Kane (47 page)

“Sure, Mom.  But can we eat soon?  I’m starving.”

“We’ll be done in a few minutes.  I promise.”

“Okay.  Catch you later, Detective Kane.”

“Nice kid,” I observed as the youngster bounded up the stairs.

“She’s a great kid.  I wish I could take credit, but being a single parent isn’t easy, with work and all …”

“You have to be doing something right.”

“Thanks,” said Lauren, a catch in her voice betraying her nervousness.  “In all fairness, her dad’s great with her, too.”

“He live around here?”

“Pasadena.  We share her as much as possible.  Candice is spending Christmas Eve with me this year; Eric gets her tomorrow.  You, uh, want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.  I can’t stay.  I’ve gotta get …”  I hesitated, realizing I had been about to say “home.”  Although adequate, Arnie’s guest room was definitely not home.  “… some things taken care of before tomorrow,” I finished lamely.

“Last minute shopping?”

“Right,” I lied.  In truth, my Christmas shopping was done, and the highlight of my evening would probably be a meal of cold leftovers scavenged from Arnie’s refrigerator.  “What did you want to talk about?”

Lauren glanced up the staircase.  “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

I followed Lauren through the family room, passing a lavishly decorated Christmas tree with a glowing red star on top and a jumble of presents at its base.  I smiled, suspecting that most of the gifts there had Candice’s name on them.  Past the family room we entered an airy kitchen.  Spicy and inviting, the aroma of tomato, garlic, onion, and basil wafted from a pot simmering on a six-burner stove.  I noticed an assortment of stainless-steel pots and pans hanging above a maple chopping stand, along with a rack of German cutlery and a small library of cookbooks.  “You cook?” I asked.

“I’m not a gourmet, but I have a few recipes,” Lauren answered.  “Why don’t you stay for dinner?  We’re having pasta.  It’s an old Christmas family tradition I just started tonight.  There’s plenty.”

“Thanks, no.”

After pouring herself a cup of coffee, Lauren retired to a small breakfast nook and sat.  I remained standing.

Lauren took a sip from her mug, grimaced, and set it down.  “I had a meeting with the bureau chief today,” she said.  “I know you shot down our news team being in the task force meetings, but let me make a suggestion, okay?”

I didn’t respond.

“With your hotline approach and awareness meetings, you guys have been indicating all along that it’ll take public involvement to catch this guy,” she went on, apparently construing my silence as consent.  “What I’m about to propose could provide it.”  Lauren took another sip of coffee, then rushed ahead, her words obviously rehearsed.  “My network’s willing to post a million dollar reward for information leading to the murderer’s capture and conviction.  All we want is a presence at your meetings.  One cameraman, me, and maybe one other person.”

“We get our man; you kick butt in the sweeps.”

“Everybody makes out.  What do you think?”

“I think your station’s already presented the idea to the brass,” I said.  “Last week, as a matter of fact.  I heard about it Friday.  I also heard it got shot down.  We can’t play favorites with the media, and the truth is we’re already drowning in tips from concerned citizens.  A reward would bring out every dirtbag in the city with a cash flow problem.”

“It’s still a good idea,” Lauren maintained stubbornly.  “I thought maybe you could persuade your superiors to take another look.  We could—”

“Forget it, Van Owen.  It’ll never fly.”

“No.  I guess not.  Anyway, that’s … that’s not why I asked you here.”

“I know.  I’m sorry, Van Owen.  I can’t see you anymore.”

Lauren turned her head to hide her disappointment.  “Why?  Need glasses?”

“My vision’s fine.  It’s my judgment that’s off.  What happened between us was a mistake.  You know that.”

“I’m not too sure about anything right now.”

“I’m married.”

“I don’t care,” she said softly.

“
I
do.  And you don’t need that kind of trouble, either.  You’re a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman, and—”

“I could change.”

I smiled.  “Did I mention funny?”  Then, more seriously, “Anyway, I wouldn’t want you to change.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I like you just the way you are.”

“Then why?”

“Because of Catheryn,” I said simply.  “Things haven’t been right between us for a long time, but I’m going do my level best to get them straightened out.  I don’t know whether I can, but I’m going to try.”

“Have you told her about us?”

I shook my head.  “We had a falling out recently.  I haven’t had the chance.”

“But you’re going to?”

“I
have
to tell her.  Kate and I don’t keep secrets.”

“Your wife’s a lucky woman.”

“There’re plenty who’d disagree.  And they would probably be right.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs glasses.”

Lauren started to respond, then paused thoughtfully.  “Catheryn came to visit me today.  She knows.”

I froze, feeling as if I’d been kicked in the chest.  “How’d she find out?”

“I don’t know.  She mentioned picking up a few things being married to a cop.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, momentarily at a loss for words.  “I have to go,” I said, realizing that Lauren’s revelation could explain a lot.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded.

“Well, thanks for stopping by.  Merry Christmas.  And Kane?  Whatever it is you want, I hope you get it.”

“Thanks, Lauren.  I hope you do, too.”

42

H
eart racing, Catheryn stood in the stage-right wing of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, her stomach tied in knots.  She had performed for large audiences in the past, especially since joining the Philharmonic, but never as a featured soloist, and never with so little preparation.  A capacity crowd was rapidly filling the 2,265-seat auditorium, with late arrivals filtering in as concert hour approached.  With mounting misgivings, Catheryn realized that most of those present had come to hear Arthur West’s celebrated performance of the Dvořák Cello Concerto, and they would undoubtedly be disappointed to find a substitution slip in their programs.  Another soloist?  What happened to Arthur West?  And who
is
this Catheryn Kane, anyway?

Who, indeed?
Catheryn wondered.

