Kane (6 page)

Afterward I stood at a window in the upper hallway, gazing out at the foggy street below.  Three more TV newswagons had arrived, along with the usual assortment of newspaper reporters.  I watched as the remains of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson—wrapped in clean white sheets and strapped to gurneys—were wheeled across the asphalt.  After a long moment, I headed downstairs.

Time to talk to the media.

4

L
ater that evening I pulled into an underground parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Music Center.  I handed the attendant a twenty, receiving a parking stub and a disappointing handful of change in return.  Flipping the stub onto the dashboard, I turned down a maze of ramps, tires squealing on the slick concrete.  Four levels down I pulled into an empty slot and shut off the engine.

After leaving the Pacific Palisades crime scene, I had made a quick stop at Arnie’s to shower and change, then driven to the West Los Angeles police station.  Working through the remainder of the afternoon, I had filled out death reports on the Larson family, completed preliminary entries in the crime report, and updated my notes.  As much as I like my job, I hate doing paperwork, but it’s a necessary aspect of any police investigation, and over the years I’ve found that putting it off just makes things worse.

Now, as I climbed from the Suburban, I made a determined effort to push earlier events of the day from my mind.  Nevertheless, the sobering thought kept recurring that, in all my years on the force, the savagery of the Larson family’s murder was something I had never before encountered.  I’ve seen a lot of terrible things people can do to one other, but what happened to the Larsons was cruel beyond measure.  At this point, except for the obvious, I didn’t have a feel for what had happened in that house.  Despite my attempts at compartmentalization, I also realized from past experience that I would keep gnawing on pieces of the puzzle until I did.  Two things I already knew:  I wanted to find the monster who’d done it.  And whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.

Minutes later, an escalator deposited me on a broad terrace above the street.  There are many ugly places in Los Angeles, but there are plenty of beautiful places too, and this was one of them.  Taking long strides, I headed toward the south end of the concourse, stopping briefly to admire a large fountain fronting the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  The sun had set, and interior lights now illuminated the fountain’s cross-shaped geysers.  The jets sprang directly from the stone surface of the plaza, rose to varying heights, and crashed down with a sibilant hiss reminiscent of applause—falling through hidden cracks in the pavers and disappearing like water into a sponge.  In the center of the fountain stood a gigantic bronze statue entitled “Peace on Earth.”  To me, the sculpture resembled an oddly shaped egg (the world?), supported from below by a twisted mass of humanity, from above in loops and furls of ribbon held aloft by a dove in flight.  An impressive centerpiece, but in my opinion the fountain stole the show:  now twelve feet high, now three, now eight, now dying away to nothing—startling the observer with hissing claps and abrupt, unexpected silences.

I watched the water’s undulating dance for several seconds, then headed down a stone stairway to the street below, making my way to a door marked “Artists’ Entrance.”  A guard at a desk inside looked up as I entered.  I badged my way past, pausing briefly to sign the register.  Having been there before, I proceeded without asking directions, passing through a wide pair of doors into the performers’ lounge beyond.  From the floor above came the sound of the orchestra, stopping and starting in short, teasing bursts.

Although the LA Philharmonic had been a resident company at the Walt Disney Concert Hall since the new venue’s addition to the Music Center in 2003, because of a heavy performance schedule at the Disney Hall, the Philharmonic players were conducting several of their final tour rehearsals at their former home in the adjacent Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  Heading toward the music, I ascended a metal stairway, exiting behind the Dorothy Chandler stage.  An acoustic shell, its hardwood walls rising to meet the proscenium arch in front, enclosed the entire performing area.  I peered through a small window set in the stage-right door, spotting Catheryn over the ranks of the first violins.  On her left, at the head of the cello section, sat Arthur West.

