Allison (A Kane Novel) (21 page)

Despite conflicting feelings on the subject, I allowed myself a brief moment of pride at the bureau chief’s praise.

“Speaking of which, I need a body to sit on the Frenches’ house today,” Lauren continued.  “Think you can handle it?”

I stared in surprise.  “You want
me
to go?”

Lauren smiled.  “Unless you have something you would rather do.”

“No.  I mean . . . I’ll be glad to go.  What do you want me to do?”

“Like I said, you’re just a body.  Take a cameraman up there and watch the house.  If anything develops—another police visit, for instance—have the cameraman start shooting and call for reinforcements.  Brent is covering the President’s California campaign trip, but he can be reached if something breaks.  Stay in touch.”

“I will.  And thanks.”

“You’re welcome.  You earned it.”

Three quarters of an hour later I turned off Sunset Boulevard and headed up Mandeville Canyon.  Sitting beside me in the Bronco, Max Riemann, one of the CBS staff cameramen, finished the dregs of his coffee and glanced out the window.  “Ain’t been up here in years,” the older man noted idly.  “Sure a lotta goddamned trees.”  Then, seeming embarrassed, “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to cuss.”

“Forget it,” I said.  “I have older brothers.  Plus my dad’s a cop.”

Riemann nodded.  “I heard that.  Lead investigator on the French case.  Your covering this story causing any trouble at home?”

“A bit,” I admitted, turning on Westridge Road.  “Concerning my working for CBS, my dad’s attitude can be summed up in one simple word:  stupid.”

But as I proceeded up the twisting canyon lane, I felt a renewed sense of unease, wondering whether Lauren’s motives for sending me to the Frenches’ house had more to do with my father than me.  Stubbornly, I pushed away my doubts.  What difference does it make?
I asked myself.  Lauren is giving me a chance, and I’m taking it.  Period.

Just before 8 AM, I eased the Bronco to a stop in front of the Frenches’ wrought-iron gate.  Deciding a position across the street would provide the best vantage point, I parked in a vacant lot opposite the house.  As I killed the engine, I noticed a late-model maroon Ford partially concealed behind a clump of oleander bushes near the rear of the property.  Leaving Max to ready his video equipment, I climbed from behind the wheel, wondering about the Ford.  It appeared too new to be abandoned, so why would someone leave it parked there?

Curious, I made my way across the vacant lot, approaching the vehicle from the side.  When I was a dozen yards away from the car, I saw that two men were sitting in the front seat.  I stopped, not having considered that the Ford might be occupied.  All at once I recognized one of the men in the car:  Detective Paul Deluca.

Puzzled, I began walking again.  As I neared the Ford, I saw that Deluca had been following my progress.  The man beside Deluca said something.  Deluca shook his head.

Upon arriving, I gave Detective Deluca a sunny smile, feeling a bit foolish for my stealthy approach.  “ Hi, Paul.  What brings you out here?”

“Morning, Ali,” Deluca replied, lowering his window.  “If I didn’t already know you were working for the media, I might ask you the same thing.  Speaking of which, you should have mentioned your new job the other day when you called the squad room.”

“Sorry,” I said, realizing from his tone that Deluca must have figured out who tipped the CBS news crew on the day of the search, meaning my father knew as well.  “At the time I was just trying to locate my dad,” I explained lamely.  “After that things sort of snowballed.”

“Snowballed, huh?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Don’t be so defensive,” said Deluca.  “I believe you.  By the way, I’m really sorry about your mom.  I hope she’s gonna be okay.”

My stomach dropped at the mention of Mom.  “Thanks, Paul,” I said numbly.  Then, changing the subject, “So what
are
you doing here?  Think the kidnapper might come back?”

Deluca hesitated.  “Off the record?” he said evasively.

“Of course.  I know better than to blow a police stakeout.”

“Fine. 
Off the record
, we think whoever did it might come back.  Happens all the time.  We’re checking for cars cruising the area, people who don’t belong, anything out of the ordinary.”

Deluca’s partner, a heavyset man with sagging jowls and a florid complexion, raised a pair of binoculars.  “I’ll be damned,” he said.  “Now he’s comin’ back from the other direction.  How’d he manage that?”

