Kane (44 page)

“My dad was a cop.”

“Was?  Is he retired now?”

“He died in the line of duty.”

Lauren’s smile faded.  “Sorry.  I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.  It happened a long time ago.”

“Your mom still alive?”

“Yep.  She remarried.  Still lives in Austin.”

“A Texas boy.  I should have known.”  Lauren gazed at me pensively.  “Tell me something, Kane.  And tell me the truth.  You love being a police detective, don’t you?”

I thought a moment.  “The truth?  Except for putting up with the bullshit that probably goes with any job, yeah.  I do.”

“So keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Odd advice, coming from you.”

“Not really,” said Lauren.  “To people like you and me, careers are more important than family relationships or a good love life.  You’re a cop because you’re good at it and that’s what you want to do.  And no matter what you say, you’ll keep doing it as long as you can.  Hell, I don’t blame you.  Although you may not think so, I have a lot of respect for you guys in blue.”

“About as much as I have for the media.”

“That’s not fair,” Lauren retorted.  “Whether you approve or not, the public has a right to know.  Besides, television news isn’t all ‘murder and mayhem at eleven.’  Granted, we often deserve criticism, but there are a lot of good things happening in broadcast journalism, too.”

“Name one.”

Lauren bristled.  “Despite your uninformed opinion, it’s obvious to any
thinking
person that broadcast journalism has a pervasive influence on society.  We have the power to inform, enlighten, and empower.  And I believe we’re working toward doing
all
those things, and improving as time goes on.”

“Right.”

Ignoring my cynicism, Lauren continued.  “The world’s shrinking, Kane, and we in the news media are playing a part.  As we become a global community—”

“So how are things better now that we can get live shots of bombs dropping in the Mideast and tanks rolling into undefended cities?”

“You’re missing the point.  The only way to change things is to—”

“Get off the soapbox, honey.  I’m not in the mood.  Besides, we’re never gonna agree.”

“Probably not,” Lauren said tersely.  “I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to change your mind about something.”

“Tell you what,” I said, my mood again plummeting.  “Why don’t you drink your wine while I slug down a couple more bourbons, and we just listen to the music?”

“Fine.”

After the combo finished its third set, I rose unsteadily, deciding the time had come to call a cab.  Lauren, who enjoyed jazz and had remained at my table despite my less than hospitable company, offered me a lift.  Figuring what the hell, I accepted, at that point not thinking too clearly.

By then the storm had let up slightly, and the rain-slicked streets outside were practically deserted.  Except for giving directions, I said nothing to Lauren on the drive west to San Vicente Boulevard.  After traveling for several minutes down the tree-lined avenue, I directed Lauren north on a side street, arriving minutes later at Arnie’s modest, ranch-style residence.  The windows were dark.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” Lauren noted, peering through the windshield.

“Arnie’s staying at his girlfriend’s tonight, as usual,” I said, searching my pockets for Arnie’s key.  “Haven’t seen much of him in weeks.  I hope I didn’t … ah, here it is.”

“In that case, how about inviting me in for a nightcap?”

“I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, Kane.  It’s Friday night, and I don’t feel like going home yet.  I won’t bite, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Okay, come on in,” I reluctantly agreed, one portion of my alcohol-besotted brain suspecting I was making a mistake, another part beginning not to care.  “Arnie’s got some Scotch around somewhere.”

“Works for me.”  Lauren cut the engine, slid from behind the wheel, and started for the house.

I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to clear my vision and stumbled after her.  Following her up the walkway, I thought again of Catheryn, realizing she was probably spending time with Arthur West at that very moment.  Without willing it, I mentally replayed my conversation with the man who had answered the phone in her room, deciding it must have been Arthur.  I pictured Catheryn and her handsome, urbane associate sitting somewhere having a drink, laughing, sharing intimate memories of their trip.  Stinging with jealousy, I thrust away the image.

