Allison (A Kane Novel) (17 page)

Stopping in the doorway, Kane glanced around the brightly decorated bedroom.  Posters of rock bands and classic movies covered the walls; bookcases crammed with stuffed animals and CDs bracketed the window; a desk and computer flanked the bed.  Near an adjoining bathroom, the doors to a walk-in closet stood open, revealing neatly arranged shelves stacked with sweaters and blouses, poles laden with skirts and dresses, and racks displaying at least a hundred pairs of shoes.

Deluca sat on the sill and swung his legs into the room.  “Appears the guy got in through here,” he said, fingering a gouge in the window frame.  “Used something to jimmy the window.”

“Seems like that would have made a some noise,” Kane noted, inspecting the damaged frame.

“Yeah.  Seems that way,” Deluca agreed.  “You see the news van out front?”

Kane nodded.

“Damn, how do those dirtbags find out so fast?”

Kane shrugged.  “Who knows?  So what else do you have left to do?”

Deluca passed a palm across his chin, rubbing a coarse stubble that typically darkened his face before noon.  “Not much.  We’ve taken Jordan’s clothes, mattress, bedding, address book, letters, and so forth.  Everything but her computer.  That’s next.”

“Find anything Peyron missed?”

Deluca nodded.  “There were a couple of messages on Jordan’s phone service, but they could have come in after Peyron was here.  When I checked her house line, I got those beeps.  You know, the ones you get when the phone company records calls for you.”

“What were the messages?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t have Jordan’s access code.  Want to ask the parents for it?”

Kane thought a moment.  “No.  They probably don’t know.  Anyway, Banowski’s at GTE right now getting Jordan’s phone records.  Contact him and have him pick up her messages, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Just wind this up.  And make sure nobody talks with the media on the way out.”

“No problem.”

Upon returning to the living room, Kane found Mrs. French at an antique desk completing the list he had requested.  Mr. French stood with his back to the room, staring out the window.  “I see the news hounds have arrived,” he noted with disgust, turning to face Kane.  “Are your men finished?”

“Nearly.”  Kane crossed to the desk.  “Are you done with that, Mrs. French?”

Jordan’s mother made a final notation and handed her list to Kane.  “I think that’s everybody,” she said.  “I included their addresses and telephone numbers.  Is there anything else you need?”

Kane folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket.  “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said.  “I want you and your husband to do two things for me.  But before we get into that, I have to explain something.”  He spread his hands apologetically.  “You won’t like what I’m about to say, but there’s no getting around it.  In any murder investigation involving a child, the parents
always
have to be ruled out as suspects.  Now, I realize you have been cooperating and that you want the killer found as much as I do, but this has to be done.”

“There’s a murderer out there, and you’re investigating us?” snarled Mr. French.  “You think we had something to do with Jordan’s death?”

“I didn’t say that.  I said ruling you out as suspects has to be done so the investigation can proceed.”

“And how do you intend to rule us out?” Mr. French demanded.

“As I said, I want you to do two things,” Kane replied.  “First, in order to exclude any forensic evidence that didn’t come from the killer, we need to get blood and hair samples from both of you.  Second, I would like you to voluntarily submit to polygraph exams.”

“You want us to take lie detector tests?  Christ.”  Mr. French’s nostrils flared.  “All right, if that’s what it takes to light a fire under your investigation, that’s what we’ll do.”

“I’m glad you understand,” said Kane.  “When can you come down to the station?”

“The funeral is on Sunday, and we have family flying in from back East,” answered Mrs. French.  “Would sometime next week be acceptable?”

“That would be fine.”  Kane handed her his card.  “Call when you’re ready.  And thank you for your cooperation.  I’ll be in touch.”

With that, Kane turned and headed for the front door, thinking that although Mr. French had been less than cordial, he understood the man’s frustration.  And despite Mrs. French’s veneer of Beverly Hills snobbery, toward the end he had found himself starting to like her.

“Detective Kane?” called Mrs. French.

Kane turned to see that Jordan’s parents had followed him out.  “Yes, Mrs. French?”

Jordan’s mother swallowed, seeming close to tears.  “I . . . I want you to know that we loved our daughter,” she said, taking her husband’s hand.

“I know you did,” Kane said gently.

