Kane (22 page)

Upon telephoning Twentieth Century, I ran into another dead end.  Yolanda Blum, the adjuster on the case, had called in sick that morning.  Although Twentieth had a record of the Larson claim, Ms. Blum had filed it under the name of
their
insured, not Larson, and she had failed to cross-reference it.  I ultimately had to settle for a promise that Ms. Blum would call back when she returned.

As I hung up, I noticed Deluca angling across the room, a satisfied grin on his face.  “What’re you so pleased about?” I asked when he arrived.

Instead of answering, Deluca dropped the repair-shop employee list on my desk.  Notations in a near-illegible scrawl bordered a surprising number of names.

I picked up the sheets.  “You find something?”

“Maybe too much.  Half the guys working for Al have records ranging from petty larceny to grand theft auto.”

I ran my finger down the list, stopping at Charles Smith, the man who’d done the paint.  Nothing.  Alonzo Domingos proved to be a different story.  “I see the bodywork guy has a full plate,” I noted, struggling to decipher Deluca’s writing.  “Burglary, aggravated assault … Jeez, where’d you learn to write?  What’s the last thing you scribbled?”

“Rape.  Arrest, no conviction.”

“Hmmm.  I sent the opener remote from the Larson’s car over to Latents.  It’ll be interesting to see whether Alonzo’s prints are on it.”

“I’ll pull up his sheet for print comparison.”

“Is Barrello cross-checking this list against employees at the OC garage?” I asked.

“He’s not back yet, but I left a copy on his desk,” answered Deluca.  “Think Domingos is our guy?”

I shrugged.

“C’mon, Kane.  You’re wearing that look you get.  What’s up?”

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly.  “But I feel as if …”

“What?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe it’s nothing, but I still can’t shake the feeling we’re overlooking something.  Something important.”

16

M
iss me yet?”  Catheryn’s voice sounded surprisingly clear, especially considering that her call was probably bouncing off a communications satellite somewhere between California and Italy.  Some things in the world were definitely getting better.

I took a final bite of cold spaghetti, pushed aside my plate, and rocked back in my chair at the kitchen table.  “Kate, I’ve been so busy I’ve barely had a chance to eat, let alone spend time mooning over one of my girlfriends.”

“Girlfriends?” said Catheryn, trying to sound insulted.  “You and I need to have a meeting of the minds when I get back.”

“When you get back, I have something else planned, sugar.  And it doesn’t involve your mind.”

“I’ll be sure to shower.”

“Don’t do anything out of the ordinary on my account.  I like my women natural.”

“Does that mean I can stop shaving my legs?”

Well …”

That’s what I thought,” laughed Catheryn.  “So how are the kids?”

“Kids?  What kids?”

“Travis, Allison, Nate—do
any
of those names ring a bell?”

“Oh,
those
kids.  They’re fine.  Allison’s been doing the cooking, Christy’s helped out occasionally, and everybody’s been getting off to school like clockwork.”

“Has Nate had a bath recently?”

“I don’t know.  If he hasn’t, I’ll drag him out on the deck tomorrow and hose him off.”

“What about Trav?”

“I’ll hose him off, too.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.  Listen, I haven’t had time to talk with Travis since you left.  He’s coming home this weekend.  I’m working Saturday, but I promise to give the entire crew my undivided attention on Sunday.  If there’s trouble in the ranks, I’ll straighten it out then.”

“Wonderful.  And to think I was worried you’d ignore the children while I was away.”

“Now, don’t start in.  I realize you think your babies aren’t safe with the ol’ dad here, but they’re a tough bunch.  They can take care of themselves.”

“Dan—”

“Speaking of Travis, when I got home tonight there was a message from Petrinski,” I interrupted, referring to Travis’s music advisor at USC.  “He wants me to call.  What’s
that
about?”

“I told you Trav’s having problems.  Maybe Petrinski wants to discuss them with you, although I can’t imagine why.  Call him and find out.”

“I’ll do that, as soon as I have time.”

“Make time,” said Catheryn firmly.  Then, softening slightly, “They’re keeping you busy, huh?  Your case is big news over here.  The TV had a story on the task force, too.  How’s that going?”

“With a handful of quarterbacks calling the plays, about as well as can be expected.”

“Dan, I know you’re involved with your investigation, but I’m still hoping you can find time to join me.  It’s
so
beautiful over here.  You would love Rome.  We’re playing a different hall every other night and our schedule is absolutely hectic, but our stopover in Venice is just two weeks away.  Any chance you’ll be able to wrap things up by then?”

“Believe me, sugar, if that happens you’ll be the first to know.”

“All right,” sighed Catheryn.  “Rehearsal’s in four hours, and I have to get some sleep before then.  How about putting the kids on?”

“Sure.  They’re sawing logs, but I’ll wake them.”  I covered the mouthpiece.  “Allison!  Nate!  Your mom’s on the phone.”

“Be right there,” Allison’s sleepy voice filtered back.

“Nate?”

“Coming, Dad.”

I took my hand from the mouthpiece.  “When will I hear from you next?”

“We’re swamped for the next few days.  I’ll try to call Sunday.  I miss you, Dan.”

“Me, too,” I said as Nate and Allison stumbled into the kitchen.  “I’ll put the kids on now.  Take care of yourself.”

I handed the phone to Allison.  “Make it quick, sunshine.  It may be the middle of the night, but this call’s still costing plenty.”

“Don’t worry, Pop,” yawned Allison.  “I have a couple bucks saved.  If things get tight, I’ll bust open my piggy bank.”

“Me, too,” said Nate, rubbing his eyes.

