Allison (A Kane Novel) (12 page)

“So we’ll need surveillance on the grave.”

“I know it’s a lot.  Give it a week and see what turns up.”

“I’ll see whether I can get it approved,” said Long doubtfully.  “Anything else?”

Kane thought a moment, then shrugged.  “That about covers it.”

“How about you, Carl?” asked Long.  “Anything to add?”

Peyron shook his head.  “Nope.”

Placing his fingertips together, Long sat back and sighed.  “Fine.  In that case, why are you two still here?”

“Right, sir,” said Peyron.  Rising from his seat, he glanced at Kane.  “Like I told you yesterday, Dan, I’ll be glad to help any way I can.  Just lemme know.”

“I will,” said Kane as he rose and started with Peyron toward the door.

“Hold on a sec, Kane,” said Long.  “I want a word with you before you leave.”

Puzzled, Kane turned back.

After Peyron had left, Long closed the three-ringed binder he had been studying earlier.  “The media is going to be all over this,” he said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.  “You know that.”

“The thought had occurred to me, Lieutenant,” said Kane.  “Don’t worry, I can handle the press.”

“It may get worse than you expect,” Long noted somberly.  “There was talk over at headquarters of having senior detectives from Robbery-Homicide assume the case.  The brass eventually decided to let you run with it.  Believe me, they weren’t doing you any favors.”

“Somehow that doesn’t come as a surprise,” said Kane, recalling a high-profile murder investigation that Robbery-Homicide had taken over from the West L.A. Division years back.  Over the course of a nationally publicized trial, the case had blown up in their faces.  Kane also knew that despite closing an unprecedented number of homicide investigations during his career, his unconventional methods and abrasive manner had garnered him more than a few enemies at headquarters.

“Watch your back on this one, Dan,” Long warned.  “I don’t need to tell you that this is the kind of case that ends careers.  And usually not well.”

7

My first days at the news station passed quickly, during which I saw little of Lauren, which was just fine with me.  I spent my initial hours on Tuesday filling out employment forms, receiving a parking pass and an ID badge, and getting a more comprehensive tour of the newsroom from a friendly producer named Wendy.  When I first visited on Monday, I had received only a cursory glimpse of the frenetic newsroom beyond Lauren’s office.  Later, as I examined the windowless, forty-by-fifty-foot space crammed with desks, filing cabinets, and computer monitors, I realized that Brent had been right.  It wasn’t what I’d expected.

Four staff-reporter cubicles flanked a hallway leading into the newsroom—one of which was Brent’s.  Another passage at the other end of the room led past a string of electronics-filled editing bays, a tiny dubbing booth, and a tape-archive storage vault—finally accessing the camera-crews’ area and a metal door that exited into an alley behind the building.  Circling two sides of the newsroom, several private offices including Lauren’s looked out through open venetian blinds.  On a wall beside Lauren’s office, an illuminated CBS eyeball stood out in bold relief; above it, a second sign that could be lit from within read CBS NEWS LOS ANGELES.  With the exception of the signs, the hectic chamber reminded me more of a video arcade than what I had pictured a newsroom to be.  On occasion I had visited my father’s squad room, and even that had seemed cheerier.

After introducing me to several other producers and staff members, Wendy had escorted me to my new workspace, a small desk in a corner surrounded by a low bookcase and two copy machines.  A telephone, keyboard, and a computer monitor occupied most of the desktop; a cork bulletin board hung on a nearby wall.  Behind the desk was an eight-foot-high metal rack jammed with dusty, three-quarter-inch videotapes of ancient
Twilight Zone
episodes.  Noticing my glance at the titles, Wendy shrugged and explained, “They were there when I got here six years ago.  They’ll probably be there when I’m gone.”

As forewarned, I soon learned that my responsibilities mostly consisted of gofer chores—everything from running errands and making coffee to taking messages and answering phones.  A quick learner and a habitual self-starter, I rapidly picked up the rhythms of the newsroom, keeping busy by seeking out supplementary tasks when not otherwise occupied.  Later in the week I typed several pages of news copy for Liz Waterson, my editing suggestions impressing even the coldly distant newswoman.  I also conducted a phone survey for one of the field producers and performed some computer research for another, generally satisfying everyone with my thoroughness and accuracy.