A handsome, distinguished-looking man with a magnificent mane of prematurely graying hair, Arthur West had held the title of principal cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for the past ten years.  Catheryn knew him through her longstanding association with the USC School of Music, and his encouragement had been pivotal in her joining the Philharmonic—resuming a musical career that she’d put on hold to have Tommy, our first child.  Later, following the births of Travis, Allison, and Nate, the postponement of her career—with the exception of playing in a string quartet on Wednesdays and supplementing our family income by tutoring private students—had turned out to be permanent.  Three summers ago things had changed.

After a competitive audition, Catheryn had been selected to substitute for a young cellist taking a thirteen-week maternity leave.  Thrilled, Catheryn had accepted the temporary assignment, and the following January when the associate principal cellist had retired, Catheryn auditioned for the position.  To her amazement, but to the surprise of no one who had heard her play, she was offered the appointment.

It was a big step, and she brought me in on the decision.  We discussed it rationally.  With the exception of Nate, the children were nearly grown.  Travis would be leaving soon for college, and Allison could occasionally take care of her younger brother.  Catheryn would still be able to keep most of her private students, teaching on mornings she didn’t have rehearsals.  We could use the extra income.  It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  And so on.  I subjugated any objections I had to Catheryn’s taking on full-time employment, wanting her to have this chance.  Even if I had known the problems that would eventually ensue, I still wouldn’t have said no.

As I watched Catheryn now through the glass, I noticed Arthur smiling at her as she turned the sheets on their music stand.  Catheryn smiled back, her coppery-green eyes shining with pleasure.  With an irrational surge of irritation, I turned and stepped through a small door in the stage wing, exited the backstage area, and headed into the deserted auditorium beyond.

Moving quietly, I entered the Dorothy Chandler’s lavish, wood-paneled hall.  The stage spots, cleverly concealed in the ceiling and sweeping curves of the balcony levels, were dark, as were the wall-mounted crystal chandeliers and the rest of the house lights.  The only illumination came from a bank of utility overheads above the stage.  Ignoring the Philharmonic’s rule forbidding the presence of family and friends during rehearsals, I slumped into a seat in the orchestra section, just within the glow of the stage.  A number of players noted my entrance, including Catheryn.  She shot me a quick, uncertain smile, then returned her concentration to the music.  Noticing her glance, Arthur stared into the darkened auditorium, giving me a perfunctory nod.  With renewed irritation, I watched Arthur’s bow moving in unison with Catheryn’s.  As much as I was proud of Catheryn’s musical accomplishments, I was unable to ignore the extent to which I had progressively become excluded from a significant part of her life.

For the next fifteen minutes I let my mind drift with the ebb and flow of the music.  Toward the end, as the orchestra honed passages from a work I recognized from listening to Catheryn’s practice at home as the Dvořák Cello Concerto, Arthur embarked on a short virtuosic excursion.  Catheryn, her brow furrowed in concentration, led the rest of the cello section in response.  I watched as she played, instrument held loosely between her knees, her skirt falling in graceful folds over her long legs—revealing a glimpse of calf and ankle, a slender foot bound in a white leather sandal.  As her left hand ascended the neck of her cello, she raised her chin, exposing a delicate curve of throat and the clean line of her jaw, a jaw I had seen set in stubborn determination more times than I liked to recall.  Her body was lean and athletic, her limbs lightly tanned from time spent outdoors, despite her efforts to stay out of the sun.  But as I watched her play, I realized, as always, that it was her hands that drew me.

I remembered the day we first met.  She had been a sophomore attending the USC School of Music; I was a senior.  I had been playing out the last year of a football scholarship, cruising the smoothest academic back roads I could find and wondering what to do after graduation.  I first saw her in the library.  Later that evening, taken by her appearance and the unapologetic way she returned my gaze across the library tables, I waited outside to talk with her.  Our initial encounter proved disastrous.  And with good reason, friends pointed out.  Catheryn sipped wine, I guzzled beer; Catheryn loved classical music, I listened to country tunes at a volume that could cause hearing impairment.  Catheryn planned a concert career followed in some indeterminate future by a romantic, white lace wedding.  I wanted a wife who would cook, clean, and bear me a houseful of kids.  But despite her steadfast refusals to go out with me, I shamelessly persisted—showing up unexpectedly to walk her to class, attending every student recital in which she performed.