“No, you don’t,” said Mr. French.  “You don’t know us from Adam’s cat.  But we
did
love her, and we always will.  I know you don’t like me, Detective, and I don’t blame you.  I’ve been acting like an asshole.  I admit it.  But I can’t help myself.  I want whoever killed Jordan caught.  And when he’s caught, I want to see him punished.  We didn’t kill our daughter,” he added quietly, putting an arm around his wife.  “For Christ’s sake, find the person who did.”

*        *        *

“C’mon, Mom.  There has to be more to it than that.”

“Hold on, Ali,” my mom’s voice came over the phone.  “I have something on the stove.”

Sitting in my dorm room, I gazed pensively out the window, waiting for my mother to come back on the line.  Minutes earlier I had watched the latest Jordan French coverage on the
CBS Evening News
.  The lead story had been the police search of the Frenches’ estate, this time executed with a search warrant in hand.  It was an exclusive CBS network story, and one that I knew was again attributable to me.

I still hadn’t reconciled my feelings regarding the role I had played in Brent’s recent on-air exclusives—first the ransom note disclosure, and now this.  I believed that the public had a right to know what was going on in Jordan’s murder case, as long as it didn’t interfere with the police investigation—and I didn’t see how anything I had revealed so far would make any difference in the long run.  Plus I hadn’t actually divulged anything I had been told in confidence; my revelations were just bits and pieces I had either picked up or concluded while hanging around my dad.  True, I knew was in a unique position because of my father’s connection to the case, and from an ethical standpoint that’s where things got sticky.  I also knew how my father would view things if he ever found out the role I’d played, which was probably unavoidable.  After all, he
was
a detective.  He would undoubtedly suspect my involvement in the leaks once he learned that I was working for CBS, and I couldn’t put off telling my parents about my new job much longer.

“C’mon, Mom,” I repeated when she came back on the line.  “What exactly did the doctor say?”

“I told you, he said I’m fine.”

I sighed, still staring out the window.  “What about your nosebleed on the plane?  And your fainting spell and being tired all the time?”

“There was a slight problem with one of my lab tests,” Mom admitted.  “Low platelets or something.  I probably need to start taking Geritol.  Dr. Porter said there’s nothing to worry about, but he wants me to see a blood specialist for more tests.”

“More tests?  What kind of tests?” I asked, detecting what I thought was note of concern in my mother’s voice.

“Ali, I’m fine.  Dr. Porter just wants to be on the safe side.  I’m going back tomorrow.  Travis is dropping me off at the clinic in Santa Monica, and your dad’s driving me home.”

“Why does Dad have to drive you home?”

“Because Dr. Kratovil requested it, that’s why.”

“Dr. Kratovil?”

“She’s a hematologist.  Ali, you’re getting all worked up over nothing.  We’ll talk about this tomorrow night at dinner.  You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” I said, recalling that I had promised to join the family for dinner on Wednesday.

“You’d forgotten, hadn’t you?”

“Of course not,” I said quickly, deciding that I needed to start writing things down.  I have a great memory for facts and figures, but appointments are sometimes a different matter—especially if they involve something I don’t want to do.  “Actually, uh, I have some news to announce tomorrow night myself,” I added, deciding that whatever the consequences, I couldn’t put off telling her about my job at CBS any longer.

“Oh?  What?”

“I’ll tell you at dinner.  Look, why don’t I pick you up at the doctor’s office on my way to Malibu?” I suggested, changing the subject.  “Save Dad the trip.”

“Your father wants to do it.  But thanks.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

“Okay, honey.  Don’t be late.”

11

Catheryn glanced up as a door beside the reception counter opened into the waiting room.

“Mrs. Kane?”

Nervously, Catheryn closed a magazine that she had been futilely trying to read for the past half hour.  She reached beside her for her husband’s hand.  “Yes?” she said, looking up at the nurse who’d spoken.

“Dr. Kratovil would like to see you and your husband now.”

Attempting to hide her apprehension, Catheryn rose from her seat and followed the nurse down a long corridor, Kane at her side.

