Kane (45 page)

Maybe I can get some help from one of the Newspath guys,
she thought, spotting a friend standing near the assignment desk.  Manuel doesn’t seem too busy.

Still ringing.

Finally she lifted the receiver.  “Van Owen.”

“Lobby, Ms. Van Owen.  Someone’s here for you.  She doesn’t have an appointment, but she says you’ll want to see her.”

“I’m not expecting anyone.”

“She’s extremely insistent.”

“Who is it?”

“Catheryn Kane.”

Lauren swallowed, finding herself at a loss for words.  A premonition of disaster settled like a weight in her stomach.  “Shit,” she said, irritated that the hackneyed expletive was the best she could do.  “Tell her … tell her I’ll be right there.”

The reception lobby on the ground floor of Columbia Square, the Hollywood headquarters of KCBS-TV, contained a couch, three chairs, photo blowups of the building’s inauguration in 1938, a security station, and twin television monitors mounted high on the wall—both permanently tuned to Channel Two.  In addition to a guard, a pair of card-operated turnstiles prevented unauthorized entry deeper into the building.  The tall, hauntingly beautiful woman whom Lauren found waiting on the other side of the barrier was not what she had expected.

Aren’t musicians supposed to have horn-rimmed glasses and wear their hair up in buns? Lauren thought distractedly.
 
This woman obviously hasn’t received the word.
 
“Mrs. Kane?” she said, endeavoring to appear unruffled.

“Call me Catheryn,” the woman replied, her tone calm and reserved.  “This will be difficult enough without standing on formality.  After all, we
do
have quite a bit in common.”

“I, uh …”

“I didn’t come here to make a scene.  I just want to talk.  Is there someplace we can go?”

Lauren glanced at her watch, her mind racing
. 
Not the newsroom.  Too busy.  Same with the broadcast studios.  The editing bays are all full, too.  The Newspath office?  Too dismal.  Jesus, what’s she doing here?  “There … there’s a patio we can use,” she stammered.

“Fine.”

Lauren motioned to the guard at the desk.  The guard touched a switch, and a low gate bypassing the turnstiles clicked open.  Swinging it aside, Lauren ushered Catheryn in.  Proceeding in silence down a wide corridor, the two women passed the brightly lit newsroom on the left.  Farther on they took a curving passage displaying full-color headshots of Channel Two news anchors, past and present.  Lauren’s was one of the most recent.

Shortly afterward they reached a door leading to a deserted patio.  The massive, U-shaped body of the CBS building encompassed three sides; a ten-foot-high wrought-iron fence and a hedge of ficus sealed the fourth, separating the space from passing traffic on Sunset Boulevard.

“I eat lunch here occasionally, but hardly anyone else ever comes out,” Lauren said self-consciously.  Christ, get ahold of yourself, she thought.  “We can sit over there, if you want,” she added, indicating one of the white-canopied tables scattered around the terrace.

Catheryn followed her to the table, on the way inspecting the vertical rows of windows staring down on the courtyard.  “A little like being in a fishbowl,” she remarked.

“It is, isn’t it?” agreed Lauren, taking a seat.

Catheryn sat across from her.

An uncomfortable silence descended.  Finally Lauren spoke.  “How did you … ?”

“Find out?  It wasn’t hard.  All it took was a couple of phone calls—one to Dan’s ex-partner, another to a restaurant parking attendant.  When you’re married to a detective, you learn a few things.”

“I suppose you would.”

“Dan doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No,” Catheryn answered bitterly.  “Although I just arrived home today.  Perhaps he’s waiting for the perfect time to tell me.  Christmas, maybe.”

“Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Kane … Catheryn, but why are you here?”

Catheryn gazed levelly across the table.  “I’m not certain.  I guess I wanted to see who you were, find out what you were like.”

“Confront the hussy who stole your man?” said Lauren, meeting Catheryn’s gaze.

“Something like that.”