In a rarely visited portion of my mind that governed my personal life, I realized that although Catheryn’s beauty had initially attracted me, it was her hands that had snared me, refusing to let me go.  Fascinated, I watched now as they brought forth the voice of her cello, a sound achingly deep, a sound I had come to associate with my wife’s world of music—a world for me at times as mysterious and unfathomable as she.  Nimble, long-fingered, and strong, her hands embodied their owner’s intelligence and talent, seeming almost magical in their agility.  Yet they also displayed a grace and expressivity that was as enigmatic to me as the music they produced, but a quality I had found mesmerizing from the first moment I watched her play.  It’s often said that the eyes are the window to one’s soul.  With Catheryn, for me, it was her hands as well.

Minutes later, after repeating several of the more difficult sections, the orchestra abandoned the Dvořák to practice portions of another of the tour selections.  Then at last, as the personnel manager stepped onstage to remind the conductor of the time, the rehearsal ended.

After the conductor left the stage, the musicians, individually and in groups of twos and threes, started drifting out.  I walked to the edge of the raised platform.  Noting my arrival, Catheryn broke off a conversation with Arthur.  “Hi, Dan,” she said.  “What brings you down here?  I thought you were working today.”

“Finished early,” I answered.  Unless pressed, I rarely discussed details of my job with Catheryn, and by tacit agreement, she rarely asked.  Sensing her initial reaction of welcome being replaced by an air of guarded reserve, I placed a hand on the edge of the stage and vaulted up, once again ignoring orchestra rules.

Arthur gave me a look of condescension.  “Detective.  Left the city safe and sound, I trust?”

I shrugged, suddenly feeling dirty, tired, and out of place.  “For the time being.”

“I would expect no less.”  Arthur glanced at his watch.  “Sorry, but Catheryn and I still have several tour matters to discuss.  If you don’t mind?”  Without awaiting a response, he took Catheryn’s arm and, with an easy familiarity not lost on me, began leading her away.

Deftly, Catheryn disengaged herself from Arthur’s grasp.  “It can wait, Arthur.  Dan, is there something … ?”

“Please, Catheryn,” insisted Arthur.  “This
is
the last time we’ll have together before leaving, and—”

“Arthur, it can wait,” Catheryn repeated firmly.

Just then Adele Washington, the young cellist whose maternity leave had provided Catheryn’s original inroad to the Philharmonic, ambled across the stage.  The vivacious and talented young black woman and Catheryn had been friends for years, but since they’d started working together, their friendship had deepened.  Quickly assessing the atmosphere of tension, Adele addressed me.  “Dan, I thought I recognized that good-looking mug of yours.  World treating you okay?”

“No complaints,” I answered, pleased to see Catheryn’s associate.  “How’s that fat little baby of yours?”

“Still fat.  Not so little anymore.  She’s walking, pulling things off tables, and becoming a general pain in the butt, thank you.”

“It gets worse, honey.  And once they start talking, it gets a
lot
worse.  Speaking of family, what’s new with Pat?”

“Not much.  He’s still working the swing shift at the hospital and playing Mr. Mom during the day.  He keeps saying we should get down to the beach sometime and visit you and Kate.”

“Do that.  Bring the kid.”

“We will.”  Then turning to Catheryn, Adele asked, “Still need a lift?”

“I’ll give Kate a ride home,” I said.  “Assuming she can break free from the clutches of the maestro here.”

“I think she’ll manage,” laughed Adele, filling the silence following my comment.  “Come on, Arthur,” she added, slipping an arm through his.  “Rehearsal’s over.  Walk me out.”

“Really, Adele, Catheryn and I have to—”

“Goodnight, Arthur,” said Catheryn, cutting him off.  “I’ll call tomorrow.  ’Bye, Adele.  See you at the airport.”

“Sure thing, hon.  Goodnight, Dan.”