civic auditorium.  “You will be operating under the joint command of Lieutenant Kenneth Huff from the OC Sheriff’s Department and Lieutenant William Snead of the LAPD.  Both are capable officers in whom I have the highest confidence.”

At Snead’s name, I groaned inwardly, suddenly realizing what Lieutenant Long had meant by last night’s warning.

“The ‘Candlelight Killer Task Force,’ or some similar appellation, as I’m sure our friends in the media will soon be calling you,” Fitzpatrick continued, “will have its own facilities, phones, and computer terminals.  Members of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office will be working with you hand in hand.  They have assured me that they’ll offer every possible consideration.  The task force will have the funds, resources, and personnel to get the job done, and done quickly.  And that’s what I expect.  Questions?”

Although the room stirred uneasily, no one spoke.  I knew that every investigator there was thinking the same thing:  Throwing money and personnel at a case didn’t necessarily bring results.

“Good,” said Fitzpatrick.  “Then I leave you to your work.  But one thing I want to make crystal clear:  This killer
must
be caught.”  With that, Fitzpatrick turned and strode out the door.

The rest of his retinue followed, with the exception of Lieutenants Huff and Snead.  Captain Lincoln, who had stood at the rear of the room during the mayor’s speech, joined those departing.  Seeing this, Lieutenant Long rose and exited, too.

Moving into the vacuum of the mayor’s departure, Lieutenant Snead stepped forward.  “Some of you I know; some I don’t,” he said curtly.  “For those I haven’t met, I’m Lieutenant William Snead.  This is Lieutenant Huff,” he added, nodding at a short, wiry man to his left.  Huff, who wore his thinning blond hair short and sported a full mustache, sat without comment, seeming content to let Snead handle the preliminaries.

“Our operational parameters will be as follows,” Snead went on officiously.  “OC personnel will answer directly to Lieutenant Huff; all LAPD detectives will fall under my supervision.  In conjunction with his other duties, Lieutenant Huff will serve as case-review coordinator, acting as a clearing house for all crime reports and supplementals.  He’ll also oversee scheduling and coordination of followup investigations, and be responsible for reviewing, analyzing, and charting all reports and status updates.

“Besides heading up the LAPD investigative efforts, I will act as liaison to the coroner’s offices and crime labs in Orange County and Los Angeles, and handle evidence control.  I will also serve as our link with the media.  There will be no leaks on this case.  All communication with the press will go through me, and me alone.”

I smiled, realizing that although Snead had positioned himself to garner whatever glory might result from the investigation, he had obviously forgotten that if something went wrong, he would be the one taking the heat.

“You find something amusing, Detective Kane?” Snead demanded.

I shrugged.  “I was just thinking that with you and Lieutenant Huff doing all the work, there won’t be much left for the rest of us poor slobs.”

Barrello, who was sitting behind me, laughed out loud.

Snead scowled, his gaze traveling between Barrello and me.  As he started to respond, Lieutenant Huff broke in.  “Before this is over, I think we will
all
have plenty to keep us busy.”

“Amen to that,” said Deluca.  Several other detectives nodded in agreement.

Still glowering, Snead pushed ahead.  “As Mayor Fitzpatrick indicated, we’ll have our own phones, computers, unlimited overtime approval, and a twenty-four-hour hotline.  Beginning tomorrow, every member of the task force will be here promptly at seven-thirty.  Briefings will be held on a daily basis; more often if needed.  Attendance is mandatory.  As of now, we’re all on this full-time—twenty-four hours a day if necessary.  All other investigations and commitments, with the exception of court appearances, are to be reassigned.  You will be given copies of the OC and LAPD crime reports.  Review them and be up to speed for tomorrow’s briefing.

“Now, before I turn over the meeting to Lieutenant Huff, I want to stress the importance of teamwork.  This will be a joint effort.  We’ll use every available source, of which, I might add, the hotline will undoubtedly prove indispensable.  Someone out there knows the killer.  Through attention to detail, we’ll find him, but we’ll have to pull together to do it.”  Staring directly at me, he added, “There will be no room for prima donnas.”