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you expect.  If Dan were getting what he needed from you, he wouldn’t have come to me.”

“No.  He wouldn’t.”

“I’m not criticizing you.  I know you’re a successful musician and that your work probably takes up a lot of your time.  It’s a hard choice.”

“For some reason, that sounds like a news flash from the kettle,” noted Catheryn, her expression tightening.  “Tell me something, Lauren.  Are you married?”

“I was once.  It didn’t work out.”

“Oh?  Why not?”

“None of your business.”

“Too personal?” Catheryn shot back, her eyes flashing.  “You sleep with my husband and then tell me your marriage is none of my business?  I’d find that ludicrous if it weren’t so absurd.”

Color rose to Lauren’s cheeks.  She started to respond in kind, then caught herself.  “I suppose you have a point,” she conceded.

“So what happened?  Another woman?”

Lauren took a deep breath.  “No, nothing like that.  To be truthful, I wasn’t much of a wife.  My husband wasn’t any gem, either.  Eric and I had our problems, but given time I think we could’ve worked things out.  Bottom line, my career took precedence over my being married.  It’s an old story.”

“Yes,” said Catheryn, thinking of her position with the Philharmonic and the demands it had placed on her marriage.  “Do you have kids?”

“A daughter.  Her name’s Candice.  She’s made it all worthwhile.”

“Children are like that.  Most of the time, anyway.  We have three.”

Unexpectedly, Lauren found herself liking the woman sitting across from her.  It was a feeling she couldn’t afford.  “I know what you’re driving at,” she said, hearing the tension returning to her voice and struggling to bring it under control.  “Kids and broken homes and all the things that go with them.  Well, I’m sorry, but we all make choices, and I’m not the only player in this.”

“Do you love him?”

Though taken off guard by the question, Lauren decided Catheryn deserved an honest answer.  She thought a moment, exploring a possibility she had avoided considering, at least until now.  “I don’t know,” she said at last.  “But if he loved me back, I think I could,” she added, surprised by her own admission.

Catheryn looked away.

“What about you?  Do you still love him?”

Catheryn shook her head.  “I’m not sure about anything anymore.  Things haven’t been right between us for quite a while.  And now …”

“You’re a fool if you let him go,” Lauren blurted, surprising herself again.

“Maybe.”  Abruptly, Catheryn rose.  “Good-bye, Lauren.  Thanks for your time.”

Lauren pushed to her feet.  “Let me walk you out.”

“I’ll find my own way.”

Lauren hesitated, for the second time that day at a loss for words.  “Catheryn?”

“Yes?”

“I just wish that …” Lauren’s voice trailed off.

Catheryn nodded somberly.  “So do I.”

Outside in the parking lot, Catheryn sat behind the wheel of her Volvo.  Numbly, she revisited her conversation with the newswoman.  Nothing had gone as she had anticipated.  To her chagrin, toward the end she had even found herself thinking that were it not for what had happened, she and Lauren might have even become friends.

Angrily, Catheryn started her car and jammed it into gear.  After pulling around an array of gigantic satellite dishes, she sped past the guard gate and exited onto El Centro.  A half block down she turned right on Sunset, heading west.

At the signal at Vine, a white van dropped in behind.  Unobserved, it followed her all the way to the beach.

40

N
ice threads, Dad,” said Travis, inspecting me with a nod of approval.  “You look pretty good in a monkey suit.  In fact, you look good enough to bury.”

“The ol’ dad can hob with the best of nobs,” I declared crossly, shooting the cuffs of my tuxedo.  “Seen your mom?”

Travis peered across the terrace, searching a sea of women in evening gowns and men in formal attire.  “We got separated a half hour ago, but she’s around here somewhere.  Nate and Ali are with her.”

Turning, I scanned the Music Center plaza, squinting against a glare from one of several searchlights ringing the concourse, raking the sky with dazzling shafts of light.  In days past the Music Center fundraisers had been large; this year it was immense.

