Kane (3 page)

Nate didn’t answer.

Unconsciously, Nate started working on his nails again.  This time I let it go, struck by the web of hurt and misunderstanding that had ensnared our entire family since Tommy’s death.  “That argument wasn’t your fault, Nate,” I said gently.  “And anyway, a little scrapping at school is normal for a boy your age, as long as you don’t overdo it.  Too much of a good thing can get you sidelined.”

“But …”

“Nate, the spat last night between your mom and me may have started as a discussion of your so-called brawling in the classroom, but things definitely progressed from there.”

“Mom was really sad after you left.”

I stared at my hands.  “I know.”

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Do you still love Mom?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you come home?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Are you and Mom going to get divorced?”

“Jeez, Nate.  What are you saying?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t believe this.  I thought I taught you kids better than that.  What’s the most important thing about being in our family?”

Nate’s response was automatic.  “Kanes stand together, no matter what.”

“That’s right.  No matter what
.
  Now, your mom and I may have problems, but she’s not getting rid of me
that
easy.  We’ll work things out.  I promise.  Okay?”

Instead of answering, Nate threw his arms around my neck.  Taken off guard, I clumsily returned his hug.  He clung to me fiercely, then squirmed from my arms and raced down the hill.

Just then my cell phone rang.  I checked the number.  The call was from the West Los Angeles police-dispatch operator.  With a sigh, I realized it would probably be a workday for me after all.  I didn’t answer, deciding to return the call from my car.

Still pondering Nate’s unexpected embrace, I watched as his small figure receded down the knoll.  Puzzled, I touched my face where his cheek had pressed.  Withdrawing my hand, I saw that my fingers were damp with his tears.

With a feeling of profound sadness, I wondered how things in our family had gone so wrong.  I glanced one final time at Tommy’s marker.  Allison’s daisies had already started to wilt, the yellow blooms sagging sadly atop the cold brass plate.  At last I rose and started down the hill, wishing more than anything that all of life’s heartbreak and uncertainty could be healed with an unction as simple as
Kanes stand together … no matter what.

2

P
ushing the speed limit when traffic allowed, I navigated the freeways from Burbank to Santa Monica in under thirty minutes.  As I drove, the sun rose higher into a clear blue sky, promising another day of sunshine and smog for the inland communities of Los Angeles.  A few miles from the ocean, however, the air temperature abruptly plummeted, with a marine layer shrouding the coast in a blanket of gloom more typical of June than November.  Mood matching the weather, I took Pacific Coast Highway north under progressively darkening skies.  At Sunset Boulevard I headed inland, turned left on Palisades Drive at the mouth of Santa Ynez Canyon, and climbed into the coastal mountains.

The Palisades Highlands subdivision, displaying a typical Southern California complement of palms, red tiled roofs, and Mexican paver patios, had been built at the base of the canyon some years back.  I continued up Palisades Drive, passing through the cheery suburban neighborhood to an enclave of custom homes higher up.  It took several minutes to locate Michael Lane, the multiple-homicide location that police dispatch had given me when I’d finally called back.  Upon arriving, I found an LAPD black-and-white parked inside an open entry gate that guarded a handful of homes beyond.  Several hundred feet down the road, I could see more squad cars parked at odd angles.  I flashed my badge at an officer stationed at the gate and drove through, pulling to the curb beside of knot of police vehicles in front of a gray, colonial-style home.

After grabbing a small camera and flashlight from the glove box, I stepped from the Suburban and hung my shield on my belt.  The scene still appeared untouched, at least from the outside.  A young LAPD patrol officer stood within a perimeter of a yellow crime-scene ribbon strung from adjacent properties.  Across from the house, four other officers were conversing with a crowd of onlookers.

I ducked under the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.  “Daniel Kane, homicide,” I said to the young patrol officer as I approached, deciding from the appearance of his neatly pressed uniform, spit-shined shoes, and lack of rank stripes that he was a P-I—still in his probationary “boot” year on the force.  “You the first unit to arrive?”

“Yes, sir,” the boot answered, straightening a bit.  “Me and my training officer.”

I glanced across the street.  “One of those guys over there?”

“Yes, sir.”  The youngster pointed to an older Hispanic man.

I eyed the nameplate on the boot’s chest:  Morrison.  After withdrawing a pen and notebook from my pocket, I made an entry.  Then, ignoring Officer Morrison’s obvious nervousness, I turned my attention to the two story wood-and-brick house behind the tape, noting the mature trees and landscaping, a border of immaculately kept flower beds that spoke of weekly visits from a professional gardener, and a two car garage jutting from the main structure.  A stand of eucalyptus and sycamore nearly concealed a single story neighboring home on the left; the house on the right had a “For Sale” sign posted at the sidewalk, with a small plaque hung below that read “Graysha Hunt.”

I glanced at my watch, looked at the sky, and made several another notations.  Though I have a good memory, concise record keeping is part of the job, and sometimes these initial notes find their way into court.

“Okay, Morrison, ready to run it down for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And relax.  I’m not going to bite,” I said.  “Not yet, anyhow,” I added, trying to loosen the kid up.  “You haven’t screwed up my crime scene, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.  So let’s have it.”

Referring to his own notebook, Officer Morrison gave a brief summation of events leading to the discovery of the murders.  An hour into their shift, he and his partner had been dispatched on a one-eighty-seven homicide call to the home of Charles and Susan Larson.  Upon arriving, the officers had interviewed a neighbor waiting out front.  She stated that she had planned to carpool with the Larsons and their son to a soccer match earlier that morning.  When she got there, she found the front door ajar.  She called into the house and looked inside, noticing what appeared to be blood on the entry tiles and the stairway to the second floor.  Alarmed, she called inside again, then used her cell phone to contact the police.  At that point Morrison and his partner entered the house, established that a multiple homicide had occurred, and exited, retracing their steps.