Mother, musician, wife, came the answer, followed by a bitter addendum:  And possibly not the latter for much longer.  She remembered her husband’s hateful accusation of the night before, again feeling his words settling like spit on her face.  She had wanted to lash out, protest her innocence, scream her knowledge of his betrayal.  Most of all, she had wanted to hurt him, hurt him as he had hurt her.  Resolutely, Catheryn shook her head, resolving to take a page from her husband’s playbook and put off thinking about things until later.  With a near-paralyzing case of preconcert jitters, she already had enough on her plate.  Tomorrow would be soon enough.  Not now.

Almost time.

Taking a deep breath, Catheryn focused on the concerto she was about to perform, reviewing it in her mind.  At the turn of the nineteenth century, during a protracted visit to the United States, Antonín Dvořák had written his lyric, emotional concerto for cello, and the unchallenged masterpiece spoke of years of homesickness for his family and his native Prague.  Grimly, Catheryn realized that the heartbreaking composition constituted a perfect embodiment of her own turbulent mood as well.

A moment later the concertmaster rose at the head of the first violin section, a signal for the orchestra to settle.  At his nod, the principal oboist played an A.  The strings joined in, then the brass and woodwinds, with a number of musicians making minor tuning adjustments.  Finally the sounds of preparation died away, leaving an air of expectation filling the hall.

The music director moved to stand beside Catheryn.  “Ready?” he asked softly.

With a plunge of both excitement and dread, Catheryn turned to face him, finding herself unable to reply.  The handsome young Venezuelan conductor, who had recently taken the reins of the Los Angeles Philharmonic as music director at the early age of twenty-eight, smiled reassuringly.  “It’s time.  Are you ready?”

Catheryn swallowed, trying to hide her nervousness.  “I hope so.”

“Don’t worry, Catheryn.  You’ll do fine,” he said.  As he took her hand to lead her onstage, he added cryptically, “And tonight, I think you’ll discover something about yourself, something wonderful.”

At their appearance, a round of tepid applause rose from the audience, the lukewarm welcome understandably laden with an air of reserve at the last minute soloist change.  At a wave from the music director, the entire assembly of musicians stood.  Carrying her cello and bow in her left hand, Catheryn numbly greeted the concertmaster.  Then, glancing neither left nor right, she made her way to a platform beside the conductor’s podium.  Feeling the warmth of the spotlights, she sat, desperately trying to compose herself.  The music director also stopped briefly to shake hands with the first violinist.  Then, after nodding to several other players, he signaled for the orchestra members to take their seats.

Once he had taken his place on the podium, the young conductor paused, allowing the audience to quiet.  Slight rustlings, a few coughs.  Then silence.  He raised his hands.  A hush fell over the hall.  Catheryn felt the room crackling with tension.

And then they began.

Like all works of its type, Dvořák’s cello concerto had been written, on one level, as a means of providing a virtuosic display by a solo musician, who often carried the burden of melody alone.  On another level, however, the soloist’s role was to provide a personal link between composer and listener, enabling an artist like Dvořák to speak the emotions of his innermost heart directly to his audience.  For this reason, the arrival of the solo instrument during the first movement of a concerto is always an important and much anticipated event.

Catheryn sat nervously during these first few minutes, bow held loosely in her right hand, listening as the voice of the orchestra gradually filled the hall—softly at first, only the winds, then the strings, swelling as the horns merged in.  Bittersweet and chilling, the opening theme was repeated as various sections picked up the threads and passed them on, promising more.  An achingly beautiful solo-horn exposition of the second theme followed, the emotive music rising anew as the winds picked it up and then the entire ensemble joined them, finally dying to a whisper.  And then it was time.

Catheryn lifted her bow.

High in the Terrace East section of the hall, Victor Carns sat in the audience.  On an impulse he had purchased tickets to the Christmas Eve concert weeks earlier, shortly after he’d begun his investigation of Daniel Kane.  That Kane’s wife Catheryn had unexpectedly been elevated for tonight’s performance from a supporting role to that of soloist made things even better.  Now, as the concert began, Carns leaned forward, waiting for Catheryn Kane’s opening bars, sensing a current of anticipation, like the tendrils of some invisible yet palpable force, coursing through the hall.

Four minutes into the piece, Catheryn’s cello spoke at last.  Sonorous and earthy, it seemed to draw its tones from the very bowels of the stage.  Carns felt the audience stir around him.  And as Catheryn continued, her playing charged with an emotion Carns couldn’t feel yet acknowledged nonetheless, he noticed a change coming over those around him.  He saw it in their faces, and in their attention, and in the way they straightened in their seats.  Something extraordinary was happening there that night.  Everyone knew it.  Even Carns.

Although he hadn’t intended to, Carns listened as he had never listened before.  Driving and relentless, the concerto unfolded in Catheryn’s sure hands, the formidable challenges of the work engendering a music of power and grace, the virtuoso passages leading inevitably from one exhilarating revelation to the next.  Within moments of Catheryn’s starting, no doubt existed concerning her mastery of her instrument, yet her performance embodied more than bravura.  Despite her technical brilliance, it was the emotion with which she played that transported the audience, and though he felt none of the passion clearly being experienced by others around him, Carns found himself ensnared by the sound of her playing as well.  And as the concerto progressed, he began to sense an inexorable need swelling within him, rising with each new passage.

Catheryn could feel it.  They were with her now, all of them, and she with them, from musicians in the front row to players at the last stands in the back.  It had happened partway through the opening movement, after the difficult glissando leading to a reprise of the second theme.  Normally a moment of tremendous exaltation, this time it had become even more.  Until then they’d all struggled a bit—the other musicians not used to the new soloist, she unaccustomed to performing with the full ensemble.  And then at that instant something had changed … something magical.