Kane (31 page)

“Do you think that could be part of the—”

“No.  His mom encourages him enough for the both of us,” I interrupted, checking my watch.  “Alex, I have a one o’clock appointment.  Can we cut to the chase?”

Petrinski sighed.  “All right.  Does intuition sometimes play a role in your job?”

“Sure.  Cops go with gut feelings all the time.”

“Well, I have a gut feeling, too.  It’s telling me that something’s wrong with Travis.”

“And you think I’m the cause.”

“I don’t know.  You and I have had our differences over the years, but I know you love your son.  Unfortunately, sometimes that’s not enough.”

“I’m not following.  What do you want me to do?”

Petrinski slumped, suddenly seeming old.  “I’m not sure,” he said.  “But I believe Travis needs help.  And although I don’t know why, I think you’re the only one who can give it.”

Puzzling over Petrinski’s words, I returned to my car.  Deciding to forego lunch, I jammed more quarters into the parking meter, asked directions from an attendant at a kiosk, and walked two blocks north.

Another addition to the university since I’d attended, the Colburn School of Performing Arts, or the Performing Arts Annex as it is better known, sprawled the better part of a block between Thirty-Second and Figueroa.  I entered through a door on the west end.  Glancing up at the forty-foot-high ceiling, I surmised that the rambling structure had once served another purpose—probably, if the now abandoned catwalks and grids traversing the ceiling were any indication, as a sound stage during Hollywood’s heydays of years past.  Now, like cells in a hive, row upon row of rooms partitioned the cavernous space.  I followed a narrow passage, checking a warren of deserted practice rooms as I went.  Many of the small chambers contained only a chair and music stand; others had upright pianos crammed in, some even two.

After several wrong turns I arrived at a central receiving area.  At a desk in the middle, a young woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a bored expression glanced up as I approached.

“I’m looking for Travis Kane,” I said.

The young woman flipped through a register.  “D-eighteen,” she said, indicating a walkway behind me with a slight inclination of her head.  “Straight ahead, left at the first bend.”

“Thanks,” I said, starting for the corridor.

Making my way down the hall, I began to hear the faint tones of a piano coming from somewhere up ahead.  The sound grew louder as I rounded a corner.  I listened as I walked, recognizing a piece I had occasionally heard Travis play at home.  Now, however, the work contained subtle, foreboding alterations I couldn’t quite pin down.  I paused as I reached a glass door marked “D-18.”  Travis sat at an upright piano on the other side, concentrating on his playing.  Abruptly, the music stopped.  As I raised my hand to knock on the glass, Travis resumed, now playing an unfamiliar work.  Letting my hand drop, I stood outside and listened.

The new piece got off to a rocky start, stumbling in the opening.  Travis began again, faltered, then set out once more—changing chords and phrases in the right hand, trying different combinations and colors and shadings.  Realizing that I was hearing a work in progress, I leaned against the opposite wall and watched my son through the glass.

Finally his new piece got off the ground, and for the next several minutes, as I waited outside the practice room, I found myself captivated by Travis’s playing.  In those few minutes, almost against my will, I experienced a flow of unexpected emotion, indefinable yearnings, surprising and sometimes overwhelming moments of both arrival and despair.  And for the first time, with a mix of both pride and amazement, I realized the true extent of my son’s ability and talent.

The playing stopped.  Looking up, I saw Travis staring at me through the glass.  Clearly surprised by my presence, he closed the keyboard and walked to the door.  “Hi, Dad,” he said uncertainly, joining me in the hall.  “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“Is there something … ?”

“Petrinski’s been leaving messages that he wanted to talk to me.  I finally made it over.”

“What did he want?”

I decided to take a direct approach.  “He thinks you have a knack for writing music,” I answered.  “Talks as if you could be the next Beethoven.  He also thinks you’re going to blow it.  He says you’re not really trying, like something’s holding you back.  Is that true?”

“No.  At least I—”

“Tell me the truth, Trav.  If something’s wrong, I want to help.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Dad.”

I decided to try another tack.  “I didn’t recognize that piece you were playing.  What was it?”

“Schubert’s
Wanderer Fantasy
.”

“I mean
after
that.  That was yours, wasn’t it?”

He lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed.  “Uh, yes, sir.”

“Hell, Trav, why are you acting so secretive?  Has anyone else heard it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not done yet.  Besides, I didn’t write it for anybody to hear.  It’s sort of private.”

“Travis, I’ll level with you, and I want you to level with me, too.  You know I want the very best for you, right?”

“I know.”

“Then talk to me.  Petrinski told me that classes are over till after Thanksgiving.  If nothing’s wrong, instead of coming home, why are you here working on a piece you say nobody will ever hear?  We have a piano at home too, in case you forgot.”

“I was planning on making it home tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Travis.  “I stayed here to catch up on some of my studies.”

“There’s more to it than that,” I said.  “Petrinski thinks that whatever’s eating you has something to do with me.  If that’s the case, I need to hear about it.”

Travis remained silent.  “It’s not you,” he said at last.

“Then what?”

Travis shifted uneasily.

“Come on, Trav.  Spill it.”

Travis looked away.  “Dad, for as long as I can remember, everyone’s expected me to do big things.  Mom, Petrinski, lately even you.  Since starting here at SC, it’s become even worse.  I feel like an impostor.  Like I’m going to let everyone down.”

“What do you want, a guarantee?”

“No, but—”

“Petrinski says you have talent.  I’m no expert, but from what I just heard, I’m inclined to agree.  It’s natural to have doubts, especially as most of the big boys began writing music early on, but you wouldn’t be the first composer to start late.  Hell, Schumann didn’t get going till he was in his early twenties.