“You have the key?” asked Lauren when she reached the door.

I joined her on the landing and fumbled with the deadbolt, acutely aware of the woman beside me.  She was taller than I remembered.  In heels, she had to be over six feet.  I glanced at her as I unlocked the door, surprised to find her clear blue eyes nearly level with my own.  I could smell her perfume, the same scent she’d been wearing on the day she had waylaid me in the parking garage.

“Are we going in?” asked Lauren with a smile.  “I suppose we could
stand out here all night, but people might talk.”

I swung open the door and stepped inside.  “There’s a light switch here somewhere.”

Lauren followed me in, brushing against me in the darkened entry.  But instead of stepping away, she moved closer.  I felt her body touching mine, her breasts lightly pressing against my chest.  “Lauren …”

“Shhh,” she murmured.  “As you said earlier, no talking.”

Her mouth tasted of wine and was surprisingly soft as she touched her lips to mine.  She opened her mouth slightly, her breath warm and sweet.  I stood without moving, caught off guard yet making no effort to resist, bitter thoughts of Catheryn’s betrayal once more rising in my mind.  Slowly, I felt myself responding to Lauren’s embrace.  Adrift in a sea of disillusionment, I put my arms around her and with a passion that surprised us both, I kissed her back, crushing her slim body to mine.

A moan escaped Lauren’s lips.  She pressed even closer.  And as our kisses grew in fervor, she began touching me, her mouth on mine, her hands traveling beneath my coat.  Shuddering with excitement, she began moving against me, gently at first, then with increasing intimacy as she felt my need growing to match hers.

A rush of blood pounded in my ears.  Desire sizzling through me like a hot current, I abandoned myself to the shameful sweetness of Lauren’s embrace.  Her hair smelled of sunshine and she felt sleek and supple in my arms, her blouse silken under my fingers, her nipples hard and erect and straining at my touch.  Without thinking, I slipped her jacket from her shoulders.  Then, raising her skirt, I cupped the twin globes of her hips and gathered her to me, the gossamer-sheer fabric of her underwear smooth against my palms.  Closing my eyes, I gasped with pleasure as she rocked her pelvis against my hardness, teasing me, urging me on.  I felt the heat burning in her core and kissed her again, realizing I wanted more.

Instead, I pushed her away.

“What’s wrong?” Lauren whispered, her voice husky with passion.

“We can’t do this,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You know the reason,” I said softly.  “Besides, I was wrong about you.  You’re not half as bad as I thought.  You deserve better than this.  We both do.”

Lauren moved closer, wrapping her arms around my neck.  “I’m not complaining,” she said, her lips once more finding mine.

“Nothing good can come of this,” I said, my desire mounting anew as Lauren’s hands crept beneath my shirt.  With maddening lightness, she raked her nails across my back.  Then, slowly and seductively, she slipped off her blouse and bra.  Pressing against my chest with the warm fullness of her breasts, she kissed me again.

My head swam with a swirl of images:  Catheryn and Arthur.  Lauren and me.  “Nothing good can come of this,” I repeated, still meaning the words, but in my jealousy and hurt, suddenly not caring.

Lauren pressed closer, her hands now brazenly exploring, her thighs moving insistently against mine.  She reached out and closed the door.  With a twist of her wrist, she sent home the bolt.

“I’m a big girl,” she said.  “I’ll take my chances.”

38

U
pon awaking the next morning, I found that Lauren had slipped away sometime during the night.  Choked with shame and regret, I rolled out of bed and pulled on my rumpled clothes.  Arnie still hadn’t returned from Stacy’s, but I decided not to wait.  Fighting a raging hangover, I took a cab to the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin and retrieved a spare set of keys from a magnetic receptacle in the bumper of my Suburban.  Realizing I would be late for work in any case, I decided to drive to the beach.  I needed a shower and a change of clothes, and I wanted to check on the kids as well.  Apparently Caltrans repair crews had worked through the night on a slide at Temescal Canyon, and the highway was finally clear … at least until the next rain.