I turned to see a large, muscular man wearing a brightly colored wind shirt, biking shorts, and helmet, pedaling a mountain bike toward the Frenches’ gate.  Without removing his feet from the pedal clips, the man steadied himself on the gate keypad and punched in several numbers.  The metal barrier swung open.  Moments later the biker coasted through the opening and down the long driveway, vanishing around the side of the garage.

“Mr. French?” I guessed, watching the gate swing closed.

Deluca nodded.  “He took off around an hour ago, going
up
the hill when he left.  Must’ve made a loop.”

“Well, we’ll never know, seeing as how we couldn’t get past the dead-end at Queensferry,” the other officer complained.

“You
followed
him?” I said, surprised.

“We trailed him,” explained Deluca, shooting his partner a look of exasperation.

“Why?”

“To make sure no one else was following.  Listen, Ali, we have work to do, so why don’t you—”  Stopping midsentence, Deluca stared over my shoulder.  “Aw, hell.  This thing’s turning into a circus.”

I glanced toward the street, noting a caravan of media vehicles pulling into the lot beside my car.  One was an NBC news van, another had a CNN logo.

Deluca grabbed a cell phone from the dashboard.  “Beat it, Ali.”

“Right, Paul.  See you later.”

Mulling over my puzzling exchange with Deluca, I returned to my car.  Something was wrong.  Granted, it made sense for detectives to be watching the Frenches’ estate.  I had taken an active interest in many of my dad’s cases over the years, and I knew that criminals—especially those who had engaged in a killing that involved rape or sexual rage—often returned to the scene to gloat, to relive their act, or even to taunt authorities.  Although the coroner’s report had yet to be released, because Jordan’s body had been found nude, it was being widely speculated in the press that a sexual assault had taken place.  But that didn’t explain why Deluca and his partner had followed Mr. French.  Watching to see whether someone else was following him didn’t add up, either.  What interest would the killer have in Mr. French?  Before I could come up with an answer, I heard a car engine cough to life.  An instant later Deluca’s maroon Ford rumbled past, fishtailed onto the street, and headed down the hill.

Max regarded me curiously as I slipped back behind the wheel.  “Anybody we know?”

“Cops,” I said, rolling down my window.  Though the morning was just beginning, the temperature had already risen into the seventies, promising another day of sun and smog for the Southland.  “I think we just blew their stakeout.”

“We weren’t the only ones,” Max remarked as another news van, this one from KCBS, slowed in front of the Frenches’ gate.

The Channel 2 van stopped, backed, and turned into the lot, parking next to me.  Seconds later the side door opened and three men piled out.  One of them Mike Cortese.  He started toward the rear of the van, smiling in surprise when he noticed me in the Bronco.  “Hi, Ali,” he said.

“Small world,” I replied coolly, still a bit nettled about the way Mike and I had last parted.  Of course I hadn’t wanted him to kiss me . . . but he should have at least tried.

“That it is,” Mike agreed pleasantly.  Then, noticing Max, “Haven’t seen you in a while, Riemann.  How’s it going?”

“Not bad, Mike.  Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”  Mike surveyed the other news teams present.  “The vultures are circling.”

“Present company excluded, of course,” I noted dryly.

“Not hardly,” Mike snorted.  “KCBS is here with the rest of the hounds to do an on-the-scene update, same as everybody else—the stricken family’s house displayed in the background, our intrepid correspondent breathlessly listing all the things we don’t know and haven’t learned since yesterday.  How about you?”

“Just watching the house.”

Mike looked surprised.  “They’re already sending you out on location?  Well, good for you, Ali.  Beats getting coffee for the guys in the newsroom, eh?” he added with a grin.

Despite Mike’s smile, I heard the acknowledgment in his voice.  “That’s for sure,” I agreed.

“Did you notice Mr. French cranking up the hill just now?” asked Mike.  “The man’s got excellent taste in bikes.  That titanium frame he was riding costs over four grand.”

I whistled softly.  “Four thousand dollars, just for the bike frame?  How do you happen to know that?”

“I ride a bit myself.”  Mike glanced at the KCBS van, where one of the men who had arrived with him was assembling some sound recording equipment.  “Well, time for me to get to work.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“Hey, Ali?”

“What?”