Travis, well acquainted with my magpie memory for useless facts, shook his head.  “I’m not Schumann.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?  If you do something, kid, go all the way.  You don’t score touchdowns sitting on the sideline.”

Also well acquainted with my tendency to view the world in terms of football metaphors, Travis smiled.  “Thanks for the advice.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

Travis’s smile faltered.

“C’mon, kid.  I’m trying to help.”

Travis hesitated.  “Have you ever been unsure of yourself, Dad?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Like when?”

I knew that Travis’s question had not been asked casually.  “Two years after graduating from the academy,” I answered.

“What happened?”

“I was working patrol with a guy named Jerry Tannenbaum.  Jerry had a drinking problem.  One night we answered a call on a convenience store robbery.  Jerry was way past his booze limit that evening, and he wound up involved in a bad shooting.  Nothing intentional, and the guy lived, but it was a bad shooting nonetheless.  I was still wet behind the ears.  Tannenbaum had twelve years on the force.  He wanted me to lie for him—told me disclosing the facts wouldn’t heal the hole in the guy’s shoulder and so forth.  I knew Jerry’s wife and kids.  Kate and I had been to their house for dinner.  They were having financial difficulties at the time, and I knew what a suspension would mean for them.  It was a tough decision.”

“What did you do?”

“I did the right thing.”

“What happened to your partner?” Travis probed.

“Jerry left the force.  His wife walked out on him before he finally got help from AA.  Now he owns the biggest Chrysler/Plymouth dealership in El Monte.  Got remarried a few years back, too.”

“Were you invited to the wedding?”

“Nope.  Let’s get back to you.  I take it from your question that there’s something you’re unsure about.”

Travis looked away.

By now I had mental alarms going off right and left.  I stepped closer, deciding to voice a suspicion that had been plaguing me since Nate’s nightmare.  “If you won’t talk about yourself, maybe you can tell me what’s going on with Nate.  Allison, too.  They have some secret, and you know what it is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I immediately recognized the lie.  “Yeah, you do.  Are you going to tell me?”

Travis’s shoulders slumped.  “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll find out sooner or later, so it may as well be now.  Talk to me, Trav.”

Travis shook his head.  “Have you ever made a promise you’ve regretted?” he asked miserably.

“So that’s it.  You promised to keep quiet.  Now you’re thinking you made a mistake and there’s nothing you can do about it.”  I considered a moment.  “Okay,” I continued.  “Right or wrong, you made a promise, and I’ll respect it.  But here’s something I want you to think about:  The world isn’t black and white.  There are shades of gray, and as you get older you’ll run into times when it’s tough to know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The things you’ve learned at home and at church will help, but despite what you may have been told, there’s no all-purpose rule to live by,” I went on.  “So what it boils down to is this:  More important than anything else, you need to have your own inner sense of right and wrong.  When all else fails, you fall back on that.”

Travis said nothing.

“I have to be in court before long, so let’s wind this up.  Whatever’s between you and Allison and Nate has to come out.  I know you promised, but there are responsibilities that go way past other considerations.  Even a promise.”

“Like being part of a family.  Mom thinks that, too.”

“Right.  So with that in mind, do you have anything else to say?”

Travis shook his head.

I stared at him a moment more.  “Okay, Trav,” I sighed.  “Think about what I said.  I know you’ll do the right thing.  See you for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“I’ll be home around noon.”

“Good.  Don’t be late.”  Reluctantly, I turned and started down the hall.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Ask Ali and Nate what actually happened the night of the break-in.”

I turned.  “There’s something they haven’t told about that night?”

“Ask them, Dad.”

“They held back something about the break-in from Catheryn and me, but they told you?” I said incredulously.

“No.  I … I found out on my own, kind of by accident.  By then weeks had gone by, and I didn’t know what to—”

“Found out what?”

“Ask them, Dad,” Travis repeated.  “They should tell you themselves.”

“Damn it, Travis—”

“Please, Dad.”

“All right,” I said.  “I’ll ask them.”

“I should have said something sooner.  I could see things were getting worse, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“At least you’re doing the right thing now.”

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Are you disappointed in me?”

I saw the self-accusation in Travis’s eyes, and the response I had been about to utter died on my lips.  “We all screw up, kid,” I said instead.

Travis lowered his gaze.  “Not like this.”

I returned and placed my hands on his shoulders.  “Look at me, Trav,” I said. 

Slowly, Travis raised his eyes to mine.  “Listen, kid,” I said gently.  “When it comes to making decisions, I told you life doesn’t come with a universal yardstick, but there are
some universal truths.  One is that every father wants to see his son become a better man than he is.  That’s true of
every
father, and I’m no exception.  You’re asking whether I’m disappointed in you?”

“Yes, Dad, I am.  Are you?”

I shook my head.  “Not for a minute, Trav,” I said.  “No way.”

27

F
ollowing my court appearance in West Los Angles, I returned to headquarters, still mulling over my discussion with Travis.  More than anything, I missed Catheryn and for about the hundredth time since she’d left, I wished she were home.

Upon arriving at my desk, I found a message slip.  Someone named Yolanda Blum had called.  Thinking back, I recalled that she was the claims adjuster I had attempted to contact regarding the Larsons’ damaged Infiniti.  For the moment postponing thoughts on how to deal with my children, I removed my jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and dialed the number on the slip.  A woman with a pronounced southern drawl answered.  “Twentieth Century.  Claims.”