Allison (A Kane Novel) (22 page)

Long nodded.  “Listen, I know the French case is heating up, but if you want to take some time off, feel free.”

Kane shook his head.  “I want to work.  Keeps my mind off things.”

“Okay.  But if you need a few days or whatever, let me know.”  Changing gears, Long glanced at the forensic reports on Kane’s desk.  “What do you think?”

Kane knew that Long had already read copies of the reports.  He also knew that they were both thinking the same thing.  Wearily, he passed a hand across his face.  “I have more ground to cover before forming any conclusions,” he answered.

“So how are you proceeding?”

Kane paused to marshal his thoughts.  Then, without referring to notes, he began enumerating elements of his investigation on the fingers of his right hand.

“One:  Peyron wants to stay involved, so I’ve had him dragging in every known sex offender in the area.  So far he’s come up with two other possible candidates besides Javier Peña.  Neither looks promising.

“Two:  Deluca’s been going through Jordan’s address book and contacting friends who might be able to shed some light on what happened—did she have a secret boyfriend, was someone following her, did she use drugs, and so forth.  By the way, I pulled the stakeout on the Frenches’ residence.  Things are pretty busy up there right now, and I don’t want our surveillance unit getting spotted by the press. 

“Three:  Banowski is still working the reservoir-gate angle, checking with anybody who has a key to fire road locks—DWP, Southern California Edison, Fire Department personnel, and Van Nuys Division cops.

“Four:  I’m currently interviewing all employees and friends of the Frenches’ who had access to the house, including Mrs. French’s ex-husband.  I have yet to contact the maid and Mrs. French’s tennis coach.  So far I haven’t been able to get in touch with Jordan’s family doctor, either.”

“I seem to recall that you asked the parents to come in for testing?”

“Uh-huh.  I downplayed it as much as possible, but I told them we needed hair, blood, fingerprints, and polygraph exams.”

“And they agreed?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you didn’t hold much faith in polygraphs.”

“I don’t,” Kane admitted.  “I just wanted to see whether they’d come in and be tested.”  Like most seasoned police officers, Kane distrusted polygraph exams—typically labeled “lie detector” tests by the uninformed—aware that the exams didn’t reveal lies but merely measured
stress
experienced by a subject during questioning.  The results, which were subjectively based on recorded changes in pulse rate, blood pressure, and perspiration, could be inconclusive or even erroneous if over the course of the exam the suspect wasn’t particularly stressed by guilt or fear of punishment.

“So when are the parents coming in?” Long asked.

“They said sometime this week,” replied Kane.  “By the way, I ran a CLETS check on them,” he added, referring to a California police database whose acronym stood for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System.  In addition to accessing a diverse range of California criminal and civil records, the system was hooked into the federal network, including FBI and military-service archives.  “Neither parent has a criminal record or warrants outstanding,” Kane continued.  “Mrs. French is a governing member of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and sits on numerous charity boards; Jordan’s stepfather graduated from Harvard Business School and is a senior vice president of CyberTech Development Corporation, an Orange County firm selling digital-compression software and high-speed modems.”

“Anything come back on the DNA testing on the ransom note?’ Long asked.

“The Touch DNA analysis is underway,” answered Kane, brightening slightly.  “No results yet, but I did hear that there were apparently cells present on the adhesive side of the self-stick stamp, and we stand a good chance of getting a profile.”

“So if that pans out, when the parents come in we’ll run their DNA against the sample on the stamp.”

“Right.  But first we have to get them in for testing, and at present that’s strictly voluntary,” Kane said.  “Speaking of the ransom note, I’m looking into a hunch on where the cutout words came from.”

“Anything you want to share?”

Kane shrugged.  “It’s a long shot.  I’ll let you know if it pans out.”

Long let his breath hiss between his teeth.  “I don’t mind telling you, Dan, I don’t like the way things are shaping up.”

“Me, neither,” said Kane.  “I want to believe the parents, but a lot of things don’t compute.  No follow-up on the ransom note, for instance.  And not even
one
stray hair being found in Jordan’s bed.  Did someone change the sheets?  And if so, why?  Then there’s the autopsy report indicative of chronic sexual abuse, not to mention there being absolutely no sign of inflammation in Jordan’s throat or lungs—supposedly the reason she didn’t go to work that day.  No cold medications were found in her system, either.  And why didn’t Mr. and Mrs. French hear anything that night?”