Catheryn had arrived at the hematologist’s office earlier that afternoon, minutes before her two-thirty appointment.  Kane, who had taken time off from work and arrived shortly after Travis dropped her off, had waited in the reception room while Catheryn underwent a procedure that had turned out to be far more involved than she’d expected.  Following a review of her records and a check of the blood smears sent over by Dr. Porter, Dr. Kratovil, a slight woman in her late thirties with hazel eyes and a sympathetic smile, had asked Catheryn to undress and put on a hospital gown.  The doctor left the room briefly while Catheryn changed.  Upon returning, the doctor examined Catheryn carefully, paying special attention to the bruises on her arms and thighs.  Afterward she instructed Catheryn to lie on her side, stating that it was going to be necessary to obtain a bone-marrow aspirate and biopsy from Catheryn’s left hip.

Working with her nurse, Dr. Kratovil draped the area with surgical towels, cleaned the skin over Catheryn’s left hip with Betadine, and administered a local anesthetic.  Explaining the procedure as she worked, the doctor then made a tiny incision with a scalpel and inserted a large-bore needle with a cutting stylette on the end, using digital twisting to cut through cortical bone on a portion of Catheryn’s pelvis called the posterior iliac crest.  Until then everything had been relatively painless, but when Dr. Kratovil attached a syringe to the needle and used it to draw a sample of bone-marrow aspirate, Catheryn experienced a painful sensation of pressure.  The nurse held her hand, telling her it would soon be over.

Giving Catheryn a break, Dr. Kratovil removed her gloves and spent several minutes away from the examining table.  Some of the marrow aspirate she injected into a petri dish, stained, and pipetted onto microscopic slides; the remainder she saved in a test tube.  Next, after using a microscope to examine the slides, she regloved and completed the biopsy by reinserting the needle and coring out a plug of marrow that was subsequently pushed through the extraction needle with a small wire and expelled onto a sterile gauze pad.  As the doctor placed the biopsy plug into formalin fixative, she explained that it would be sent, along with the slides and the test tube aspirate, to the pathology department at St. John’s Health Center, a nearby Santa Monica hospital.

“Pathology department?” said Catheryn uncertainly.

“Standard procedure,” replied Dr. Kratovil.  Then, covering the puncture site on Catheryn’s hip with gauze and an elastic bandage, she added, “Keep this dry for twenty-four hours.”

Though the hematologist had been reassuring throughout the biopsy, toward the end Catheryn had detected what seemed to be an overriding tension in the physician’s manner, especially when she had been squinting through the microscope.  Now, as Catheryn was about to hear the results of her tests, she began to suspect that Dr. Kratovil had requested Kane’s presence for reasons that went far beyond providing transportation.

Catheryn glanced around Dr. Kratovil’s private office as she entered.  The small space was modest but well appointed.  Perched on one corner of an oak desk were several framed photos of a smiling teenager.  “Your son?” asked Catheryn, glancing at the pictures.

Dr. Kratovil nodded.  “Jared turned eighteen this summer.  He’ll be enrolling at Stanford in the fall.”

“I have a son and daughter in college myself,” said Catheryn, struggling to keep her voice even.  Then, turning to Kane, “This is my husband.  Dan, Dr. Kratovil.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Kane, reaching across the desk to swallow the doctor’s outstretched hand in his.  “What’s this all about?”

“Why don’t you both take a seat?” Dr. Kratovil suggested.

“Is something wrong?” asked Kane.

“Please,” the physician said, motioning toward a couch facing the desk.

Kane followed Catheryn to the couch.  As they sat, her hand once more found his.

“What’s going on with Kate, Doc?” Kane asked again.

Dr. Kratovil looked at Kane, then at Catheryn.  “I want you both to prepare yourselves for difficult news,” she said, her face like stone.  “I’m going to have to tell you things I would rather not say, things you may not completely understand at first, but I need to get this over so we can move on.  You have a blood disease, Catheryn.  It’s a cancer of the white blood cells in your bone marrow called leukemia.  This is a grave diagnosis, a life-threatening medical emergency comparable to a major heart attack.  Left untreated, it will be fatal.  Nonetheless, we have excellent nonsurgical treat—”

“Hold on,” Kane broke in.  “You’re saying Kate has cancer?  That’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

Stunned, Catheryn shook her head.  “But I’ve been fine.  Tired, perhaps, that’s all.  I recently went on a trip . . .”