Kane (33 page)

“Nope.”  It had been decided that one member of each detective pair would work on Thanksgiving.  Deluca had lost the toss.  “My pesto-sweating partner will be here, though.  I’ll save some leftovers for him.”

“Save some for me, too,” said Huff.

“I’ll do that.  Happy Thanksgiving, Lieutenant.”

“Same to you.  And Kane?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

28

T
hanksgiving morning, following a brief workout on the deck and quick swim to the raft, I showered at an outside nozzle, toweled off, and remounted the stairs to the kitchen.  Still shivering from my ocean swim, I made a pot of coffee, savoring the dark, earthy smell as it brewed on the counter.

Steaming mug in hand, I returned to my bedroom and changed into dry clothes.  Next I searched the top drawer of Catheryn’s dresser, finally finding her list of hotels.  Although she and I had attempted to call each other several times over the previous week, neither of us had succeeded—each of us leaving hollow promises to call back later.  Running my finger down the paper, I found the number of the Hotel Luna in Venice.  According to Catheryn’s written schedule, she would be leaving for Geneva the next day.

Cell phone and Catheryn’s hotel list in hand, I descended to the lower deck.  I intended to have a long-overdue talk with Allison and Nate that morning, but first I wanted to bring Catheryn into the loop and confer with her about how to proceed.  Sitting on the swing, I called Catheryn’s cell.  When she didn’t answer, I tried her hotel.  After a long wait, I finally reached the desk at the Hotel Luna, learning that Catheryn had already departed for the morning.  I then asked to be connected with the symphony manager, who informed me that Catheryn was having lunch with Arthur West and would be proceeding directly to rehearsal after that.

Disappointed, I returned to the kitchen and poured a second cup of coffee, trying to decide whether to talk with Allison and Nate without first conferring with Catheryn.  I called her cell once more.  Still no answer.  I didn’t leave a message.

Wondering why Catheryn hadn’t turned on her phone, I absently checked the refrigerator to make certain I had everything I’d need to prepare Thanksgiving dinner later that day.  For a change I’d decided to cook a prime rib roast, which was easy.  The main work lay in preparing the traditional side dishes.  Over the years everyone had settled on a favorite, and it had become customary for me to fix them all.  Satisfied I had all the necessities, save for a few items I could pick up in Malibu later on, I came to a decision.  With a determined frown I marched down the hall to Allison’s room.  “Reveille!  Up and at ’em, sunshine,” I called, banging on her door.

“Huh?” Allison’s sleepy voice filtered out.

“I want to hear feet hitting the deck,” I ordered.  “You have ten minutes to get dressed and meet me out by the car.”

“C’mon, Pop.  It’s not even light out.”

“Tough.”  Resolutely, I proceeded down the hall.  “You too, sport,” I added, throwing open Nate’s door and flipping on the light.  “Ten minutes.  Out front.”

“Dad, it’s Thanksgiving,” Nate moaned.

“So?”

Nate sat up and rubbed his eyes.  “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Can Callie come, too?”

“No.  Leave her here.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.  We’re going someplace private and have a nice long talk.”

Allison and Nate sat mutely in the back of the Suburban as an unbroken line of houses bordering the beach slipped past, the darkened homes eventually surrendering to ice plant and palms as Pacific Coast Highway curved through the McClure Tunnel—reemerging on the far side as the Santa Monica Freeway.  Traffic picked up when we turned north on I-405, increasing steadily as we wound through the Ventura Freeway interchange and headed east.  By then I was certain the children knew where we were headed.

After exiting on Forest Lawn Drive, I drove west.  A mile farther on I entered a pair of wrought-iron gates, slowing as I passed a small guard house, then accelerating again as we headed up a narrow road traversing cemetery grounds.  Shortly afterward I pulled to the curb and cut the engine.

Far below, like monoliths rising from a blanket of smog and mist, the blocky structures of Burbank’s studios, industrial parks, and business towers pierced the morning air.  To the north, ascending on a trail of pale-blue smoke, an early commuter flight from the Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena airport climbed toward the mountains.  The soft rush of the freeway, its lanes hidden by trees guarding the cemetery’s lower reaches, drifted up from below.

“Why are we here, Dad?” asked Allison.

I stepped from the car and started up the hill.  “Come with me,” I said instead of answering.

Allison and Nate followed reluctantly, picking their way through the lines of bronze memorial plaques set in the hillside.  Upon topping the rise, they joined me by Tommy’s marker.

“I know you’re wondering why I dragged you out here this morning,” I said when they arrived.  Actually, regarding my choice of location, I wasn’t completely certain myself.  Part of it was simply a basic interrogation technique—I wanted to uproot Allison and Nate from their normal surroundings, putting them off balance for questions I had planned.  But in the back of my mind I knew there was more to our being there than that—something I hadn’t quite brought into focus, even for myself.

“Uh … yes, sir,” ventured Allison.  “It not being Sunday and all …”

I thought for a moment.  At last I spoke.  “This is the last time I’ll be coming out here for a while.  Sunday, or any other day,” I said, voicing a decision that had been growing inside me for some time.  “I brought you kids along today because there’s something I need to say to Tommy, and I want you both to hear it.”

Sensing the gravity of my mood, Allison and Nate stood without speaking.

I turned toward Tom’s marker.  Silently, I read the inscription on his plaque, thinking those few lines a pitiful summation of a life that had meant so much to me, so much to us all.

“Tommy,” I began, unsure how to proceed.  I hadn’t really thought things out; I just knew this was something I had to do.  After his death I had written Tom a letter.  I’d shown it to no one except Catheryn.  Although I had buried that letter with Tom, I could still recall the words it contained, as clearly as if they were branded in my mind.  In my letter I’d told Tom things I wished I had said to him while he was still alive.  Without thinking I started to recite my letter aloud, speaking words I had written what seemed an eternity ago.