I smiled.  “I don’t think it will come to that, but thanks for the offer.”

*       *       *

He sits very still, listening.

He hesitates, then moves to the trapdoor.  He starts to open it, stopping as a voice sounds beneath him in the entry.

“Cal?”

Another voice answers.  Agitated, breathless.  “What?”

He raises the hatch a little and peeks through the opening.  A man with skinny, hairless arms stands below.  “I got a bad feeling about this,” the man calls into the house.

Seconds pass.  The other man answers.  “Ain’t nobody home ’cept sweet-cheeks here.  Keep checkin’.  There’s bound to be cash.”  Then a sharp slapping noise, and the muffled sound of someone crying.  The man below heads deeper into the house.

He hears his parents’ bedroom door bang open.  With trembling hands, he closes and bolts his hatch. 
Stay here till they leave?
he wonders.
They haven’t found me yet.  Maybe they won’t. 
He recalls the sobbing sound.  He tries to drive it from his mind.  Can’t.

Shivering, he pulls back the bolt.  More crashing in his parents’ room, and an odd grunting from somewhere.
  The living room.
  He opens the hatch.  Heart pounding, he climbs down the ladder from his bedroom loft.

Get to a phone.  Call nine-one-one.  Wait till the police come.

He hesitates in the entry.  There are two telephones in the house:  one in his parents’ bedroom, the other in the kitchen.  The first is out.  That leaves the kitchen.  Hugging the wall, he creeps down the hall, pausing when he reaches the living room.  The grunting has grown louder.  He eases his head around the corner.  He can see the kitchen on the far side, the phone out of reach.  More of the living room comes into view …
TV, coffee table … He freezes when he gets to the man on the couch.

Allison cowers beneath him, tears streaming down her face.  A strip of duct tape seals her mouth.  Another binds her hands.  Blood runs from her nose.

A noise sounds behind him. 
The other one’s coming!
  With a rush of panic, he slides behind the door.  An instant later the man he’d seen earlier bursts in.  “I found some jewelry in the bedroom,” the man says.  “That’s all there is.  Let’s go, Cal.”

“There’s gotta be cash, Joey,” Cal snarls.  “Find it.”

“There ain’t none.  I checked.”

“Where’s the money?” Cal demands, grabbing Allison’s hair and jerking her head from the couch.

“She might be able to talk better if you took off the gag,” Joey points out.

Cal rips the tape from Allison’s mouth.  “Where’s the money?”

“There isn’t any,” Allison sobs.  “My dad doesn’t keep cash in the house.”

Cal doubles his fist.  Coldly and deliberately, he hits her.  Grinning, he hits her again.  “Where is it?”

He sneaks from his hiding place, backing down the hall.

“She don’t know.  Jesus, Cal, you’re gonna kill her!”

“Bullshit!  She knows and she’s gonna tell.”

He can hear them arguing as he retreats. 
The phone in Dad’s room?  No time.  Run to the neighbors for help?  Stop a car on the highway?

All at once he remembers the gun.

It’s a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson, his father’s service revolver before he switched to the Beretta automatic.  It’s on the top shelf of the coat closet, supposedly safe from prying hands.  He knows from experience that he can reach it from the ladder to his loft.

He retreats to the entry and ascends the ladder, stopping partway up.  Resisting an urge to climb the final rungs to the loft and lock the hatch behind him, he holds on with one hand, pawing through articles far back on the closet’s shelf.

It has to be here.  Please be … There!

His fingers close on the gun.  Then the box of .38 hollow points.

Hurry … hurry …

Fighting to control his shaking hands, he opens the cylinder and begins jamming in shells as he’s seen his father do at the academy qualifying range. 
One, two, three …

A cartridge slips from his fingers.  It clatters to the floor.

“What’s that?” Cal’s voice echoes from down the hall.

“I didn’t hear nothin’,” Joey answers.

He holds his breath, waiting …

“Guess you’re right,” Cal says finally.

He closes the cylinder and eases back down the ladder. 
Quickly, down the hall before they hear me. 
He hesitates at the living room door.  Cocks the revolver.  Terrified, he steps into the room.

“Nate!  Wake up!”

“Wha—?”

I knelt beside Nate’s bed in the darkness.  “Wake up, Nate.  You’re having a nightmare.”  I flipped on the bedside lamp and sat on the edge of his bunk.  “Damn, you’re all sweaty.  You’ve been crying, too.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nate choked, his voice thick with panic.

Gently, I pulled him to a sitting position.  “Kid, I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.  This isn’t the first one of these you’ve had.  What’s going on?”

Nate looked away.

“Please tell me what’s bothering you, son.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Daddy,” Nate sobbed, abruptly bursting into tears.  “I want to be good, but—”

“You’re not making sense,” I said, gripping his shoulders.  “What’s being good have to do with anything?”

“I thought bright lights were customary during an interrogation,” came a voice from the doorway.  Allison stepped into the room.  She regarded Nate somberly.  For a puzzling instant I had the impression that something passed between them.  “Leave him alone, Dad,” she ordered in a voice as cold as ice.

I hesitated, taken aback by her tone.  Puzzled, I returned my attention to Nate.  “Kid, I just want to help.”

“I know,” said Nate, his words barely audible.

“Leave him alone,” Allison repeated angrily.

Ignoring her, I asked Nate, “Can we start over?  Please tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.  Maybe we can work it out together.”

Again, Nate glanced at Allison, then began crying anew.  He was trembling, too.  “Aw, kid, come here,” I said.  I drew him to me and held him against my chest until he finally stopped shaking.  More confused than ever, I tried again.  “Nate, talk to me.  Please.”