Although I had honed my telephone interviewing skills by observing my father, my computer proficiency was an expertise I had developed on my own.  In addition to the internet facilities I had used at home and at school for years, the online hookup at CBS offered a further arsenal of powerful data-retrieval services including Reuters, Dow Jones, and Lexis-Nexis.  At a keystroke, these and other worldwide databanks now at my disposal could provide quick, categorized access to a staggering archive of publications, news wires, and major metropolitan newspapers.  Like a kid with a new toy, I spent as much time as possible during my early days at the station exploring my expanded resources. 

On Friday evening, more excited than ever about my new job, I returned to the beach house to pack for my trip to D.C. with my mother.  I still hadn’t told Mom that I had dropped my lit class and accepted an internship at CBS, but I assured myself that the opportunity would present itself on our trip and everything would be fine.  The next morning, however, as I sat beside my mother on the giant Lockheed jetliner that would fly us to Washington, I began to have my doubts.  Getting her to see my side of things was going to be hard enough, but having dropped my summer course without consulting anyone was probably going to make things impossible.

“Listen up, Mom.  We’re about to receive our preflight admonitions,” I said as the mammoth engines began spooling up for takeoff, increasingly nervous about how she would react.

Getting no response, I nudged my mother.  She looked tired, but we had been up late the previous night packing and getting ready for the trip.  “These instructions could be important, like making sure our seats are in their upright and most uncomfortable position for blastoff,” I continued.  “And not disabling the smoke detector in the lavatory.  Did you know that’s a federal offense?  If you’re caught, you’re invited out on the wing to view the in-flight movie,
Gone With the Wind
.”

Mom glanced up briefly from the novel she was reading.  Then, without replying, she again concentrated on her book as our plane taxied onto the tarmac.

“Really, Mom,” I insisted as an instruction video began playing on a screen partway up the aisle.  “The seat belt demonstration is coming up.  It might be a lifesaver, especially for anyone who hasn’t ridden in a car for the past thirty years.”

“Ali, I’m trying to read.”

“But what if we have to make a water landing?  Or worse, there’s an in-flight pool party?  You won’t know how to use your seat cushion as a flotation device.”

“I don’t think we cross any appreciable bodies of water on the way to Washington, honey.”

“Good point.  Oh, look.  They’re showing how to use the oxygen masks if they drop from the ceiling.  You place one firmly over your nose and mouth and breathe normally.  Yeah, right.  After you stop screaming.”

Mom sighed.  “Let me know when they get to the part about those traveling with young children, or someone acting like one.  I swear, Ali.  This isn’t like you.  Why are you so uneasy about this trip?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is it?  You didn’t say a word to me on the drive to the airport, and now that we’re on the plane you’re chattering like a nervous hen.  What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Closing her book, my mother gave up and stared out the window.  Moments later the rumble of the airliner’s engines rose to an ear-splitting whine.  With a lurch, the gigantic aircraft lumbered down the runway, its mounting acceleration pushing us back into our seats like an invisible hand.  Outside, shadows flitted past as the plane rotated, its nose lifting skyward.  Following LAX predawn noise-abatement procedures, the half-empty jetliner climbed swiftly, throttled back, and continued west over the Pacific to gain altitude.

When the aircraft finally banked and began circling back toward the coastline, my mother turned again to look at me.  “Allison, with work and all, I know I haven’t been myself these past weeks.  I’m sorry if I’ve been, I don’t know . . . what’s the word I want?”

“Critical? Domineering? Tyrannical?”

“Impatient,” she said with a tired smile.  “I’ve been so exhausted when I get home, I haven’t had much patience with anyone.”

“Especially with your favorite daughter.”

“I admit it, Ali.  But there’s a reason.  In many ways you’re the most gifted of my children, so I expect—”

“Me, gifted?  Yeah, sure.  Trav’s the one who got the nod in the genius department.”

Mom frowned at my tone.  “You have no cause to be jealous of your brother.  You should be proud of him.”