Allison and Nate hadn’t returned home yet from Christy’s when I arrived, and the house was deserted.  I decided not to call, remembering it was Christmas vacation and the kids were probably taking advantage of the situation to sleep late.  Once I had coffee brewing, I wrote a short note to Catheryn explaining the children’s absence should she arrive before they returned.  Leaving my message on the bed, I stumbled to the bathroom, downed four Advils, and hurriedly showered, shaved, and pulled on a fresh set of clothes.  Minutes later, a mug of black coffee in hand, I stepped out the front door.

As I reached the street, Adele Washington’s car pulled up.  Catheryn climbed out.  “Hi, Dan,” she said with a guarded smile.  Despite our strained relationship, she seemed happy to see me.

“Welcome home, Kate.”  I gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.  “I thought you weren’t getting back till later.”

“Some of us managed to catch an earlier flight.”  Catheryn drew away, chilled by my reception.  “Is something wrong?  You’re acting, I don’t know … different.  And you smell like a brewery.”

“The road was closed last night, so I spent the night at Arnie’s.  We went to the Scotch and had a couple drinks.”

“Oh, Dan …”

“It’s no big deal,” I said.  “By the way, the kids are at Christy’s.”

“How’re you doing, handsome?” Adele called from the rear of her Audi, where she was pulling Catheryn’s luggage from the trunk.

“Getting by, Adele.  Thanks for giving Kate a ride.  Sorry, but I’m late for work and don’t have time to chat.  See you later.  ’Bye, Kate.”

“You haven’t forgotten the Christmas Mercado at the Music Center tonight?” asked Catheryn, clearly bewildered by my frosty attitude.

“I’ll be there.  I’ll pick up a tux and change in town.  See you at the fundraiser.”

“All right,” said Catheryn uncertainly.  “I … I’ll look for you there.”

39

C
atheryn chatted briefly with Adele for several minutes, trying to hide her hurt at her husband’s puzzling reception.  Then, after Adele left, she carried her bags into the house.

A note lay on her pillow.  Catheryn read it with a heavy heart, struck by the impersonal tone of the message.  Feeling as if she’d been slapped, she crumpled the note.  Things hadn’t been on an even keel when she’d left, but this was more than that.

With a sigh, she busied herself unpacking, sorting her clothes into two piles:  those that needed washing and those that could be rehung.  As she worked, she noticed one of her husband’s shirts topping a stack of laundry in a hamper by the closet.  After she had divided her wash items into darks and lights, she carried the hamper to the bed, intending to add its contents to her piles.  Absently, she picked up her husband’s soiled shirt and raised it to her face.

It smelled of sweat, deodorant, and something else.  A faint floral scent clung to the fabric, a distinctive fragrance as memorable as the odor of newly mown lawn.  White Linen.  Although Catheryn had a small bottle of the perfume on her dresser, she rarely used it, considering it too elegant for casual wear.

All at once things made sense.

Stunned, Catheryn sank to the bed, the soiled shirt still clutched in her hands.  She lowered her head in shock and disbelief, wondering how things could have gone so wrong, wondering how her life could have come unraveled with such abysmal, unforeseeable hurt.  And as she sat, a profound emptiness welled up inside, drowning her in a flood of loneliness and loss.  And for the first time since Tommy’s death, alone on the bed upon which for years she and her husband had shared their love, she cried.

*       *       *

Lauren glared at the jangling phone, thinking that if interruptions kept popping up, she would never finish her news piece on time.  It was already two o’clock, with a three-thirty deadline fast approaching.  Damn!

Sighing, she saved the work on her computer screen and glanced around the hectic newsroom.  A recording studio for the CBS National Radio Network before the days of television, the windowless chamber still exhibited holdovers from its previous incarnation, including an elevated glass control booth at one end that had been converted to the news director’s office.