“There could be perfectly reasonable explanations for all of those things,” Long pointed out, playing devil’s advocate.

“I know.  But unless we come up with another suspect, I’ll have to look hard at the parents.”

“You realize the can of worms you’ll be opening?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” replied Kane, recalling similar, well-publicized cases in which the bereaved parents of a missing child became the primary focus of a police investigation.  In instances like the Susan Smith drowning murders in South Carolina, police had been vindicated; others, including the heartbreaking homicide of a youngster in Colorado, had blown up in investigators’ faces.

“I conferred with the DA this morning after I read the forensic reports,” said Long.  “Mr. Gerrard made it abundantly clear that he won’t proceed against anyone,
especially
the parents, without sufficient evidence.  He’s not taking this to court on probable cause.  Plainly put, he’s not going to stick his neck out on this.”

“Not surprising.  The prick’s up for reelection soon,” Kane noted sourly.

Long nodded.  “If someone gets stung, he wants to make sure it’s us and not him.  On the other hand, I’m getting daily calls from the mayor’s office, our own Chief Ingram, and every news agency in town.  They all want to know when we’re going to have a suspect in custody.”

“What are you saying, Lieutenant?”

“I’m saying that the clock’s running on this, and there’s a shitload of pressure coming down for an arrest.  I’ll keep the heat off you as much as I can, but as I told you before, there are those at headquarters who hope you screw the pooch on this.”  Long seemed about to add something more, then stopped.  “Damn,” he sighed.  “Remember when we started out in police work, thinking we were going to make a difference?”

“Nah.  I was always in it for the money.”

“Yeah, sure,” Long chuckled.  Then, more seriously, “Dan, you’re one of the best investigators I’ve ever worked with.  If anyone can close this case, it’s you.  Whatever happens, I’ll give you all the support I can.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” said Kane.  “Don’t worry, I want whoever murdered that kid.  No matter how this plays out in the press, I’ll bring in
whoever
did it—even if it turns out to be the parents.”

“Fine.  Just do it fast.”

Later that day Kane pulled to the curb on Robertson Boulevard, a half block down from The Ivy
restaurant.  By then a late-lunch crowd had begun drifting into the trendy West Hollywood power spot where the Hollywood elite came to see and be seen.  Killing the engine, Kane stared at the two-story bricked structure, wondering why its street-side patio with white table umbrellas, trellises of flowering bougainvillea, and enclosing picket fence looked familiar.  Giving up, he shoved a handful of coins into a parking meter and crossed the road to the restaurant where the Frenches said they had celebrated their daughter’s fourteenth birthday.

Several couples stood out front, waiting for their cars at a sidewalk valet station.  Kane slipped past them and climbed a short flight of steps to the restaurant patio, still plagued by a feeling that he had been there before.  He still hadn’t figured it out when he reached the hostess station, an antique oak lectern set beneath a vine-covered awning that led into the main restaurant.

“One for lunch, sir?” asked a pert young woman standing there, giving Kane a crisp smile.

Kane flipped out his ID.  “Not today.  I’d like to speak with the manager, please.”

The young woman’s smile wavered.  “Is something wrong?”

“Relax,” said Kane, repocketing his ID.  “I’m running a background check on Jordan French’s activities prior to her abduction.  I was told she had dinner here with her family three weeks ago.  Thursday, June twenty-ninth, to be exact.  Were you working that evening?”

“Uh . . . yes.  Thursday’s one of my nights.”  The young woman pursed her lips in thought.  “I recall they came in around eight.  Jordan and her parents.”

“Anything unusual happen?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know—anything out of the ordinary.  An argument at their table, a fan pestering Jordan, whatever.”

The hostess hesitated.  “Not that I noticed, but I was busy here out front most of the night.  Let me get the manager.”

As she hurried off, Kane checked a menu posted nearby on a large easel, then let his eyes travel the patio, recognizing several movie stars having lunch.  On the far side of the terrace he spotted an older actor who had won an Academy Award some years back.  The man was sitting with a gorgeous, long-haired brunette who bore a pronounced resemblance to Rene Russo.  Seeing her jolted Kane’s memory.  A film buff, he suddenly realized why the restaurant looked familiar, remembering that The Ivy’s
bricked patio had been used for a pivotal scene in the movie
Get Shorty
.