“Tommy,” I said softly, “never in the short span of your life did I imagine I would be speaking to you like this.  At first I couldn’t accept that you were gone.  When I finally did, when it became real for me that I would never see you or hear you or talk with you again, it was almost more than I could bear.  Even though you are no longer here and there’s nothing I can do to change that, there are things I want to say to you, things I need to say to you.  So here goes …”

I paused, realizing much had changed since I’d written that letter.  After the accident I had discovered that Tom hadn’t intended to go to college as planned, on football scholarship or otherwise—at least not right away.  Unknown to any of us, Tom’s girlfriend Christy had been pregnant with his child at the time, a child she’d unfortunately miscarried a month after the funeral.  It was a second tragedy that had saddened us all, wounding us anew.  Tom had secretly intended to marry Christy, have the baby, and follow in my footsteps by joining the ranks of the LAPD.  Tom’s being on that rock climb against my direct orders was simply the last in a long line of rebellions brought about, in large part, by my unyielding conviction that I knew what was best for him.  Looking back, I realize how different things might have been if only I had been more understanding, if only I’d made the effort to learn how Tommy really felt.  In my letter I had apologized to Tom for not being a father in whom he could have confided, a father to whom he could have reached out for help … no matter what.

I suppose like any parent who’s suffered the loss of a child, I had also expressed my wishes and what-ifs and why-didn’t-I’s and regrets, as well as my abiding guilt and abject disappointment in myself for not being there when he needed me.  And finally, I had told him how proud I was of him, and that I missed him, and that I loved him.

Now, with the passage of time, most of that ancient letter seemed inadequate, a dissonant echo from the past.  Although I still meant every word, for me only one part still held lasting meaning … and that was how much I loved and missed him.

“Go on, Dad,” said Allison.  “Please.”

I knelt beside Tom’s marker.  Reaching down, I touched its cold bronze surface, tracing the words there with my fingers.  “Tom, I won’t be coming out to visit quite so often,” I said quietly, abandoning my letter.  I hesitated, fighting to steady my voice.  “It’s not that I want to forget you.  Just the opposite.  When you died, part of me died, too.  Afterward I let my grief fester and grow until it poisoned me and everyone around me, especially our family.  I know that now.  And I know that has to change.  I want to hold you close and for the rest of my days carry you with me, cherishing the good parts of you, the good memories of you, not just the bitter remembrance of how you died, and I’m going to work on that.  So if I don’t come out here for a while, it’s not that I’ve forgotten you.  I’ll never forget you.  Never.  I love you, son.  And I always will.”

“I love you too, Tommy,” said Allison.

“Me, too,” whispered Nate.

I took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.  I rose to my feet, knowing my resolution was going to be easier said than done, but resolved to make it happen.  After a moment I turned to my children, deciding the time had come to broach the other reason we were there.

I regarded each of them carefully, holding their gaze.  “Okay, if you haven’t figured it out by now, we’re here this morning to try to get things straightened out in our family,” I said.  “So along those lines, there’s something else we need to cover, and I want absolute honesty from both of you.  Recently, I realized a couple of things.  For one, I know you two haven’t been telling the whole truth about what happened on the night of the break-in.”

Nate froze.

Allison looked away.

“I know you’re hiding something,” I pushed on.  “This secret of yours, whatever it is, is tearing apart our family.  I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

Allison shook her head.  “I don’t know what you’re—”

I silenced her with a raise of my hand.  “This isn’t the time for lies, Ali.  Not now, and not here.”

“I don’t—”

“Absolute honesty.  Am I making my self clear?”

Allison looked away.  “Yes, sir.  You’re making yourself clear.”

“Nate?”

Swallowing, Nate nodded.

“Good.  Well?”

When neither child responded, I let the silence grow until it assumed an almost corporal presence between us.  “I could act as if I already know everything, but I’m not going to do that,” I said at last, carefully observing my children’s reactions.  “I’m giving you a chance to speak up on your own.  What happened that night, Allison?”

“God damn Travis,” she said softly, apparently realizing the source of my suspicions.

“Your brother Travis has nothing to do with this,” I said.  “Talk.”

“No.”  Allison turned and started down the slope.

In three quick strides, I caught up.  I took her arm and spun her around.  “What happened that night, Allison?”

Allison glared back defiantly.  “You already know.”

I tightened my grip on her arm.  “You’re going to come clean about this.  What are you holding back?”

“I …”

“Why’d you shoot him?” I asked, taking a stab in the dark.

“She didn’t,” said a small voice behind me.  “I did.”

I turned, staring incredulously.  “What?”

“
I
shot him,” Nate repeated, his voice trembling.

“Shut up,” hissed Allison.

I released my daughter and turned to Nate.  “But why?  I thought—”

“I shot him because he wouldn’t stop hurting Allison.”

Shut up, you little cretin!” Allison screamed.

Dumbfounded, I knelt before Nate.  “From the beginning, kid,” I said.  “Tell me what happened.”

Nate glanced miserably at his sister.  “I can’t, Daddy.”

“Sure you can,” I said, gently taking his hands in mine.  “That night when I left, you were up in your bedroom loft reading.  You heard a noise downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You opened the trapdoor to the loft and looked down into the entry.  Then what?”

I could see Nate thinking back, remembering that hateful night.

He sits very still, listening.

A man with skinny, hairless arms stands below.  The intruder checks the street, then heads into another part of the house.

“Then what, kid?  Please talk to me.  You heard something and went down to investigate?”