Mike leaned closer, resting his forearms on the Bronco’s open window.  “How’s about us getting together later this week?  I know it’s not much notice, but I have tickets to a screening at the Directors Guild on Wednesday.  They’re showing a film that a friend of mine worked on.  Afterward, maybe we could grab a bite to eat.  What do you say?”

“I . . .”

“Do you like Mexican?  I know a place that’s fantastic.”

“I thought your favorite was Italian.”

“I’m an equal opportunity eater.  How’s seven o’clock?  I’ll pick you up at the dorm.”

I had enjoyed my time with Mike on the night we’d gone to Westwood.  I also appreciated the role he had played in my being hired at CBS.  But there was something about his challenging eyes and taunting grin and the disconcerting way he seemed to know what I was about say, even before I knew it myself, that made my pulse quicken with an emotion I couldn’t quite define.  Whatever it was, something about Mike got under my skin, and I resolved then and there to end things with him—deciding that Mike Cortese was definitely not for me.

But as I opened my mouth to reply, something peculiar happened.  Although my brain had decided to cut Mike loose, evidently the rest of my body hadn’t signed on to the plan, for instead of the curt words of refusal I’d intended . . . to my surprise I heard myself accepting.

*        *        *

Kane sat at his desk in the squad room, hunched over a stack of forensic reports that had come in earlier.  It had been a busy and, for the most part, sleepless weekend.  Though it was only ten in the morning, he was already exhausted.

With the exception of visiting Catheryn at St. John’s, Kane had worked through most of the weekend questioning people who knew the keypad combination to the Frenches’ gate, following up on the canvass of neighborhoods bordering the reservoir, and interrogating Javier Peña, the sex offender that Carl Peyron had turned up as a suspect.  The results of Kane’s efforts had been fruitless, as had a surveillance of Jordan’s funeral.  Kane had even talked with an officer who had spent time in the Frenches’ home during surveillance of the family’s telephone line.  The officer’s assessment of the parents had confirmed Kane’s earlier impression that although Mr. French was difficult and abrasive, both he and his wife seemed genuinely distraught over their daughter’s loss.

Grimly, Kane began paging through a pile of lab reports, going through them anew to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.  The first, a test for free histamine and serotonin in the tissues surrounding Jordan’s wounds, indicated that the welts on her back and buttocks had been antemortem, meaning she had been alive when she’d been beaten, whereas the ligature marks and sloughed skin on her wrists and ankles had occurred after death.  The next item was a toxicology screening for drugs present in Jordan’s body.  Nothing of significance had turned up, not even the cold remedy that Mr. French had suggested could have made his daughter drowsy.  The search of Jordan’s room had proved disappointing as well.  No blood, sperm, or seminal fluid had been found on her mattress or any of her bedding, underwear, or clothes.  A hacker in the LAPD Automated Information Division who’d examined Jordan’s computer had discovered nothing useful on her hard drive or backup material either, and although a survey of friends whose names had been gleaned from Jordan’s address book was still ongoing, to date that approach had failed to produce any new leads.  In fact, upon contacting individuals who had left messages on Jordan’s service on the Friday before her disappearance, Kane had yet to find anyone who’d spoken to her that day.

With feelings of misgiving, Kane flipped to a microscopic analysis of tissues taken from Jordan’s body at autopsy.  Most of those results had been unremarkable, with the exception of a number of vaginal slides that showed a condition known as chronic interstitial inflammation—a localized reaction to abnormal physiologic stress.  Taken with the focal area of vaginal erosion and the missing hymen noted earlier, it was a histological finding suggestive of sexual abuse having taken place over a period of time.  Suggestive, but not definitive.

After initially reading the report, Kane had called Dr. Walter Chang, the coroner who’d performed the autopsy.  Chang had cautioned that the vaginal inflammation could have resulted from any of a number of causes—chronic infection, for example.  Recalling that Mrs. French had said Jordan’s reason for missing work was because she had been coming down with the flu, Kane had also queried Chang about the presence of inflammation in Jordan’s lungs, throat, or nasopharynx.  Chang had assured them there had been none.

“Morning, Dan.”

Kane looked up, finding Lt. Long standing by his desk.  “Lieutenant.  What’s new?”

“Not much.  How’s Kate doing?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Kane sighed.  “I’ll be spending nights at the hospital for a while.  If you need to contact me and I’m not home, try my cell phone.”