Moments later the hostess returned, followed by a tall man wearing a bow tie and a mint-green jacket.  Kane extended his hand.  “Detective Kane, West L.A. homicide.”

“Bert Kline,” the man replied, nervously pumping Kane’s hand.  “It’s just awful what happened, simply awful.  I’ll be glad to assist in any way I can.  What is it you want to know?”

“Anything you could tell me about the night Jordan and her parents came in for dinner might be useful.”

Mr. Kline thought a moment.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t recollect anything out of the ordinary happening that evening,” he said regretfully.

“Maybe Detective Kane should talk with Terry,” suggested the hostess, who had remained close by.  “I’m almost certain he waited on their table.”

“Is Terry here today?” asked Kane.

“That’s him over there,” answered the manager, pointing across the patio to a young man with thinning brown hair and a close-trimmed mustache.  Order pad in hand, Terry was conversing with a rowdy group of older women who, from the thicket of bar glasses on their table, appeared more interested in drinks than lunch.

“Fine,” said Kane, turning back to the manager.  “One question first.  Are any records kept of what customers eat for dinner?”

Mr. Kline looked puzzled.  “You mean like the order slips that go to the kitchen?   I’m afraid not.  Once a bill is totaled, the order slip is discarded.”

“Thanks.  You’ve been helpful,” said Kane.  Turning, he started across the patio.  “I may need to talk with you again,” he added over his shoulder.

“Anytime.”

Kane intercepted Terry as the young waiter was making his way back to the bar.  Though initially as flustered as the hostess had been, the young waiter quickly proved cooperative.  It turned out that he had indeed been the Frenches’ server, and he recalled that Jordan had been celebrating her birthday.  When asked about unusual occurrences, he shrugged.  “Anything unusual?  Not really.  Except . . .”

“Except what?” Kane pressed.

“Well, it may not be for me to say, but Mr. French
was
hitting the wine pretty hard that night.  He was slurring his words toward the end.”

“How about Mrs. French?”

“She was fine.”

“And Jordan?  How was she?”

“I don’t know,” Terry answered.  “I’ve served her a number of times over the years, and she was usually fairly friendly and outgoing.  That night she seemed . . . quiet.  Like she had something on her mind.”

“Remember what she had for dinner?”  Although Kane asked casually, his eyes never left the waiter’s face.

Terry smiled.  “Same thing she always has.  Seafood capellini.”

Kane felt his pulse quicken, recalling the gastric contents discovered at Jordan’s autopsy.  According to the coroner, Jordan’s last meal, a pasta with red seafood sauce, had undergone a period of digestion of three to four hours before she’d died.  But how could that be, unless . . .

“Seafood capellini.  I noticed that on the lunch menu,” said Kane, his mind still picking at the ramifications.  “You serve it for dinner, too?”

“Uh-huh.  It’s a house special,” said Terry, his voice dropping into a waiter’s practiced cadence.  “Clams, shrimp, scallops, and mussels simmered in white wine, garlic, tomato sauce, and a touch of cream—served over fresh angel hair pasta with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.”

“And Mr. and Mrs. French?”

“I think Mr. French had a steak, but I’m not sure.  I don’t remember what Mrs. French ordered.”

Unconsciously, Kane began cracking his knuckles.  “One last thing, Terry.  Did the Frenches take home leftovers?”

“I didn’t box anything for them, but one of the busboys may have,” answered Terry.  “That’s their job, along with clearing tables.  Do you want me to find out who was working that night and ask?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“No sweat.”  Terry scribbled a telephone number on the back of a napkin and handed it to Kane.  “This is my home phone.  If I’m not here at work, try me there.

Kane shoved the napkin into his pocket.  “I’ll check with you later.  And thanks.”

“Glad to help.  I liked Jordan.  She was a good kid.”

Returning to his car, Kane puzzled over the discrepancy between the estimated time of Jordan’s abduction and the conflicting evidence given by her partially digested final meal—a meal that according to Terry she had eaten
two nights
before being abducted from her house.  Of course, as with much of the other evidence that had been piling up, there could be another explanation.  Jordan could have taken home leftovers from The Ivy and eaten seafood pasta as a snack the following evening.