Kane (23 page)

“Nothing’s wrong, Daddy,’ he said.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.  I won’t do it again.”

“Nate …”

“Please, Dad.  Nothing’s wrong.”

I hesitated, shaking my head in bewilderment.  “Okay,” I said.  “But if you ever need to talk things over, you know, man to man …”

“That go for me, too?” Allison interjected bitterly.  “Or is a ‘man to man’ with your daughter completely out of the question?”

“What are you so pissed off about, Allison?  I swear, sometimes I don’t understand you.”  I rose from the bed.  “The sun will be up in a couple hours,” I said, completely at a loss.  I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed.  “Let’s … let’s try to get some shuteye.”

“I wish Mom would come home,” said Nate, wiping his nose on his pajama sleeve.

“A big amen to that,” Allison added fiercely.  “I wish she were home right now.”

I turned in the doorway.  “Me, too,” I said.

Confused and upset, I couldn’t get back to sleep.  After pulling on a jacket, I grabbed my cell phone, descended to the beach, and sat on a large, lounge-style swing I had hung from the upper deck some years back.  I’d been gazing out at the ocean and puzzling over my confrontation with Allison and Nate for several minutes when I heard a shuffling behind me.  I turned.  A pair of eyes shined at me from the darkness.

“Callie,” I said.  “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

The Labrador moved closer and cocked her head, regarding me as if to say she wasn’t about to stay in bed with someone rustling around outside in the dark.

I patted the cushion beside me.  “C’mon up, girl.”

Callie bounded onto the swing, balancing on unsteady legs as it swayed beneath her.  Eventually the movement slowed and she lay down, stretching out on the cushions, head in my lap.  I scratched her ears and ran my hand over her rust-yellow fur.  “Life’s simple for you, huh, pup?” I said softly.  “If you can’t eat it, hump it, or fetch it—piss on it.”

Callie responded with a perfunctory tail-thump.  Then, with a sigh, she closed her eyes.  Within minutes her lids started to flutter, her feet to twitch, and a small whine escaped her mouth as she pursued some phantom in her dreams.

Callie and I stayed there long into the night.  Although Callie slept, I did not.  Troubled by Allison’s bitterness and Nate’s unreasoning fears, I revisited my discussion with Catheryn at the Music Center, reluctantly wondering whether she had been right.  Clearly something was terribly wrong with both Allison and Nate.  Why had it taken me so long to see it?  Rather than meeting my responsibilities as a father,
was
it easier for me to lose myself in the demands of work instead of facing a truth I didn’t want to consider, a truth I couldn’t accept?
 
Part of me felt certain Catheryn was wrong.  Yet no matter how many times I replayed our conversation—rationalizing, justifying, devising powerful new arguments and strategies and rebuttals—another part of me remained unable to dismiss her accusation.  Disturbingly, the more I pondered the question, the more I was forced to face the heartbreaking realization that I had failed my family in some deep and fundamental way, inflicting a wound that might be too deep to heal.

Hours later I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket and punched in the international code for Rome.  But as I started to enter the digits for Catheryn’s hotel, I hesitated.  Unwilling to continue but not knowing why, I lowered the phone.  Finally, as the sun began its slow ascent over the Santa Monica skyline, feeling more despondent than I had since Tommy died, I headed back into the house.

17

L
ieutenant Snead tapped a pencil on the edge of his desk for attention.  “Okay, everybody settle down.  You guys in the back move up and take seats closer in.”

Deluca, Liman, and I drifted forward, finding places where we could.

“I’m happy to report that Detective Barrello has some good news,” Snead continued, getting the briefing under way.  “But before we get to that, I want to quickly review our progress in a couple of other areas.  To get things rolling, Lieutenant Huff will update us on developments in Orange County.  Ken?”

I looked over at Barrello.  He lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.