“Is that right?  What did he do, volunteer for a frontal lobotomy?”

“That’s not funny, Ali.”

“Sorry, Mom.  But face it.  When it comes to talent, I’m wading in the shallow end of the family gene pool.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.  You have the ability to become a wonderful writer.  How many young people your age have had their work published?  I wish you would let me read some of your recent efforts.  Are you still working on your novel?”

“No,” I lied.

“Well, you should start again.  For someone with your—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course not.  You never want to discuss
anything
with me.  Don’t you trust me to understand?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” she demanded.  “Please don’t be like this, Ali.  This wall of secrecy you’ve built around yourself is hurting you as much as everyone else.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure, you do,” Mom persisted, picking up the threads of what had become a deep-seated argument between us.  “You’ve been shutting out everyone, including me, for a long time now.  Do you know you never even say you love me anymore?  It seems like ever since the night you were . . .”  Her voice trailed off.

Raped, I thought angrily, silently finishing her sentence.  Unwillingly, my mind travelled back to the attack I had suffered four years ago, the loathsome memories returning with abrupt and numbing virulence.  My mother had been attending a concert at the Music Center that evening.  My older brothers, Tom and Travis, had been out on a double date, and my dad had unexpectedly been summoned back to the West L.A. police station—leaving Nate and me at home alone for several hours.  During that time two men had broken into our house, looking for money.  In the course of the robbery I had been brutally beaten and sexually assaulted.  After swearing Nate to secrecy, I had concealed my rape—not only from the authorities, but from my parents as well—fearing disgrace, becoming an object of pity, and most of all, the shame of admitting my own cowardice.

More than a year later, I had told my father the truth about what had happened that night.  It was a revelation that had disturbed my parents deeply, particularly my mother, who couldn’t understand why I had chosen to suffer my shame and degradation alone.  In time my father and I had reestablished a bond of trust, but not so my mother and I.  With a surge of regret, I realized that the estrangement between us now was still rooted in that terrible night, and there seemed nothing I could do to change things.

“I’m simply saying that as a creative writer, you have to be willing to open yourself and share with others,” my mom finally continued, backing from the precipice that our exchange had led us.  “Just as you’re
supposed
to do with those you love.”

“Let’s drop this,” I suggested, struggling to submerge the old memories.  “And anyway, I’m going to be a journalist, not a novelist, remember?”

“You can still do that and also pursue a career in creative writing.  I’m right about this, Ali.”

“You’re
always
right, Mom.”

“Ali . . .”

“Look, I’m not you,” I said bitterly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that everyone can’t juggle two careers as perfectly as you—matchless mother and consummate artist at the same time.”

“That’s not fair,” Mom shot back, realizing from my corrosive tone that the old walls had slammed down once more.  “You know that my family has always come before my career.”

“Right.  And I’m the queen of the Nile.”

Though stung, my mother hesitated, unable to deny that her position with the Philharmonic
had
cut into our family life, no matter how much she had tried to make it otherwise.  At last she continued.  “Ali, along with your father, I love you and Nate and Travis more than anything in the world.  I know there have been times when my job has imposed on our time together, but—”

“Mom, your nose is bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your nose is bleeding.”

Mom touched her upper lip.  Withdrawing her hand, she stared at a bright red smear on her fingers.  “That’s odd.  I don’t recall doing anything . . .”

“Probably the altitude,” I said, rummaging through my purse for a Kleenex.  “Or maybe the dry air.  Darn, I don’t have anything.  Keep pressure on it and tip your head back.  I’ll get an attendant.”  Reaching up, I pushed the call button.

Moments later a flight attendant who had been dispensing breakfast from a metal cart made his way down the aisle.  “Yes?” he said, leaning in to reset the call button.  Then, looking more closely at me, “Oh, I recognize you.  You were on TV.  You’re the girl who rescued that youngster at Newport Beach, aren’t you?”

I nodded self-consciously.  “My mother needs a tissue.”

Suddenly noticing Mom’s bloody nose, the attendant’s eyes widened.  “Are you all right, ma’am?”