Transported as if by magic to some earlier time, the plaza dividing the Mark Taper Forum from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion bore little resemblance to the deserted patio of my previous visit.  Now a parade of white tents topped with colorful streamers covered the terrace, their billowing canopies reminiscent of a medieval fair.  Beneath their canvas roofs, paintings, jewelry, sculpture, and other artwork donated by patrons and artists were displayed for sale, while white-gloved waiters carrying silver trays meandered among the crowd serving champagne, white wine, and hors d’oeuvres.  From the north end of the plaza, the sounds of a string quartet floated over the assembly; from the south I could make out the drone of an auctioneer calling for bids on a diverse collection of items listed on the program ranging from Van Goghs to an Arabian stallion.

“There have to be at least a couple thousand people here,” I noted.  “Maybe more.  I’ll never find her.”

“You should’ve been here on time,” chided Travis.

“Some of us had to work.”

“If we don’t spot her out here, let’s try the Dorothy Chandler banquet hall,” suggested Travis.  “They’re serving food there, and there’s a silent auction going on, too.  Mom likes that kinda stuff.”

“Food, huh?”

“Nothing you would want.  Barons of beef, honey-cured ham, leg of lamb, lobster Newburg, and a dessert table that won’t quit.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said.  “Hold on.  Is that your mom over there?”

“Where?”

I pointed toward the plaza fountain, where a small figure had just broken away from a group on the far side.  Nate.  Skirting the illuminated jets, he was running around the fountain perimeter, timing his advances and retreats to the rise and fall of the geysers.

“You’re right,” said Travis.

“Your eyes are better than mine, kid.  Who’s your mom talking to?”

“Mr. West.  Ali’s there, too.”

“Mr. West, huh?  Who else?” I said harshly.

“The music director and some other musicians,” Travis answered, seeming puzzled by my glacial mood.  “They’re probably discussing tomorrow night’s performance,” he went on, referring to a concert that the Philharmonic would be performing on Christmas Eve.  I nodded, remembering that the special engagement had been scheduled to celebrate the orchestra’s return, as well as to culminate the final day of the Christmas fundraiser.  “Mr. West will be playing the Dvořák Cello Concerto,” Travis added.  “I heard it was the highlight of the tour.”

“Is that so?”  Without another word, I began bulling my way across the plaza.

Catheryn glanced up as I approached, Travis in my wake.  As I continued plowing through the crowd, I saw her excuse herself from the group.  Linking her arm through Arthur’s, she started toward Nate, keeping the fountain between us.

I intercepted her and Arthur on the far side.

“Hello, Dan,” Catheryn said coolly.  “Nice of you to make it.”

I stopped several feet away, scowling as I noticed that Catheryn and Arthur were still arm in arm.  “I got jammed up at work.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Catheryn, making no move toward me in greeting.

“Good evening, Detective,” said Arthur.  Faced with the choice of extending his hand in greeting or leaving his arm entwined in Catheryn’s, he chose the latter.

“We need to talk, Kate,” I said.  “In private.”

“In private?” laughed Arthur.  “In the midst of three thousand people?  I think not.”

“I’m not talking to you, Arthur.  Stay out of this.”

“Hi, Pop,” interjected Allison.  “You’re looking sharp tonight,” she added, apparently sensing an approaching storm and trying to lighten the tension.

“Hi, Dad,” echoed Nate.  By then he had rejoined his mother, surprisingly unscathed by his game of chicken with the fountain.

“You kids take a hike,” I ordered.  “I need to talk to your mom.  Nate, go up to the banquet hall with Travis and Allison and get some chow.  We’ll see you there.”

“We already ate,” said Nate.

“And now isn’t the time or place,” added Catheryn.

“Oh?  Would a hotel room suit you better?”

Catheryn frowned.  “What are you talking about?”

Before I could reply, Arthur spoke.  “Listen, Detective.  You’re clearly upset about something, but Catheryn and I have obligations to the Philharmonic tonight that—”