Lieutenant Huff moved to the chart on the front wall.  Another sheet had been added since the previous afternoon.  “First,” said Huff, referring to the chart, “a recanvass of the Pratt neighborhood elicited nothing new.  No luck finding the white van.  Tracing the candles, pipe, and Ace bandages didn’t pan out, either.  Too common.  What else?  Oh, the sign on the truck.  Shanelec, that was yours.”

“Right,” answered Collins’ partner.  “Negative with paint shops and magnetic sign companies in Los Angeles and Orange County.  I’m working my way farther out, as well as hitting the internet.”

“That leaves our attempt to establish a link between the families,” Hall continued.  “Fuentes and … ?”

“Me,” said Liman, raising his hand.

“Anything?”

“Nope,” Liman answered regretfully.  “We’re almost done with the phone books and financial records.  Next we’ll try friends, neighbors, coworkers—anybody who could’ve known them both.”

“How about the car repair angle?” I asked.  “Any record of the Pratts’ filing an insurance claim?”

“No insurance claim,” Fuentes answered, referring to his notes.  “But there was a check made out to Mission Viejo Bodyworks.  Dated October eighth.”

“A week before they were murdered,” I mused.  “If the Pratts—”

“We’re all well aware of the repair shop connection,” interrupted Snead dismissively.  “Let’s move on.  To sum things up on the LAPD’s end:  All aspects of the Larson investigation mirror Orange County results, with one exception.  Yesterday Kane and Deluca visited the Santa Monica body shop where we located the Larsons’ missing car.  You want to go over that, Kane?”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said.  “There was no house key on the Larsons’ key ring, but it’s possible the guy could have taken it and not put it back.  The only prints on the door opener were Mrs. Larson’s.  The Infiniti doesn’t leak oil or radiator coolant, but there were drips of both fluids in the Larsons’ garage, and they had to come from somewhere.  We might consider interviewing anyone who could have parked in there, see if we can find a match.  By the way, the SID analysis came back on the drips.  The oil was a mix of thirty-weight Pennzoil and ten-forty Quaker State.  The coolant turned out to be Zerex.  If we want a more detailed breakdown, we can send samples over to the Standard Oil refining lab in El Segundo.”

“What’s this about oil drips?” demanded Snead.  “There wasn’t anything about that in your report.”

“At the time I wasn’t sure they were significant,” I said.  “The Jeep in the garage didn’t leak, but until I examined the Larsons’ Infiniti, I couldn’t tell whether—”

“Damn it, Kane.  In the future you will include
everything
in your reports,” Snead snapped.  “
I’ll
decide what’s significant.  This is the last time I want to have to mention your shoddy paperwork.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  “In that case, I would like to add that the Larsons’ lawn needed mowing, the birdbath was empty except for dead leaves, and I detected what I assumed to be bunny crap under the living room couch.”

“Move on to the employee list,” ordered Snead, scowling at a spate of chuckles from the back.

“Right, Lieutenant,” I continued.  “The owner of the Santa Monica body shop supplied us with a list of everybody who’s worked there over the past two years.  Deluca ran the names through DOJ.  A lot of them came back dirty.  For instance, Alonzo Domingos, the guy who did the bodywork on the Infiniti, was busted four years ago for rape.  The charges were dismissed.”

“Which brings us to Detective Barrello’s discovery,” said Snead.  “Lou?”

Obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny of everyone present, Barrello cleared his throat.  “I stayed late last night cross-comparing Kane’s list with an employee roster from Mission Viejo Bodyworks—the garage where the Pratts had
their
repair done,” he said.  “No correlations turned up at first, but among others, the Pratts’ body shop has a sister location in Laguna Niguel.  I checked that one and came up with a hit.  Alonzo Domingos worked there three years ago.  I’m not sure how important this is,” he added.  “According to the owner, most door-and-fender guys change jobs all the time.”

“It’s the best lead we’ve got,” said Collins.  “And the only one that might tie the two families together.  I say we bring this Domingos guy in.”