I asked Morrison to describe his route through the house, also asking whether anything had been disturbed.  Satisfied, I pulled my camera from my coat and took a shot of the house.  The official crime scene photos wouldn’t be available until later, and I preferred to have reference pictures available for my own use as soon as possible.  Repocketing my camera, I turned back to Morrison.  “Are you the one keeping the crime scene log?” I asked, referring to an official record of everyone entering the crime scene.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, kid.  If anyone ducks under that tape, I want his name, serial number, and time of arrival and departure.  And I mean everybody, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

I turned toward the entrance gate at the head of the street.  “Was that gate closed when you arrived?”

Morrison nodded.  “We tweaked our siren.  A resident let us in.”

“Using the numerical keypad there?” I asked, remembering seeing one on my way in.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any other way in or out of this development?”

“There’s an exit gate.  Opens automatically when you leave.”

I looked down the road, spotting a wrought iron barrier at the far end.  I added that to my notes, then signaled to the group of officers across the street.  One by one they ambled over, forming a loose semicircle around me.  “You entered the house?” I asked the burly individual whom Morrison had pointed out as his partner.

The man, whose plate read “Rodriguez,” nodded.

Without referring to my notebook, I recounted verbatim Officer Morrison’s description of events following their arrival.  “Anything to add?” I asked upon finishing.

Rodriguez shrugged.  “Not much, except that the wife was really good looking.  At least before …”

I glanced across the street.  “Anybody over there see or hear anything?”

Rodriguez shook his head.

“So let’s turn up somebody who did,” I suggested.  “The killer either lives in this complex, knows the gate code, or jumped the fence.  If the latter’s the case, he probably parked on a side street nearby.  I want the entire neighborhood canvassed.  Start here and work your way out, searching for anyplace the guy might have parked if he came in from outside.  One of you check for strangers in that bunch of rubberneckers over there, too.  The rest split up and get moving.  Somebody saw something.  Find them.”

Once the other officers had departed, I rejoined Morrison behind the tape.  “Call SID,” I ordered, referring to the Special Investigative Division’s crime-scene unit.  “When you have an ETA from them, buzz the coroner’s office.  Say I requested Art Walters, if he’s available.”

“Yes, sir.”

I glanced again at the sky.  The overcast had thickened since I’d arrived, and it appeared the sun wouldn’t be breaking through anytime soon.  “Have them send a sexual-assault team, too,” I added, remembering Rodriguez’s comment about the wife.

Without awaiting an answer, I crossed the lawn to a wooden gate on the left side of the house.  The gate was unlocked.  I opened it and followed a narrow walkway along the side, noticing the cloying smell of jasmine as I arrived in a small back yard.  Passing a littering of patio furniture, a leaf-choked birdbath, and an assortment of balls, bats, and other children’s toys, I circumnavigated the exterior, examining doors and windows for any sign of forced entry.  I found none.

After returning to the street, I made my way up a flagstone walkway to the front door.  A bronze eagle, its wings spread majestically in flight, hung above the entry.  I gazed at the silent raptor for a moment, preparing myself for what was to come.  Then I withdrew a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, pulled them on, and pushed through the door, closing it behind me.  Once inside I paused in the entry, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.

Quiet.  Too quiet.

To the left lay the living room, shades drawn.  To the right, a hallway led deeper into the house.  Directly in front, a carpeted staircase curved up to the second floor.  Dark stains, some displaying a wavy pattern, marked the entry tiles and several stair treads.

Have SID check it out.  Get a shoe size, maybe a make.

Using my pen, I flipped a light switch at the base of the stairs.  Nothing.  I tried another switch.  Same result.

Power out?

On a wall nearby I noticed a security panel, its LCD screen dark.

No battery backup?

I proceeded down the hall, flashlight in hand.  At the end of the hallway I entered a laundry room with a door leading to the garage.  Beneath a counter piled with clothes I noticed a large wire cage, its door open, the interior empty.  A rectangular sign wired to the front read “Buster.”

Retracing my steps, I glanced into a powder room, then made my way to the kitchen, sweeping my flashlight beam along the walls as I entered.  Dishes lay piled by the sink, an empty pizza carton beside them.  Flanking an oval table in the breakfast nook was a bulletin board covered with crayon depictions of fish, insects, and an American flag—obviously the work of a child but some surprisingly good.  Magnetic fruit tacked other drawings to the refrigerator.  In a small alcove beside the pantry, someone had taken the phone off the hook and wrapped the receiver in dishtowels.

Crossing the room, I noted that the hands on an analog clock beside the stove had stopped on 12:37.  Using my camera’s built-in flash, I took a picture of the clock, then unplugged it.  As I continued my inspection, I saw that like the lights in the entry, the digital panels on the microwave and oven were out.

The remainder of the ground floor proved unremarkable:  a wood-paneled den, a formal living room, and a dining room with a cut-glass chandelier above an ornate dinner table.  Upon completing my circuit of the downstairs, I stopped again in the entry, considering my next move.  Apparently, electricity to the house had been turned off—presumably by the killer.  Not ready to start pulling drapes and opening blinds, I decided to see whether I could find the breaker panel and get the power back on.  After returning to the laundry room, I opened a heavy door on the back wall and stepped into the garage.

Lacking windows, the garage proved even darker than the rest of the house.  It took me a moment to find the door-opener control.  I pushed the button with the tip of my pen.  As expected, the door remained closed.