“You might want to hold off on that,” I cautioned.

“Why?”

“For starters, Domingos is in Mexico visiting relatives.”

“So?” said Snead.  “We arrest him down there.”

“He’ll be back next week.  If we sit tight and have the Mexican locals keep an eye on him, we can pick him up when he crosses the border,” I reasoned.  “That way we avoid a pain-in-the-ass extradition if he decides to fight us.  And although I hate to cloud things with the facts, Lieutenant, we don’t have anything solid on Domingos.  Even when he does get back, it’d make a lot more sense to keep him under surveillance and see what develops.”

Snead glanced at Huff, then shook his head.  “That call will come from higher up.  In the meantime—”

“I really think we ought to hold off on popping the champagne,” I persisted.  “For one thing—”

“Sorry, Detective, did it sound like I was finished?” said Snead.

“For one thing, Domingos doesn’t even come close to matching Berns’s profile,” I continued stubbornly.

“Now you want to go by that?  You were the one who complained the loudest about bringing in a shrink.  And linking the murders to the car repairs was
your
idea.”

“I’m not doing a one-eighty here, but I think we should move slowly.  The door opener was still in the Larsons’ Infiniti, and—”

“So Domingos took it, used it, and replaced it.  Or maybe he just went down to the hardware store, bought a replacement, and cloned the code.  Or maybe he stole the house keys from the key ring.  No prints?  He wore gloves.”

I shook my head.  “If we nail Domingos and it turns out he’s the wrong guy, the media will bury us.”

“Your objection is noted,” Snead said icily.  “From now on, if I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.  I’ll tell you one more time, Kane.  We’re running a joint effort here. 
You
are not personally calling the shots.  If you can’t remember that, there’s no room for you on this unit.”  Snead’s gaze swept the room.  “And that goes for everyone here as well.  Now, if there are no further objections, let’s get on with the briefing.”

18

O
n a residential street high above the Newport peninsula, a white van sat at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac.  A sign on the side read “Bill’s Pest Control.”  Hunched over the steering wheel, Victor Carns squinted through a pair of binoculars, studying a two-story house partway up the street.

The woman’s husband had left at seven-thirty that morning, right on schedule.  Carns had delayed entering the development until he’d seen Wes Welsh’s green Mercedes heading down San Joaquin Hills road.  As usual, the woman had departed fifty minutes later, shuttling her children to school.  After dropping them at Lincoln Elementary, she would drive to the health club for her nine o’clock aerobics class, shower at the gym, and possibly spend the remainder of the morning shopping at Fashion Island, where she occasionally met a girlfriend for lunch.  Even if she didn’t decide to shop, he had at least an hour.

Carns inspected the house through his binoculars one last time.  Satisfied, he reached into the glove compartment and withdrew one of his untraceable cellular phones.  He punched in the woman’s number.  Three rings, four … Finally an answering machine picked up.

“Hi.  You’ve reached the Welsh residence,”
a young girl’s voice announced.  “We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message for Wes, Julie, Heather, or Brian, and we’ll return your call.  Wait for the beep.”

Carns closed the phone and started the van.  He proceeded down the street, slowing as he approached the Welsh residence to activate the opener remote he had purchased and programmed the previous day.  With a lurch, the Welshes’ garage door levered open, revealing two empty parking spaces.  Carns drove in.  He depressed the remote button again.  The door creaked shut behind him.

He was in.

Smiling, he stepped from the van and moved to a door leading into the house.  After pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he turned the knob.  The door was unlocked, as expected—not that the cheap lock present would have slowed him appreciably.  He stepped inside and glanced around.

No security system.  Good.

Quickly, he surveyed the ground floor, committing the layout to memory.  He found the electrical panel in a service alcove beside a downstairs bedroom.  After examining the panel, he ducked into the adjacent bedroom, noting model planes, cars, a skateboard.

The boy’s room.  Too close to the breaker panel.  The outside meter, then.