Allison (A Kane Novel) (26 page)

Not privy to details of Kane’s investigation that were progressively pointing toward the parents, many newscasters had grown skeptical—some even suggesting that Mr. and Mrs. French were under suspicion simply because inept LAPD detectives had failed to turn up other viable suspects.  Complicating matters, intense pressure was coming down from the top for an arrest. 
Any
arrest.  It was a course Kane knew would be a mistake.  Accusing the sex-offender gardener wouldn’t pan out, and thus far evidence against the parents was sketchy at best.  A comparison test with the ransom note DNA, assuming an analysis was possible, could either rule out or confirm Mr. and Mrs. French as suspects, but it looked like that was not to be—at least not without a warrant.  And for that, investigators needed something concrete. 
But what?
  Kane was furious at the DA’s obstructive stance and the recent turn of events in the media, but there was nothing he could do about either.

“So who do you think leaked to the press this time?” asked Deluca.

“Probably some jackass in the DA’s office, although it might have come from the coroner’s office, too,” Kane replied.  “Both are full of holes.”

Deluca hesitated.  “I hate to bring this up,
paisano
, but now that Allison is working for the news—”

“Don’t go there,” Kane interrupted.  “If I even
thought
Ali had anything to do with this . . .”

“You heard that the chief is talking about having everyone connected with the case take polygraph exams?” said Deluca.

“I heard,” Kane sighed.  Both men knew that their police-union contract forbid mandatory lie detector testing of LAPD personnel.  They also knew that if requested, they had no choice but to comply.  “First I’d like to see them start testing our local prosecutors, then work their way through the coroner’s office,” Kane added.

“That’ll be the day,” Deluca noted dryly.  Then, brightening slightly, “If you don’t have anything going right now, let’s grab some chow.”

“Can’t.  I’m on my way to Sherman Oaks to talk with Jordan’s family physician,” said Kane.  “Which reminds me.  Did you contact Mrs. French’s tennis coach?”

“I’m just coming from there,” said Deluca.  “The guy has an airtight alibi for the time Jordan disappeared.  Anyway, he doesn’t seem like the kind who goes for the kiddy set, either.  I did some checking and found he’s been giving a few of his middle-aged female clients more than tips on their backhand, if you catch my drift.”

“Any criminal record, money problems, that kind of thing?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he and Mrs. French have had something going?”

“Possibly,” Deluca conceded.  “But even if they did, I don’t see how it would fit.”  He thought a moment.  “What about the fire-road angle?  Anybody with keys to the gates look promising?”

“Nope.”

“What about the phone records?”

“We
are
making some headway there,” Kane conceded.  “Banowski ran down all telephone calls made from the French residence for the week prior to Jordan’s abduction.  He has yet to locate anyone who spoke with Jordan on the day
before
she vanished.  Incidentally, the call to Paramount that morning was made on her parents’ line, although we still don’t know who placed the call.”

“What about the maid?” asked Deluca.  “Turn up anything on her?”

Kane shook his head.  “She’s clean.  No run-ins with the law, no record, nothing.  And as far as she’s concerned, the Frenches are a model family without a single enemy.  She did confirm that they occasionally bring home food when they dine out.  She said Mrs. French lets her eat their leftovers for lunch.”

“What about Jordan’s birthday dinner at The Ivy?  Any leftovers from that?”

“The maid didn’t know.  Seems Mrs. French phoned her that Friday morning and canceled her regular cleaning day.  Mrs. French told her that Jordan was sick and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Deluca raised an eyebrow.

“I got a call yesterday from one of the waiters at the restaurant where the Frenches celebrated Jordan’s birthday,” Kane went on.  “According to him, none of the busboys recalls boxing any leftovers for the family that night.”

“What do you think?”

Kane paused.  “To tell you the truth, Paul, I’m not sure of anything.  When I talked with the parents, they both seemed genuinely distressed about losing their daughter.”

“So if they weren’t involved, why do they need a lawyer?”

Kane shrugged.  “It’s no secret how these things can go on a case like this.  Remember the investigation in Colorado where that little girl disappeared and then turned up dead in the basement?  Hell, in some ways I don’t blame Jordan’s parents.  We’ve uncovered a lot of discrepancies, but as our sterling DA pointed out, all those things could have perfectly logical explanations.”

“If you say so,” said Deluca, raising an eyebrow.

“Look, I have to get rolling if I want to make it to Sherman Oaks and back before rush hour,” said Kane, not missing Deluca’s dubious tone.  “I’ll talk with you later.”

“Give my best to our brothers and sisters in the media out there.”

“Right,” Kane grumbled, starting toward the reporter-choked entrance.  “I’ll do that.”

18

Over the ensuing weeks, hungry for anything new, the news media subjected Jordan’s parents to the most intense scrutiny imaginable.  At Brent’s request, CBS even hired an information broker, a private investigator who for a hefty fee amassed copies of everything from the family’s medical records and possible criminal histories to their dates of birth and social-security numbers, details of Mr. French’s employment, summations of Mrs. French’s charitable activities, telephone bills, financial credit reports, and driving records—even descriptions of their automobiles and license plate numbers.  Though besieged by the press, Mr. and Mrs. French steadfastly refused all interviews, communicating with the media only through their attorney and publicist.  Eventually they abandoned their home and went into hiding.  Which, of course, made interviewing them even more desirable.

It was while perusing Brent’s list of Mrs. French’s charitable activities that I hatched the idea of contacting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, noting that for years Jordan’s mother had held a seat on the LACMA board of directors.  After calling the museum, I fibbed my way past several layers of telephone bureaucracy, finally reaching the director’s office.  Identifying myself as the representative of a private foundation interested in making a donation, I learned in the course of talking with a friendly administrative assistant that the museum board was convening that afternoon on museum premises for its monthly meeting.  It was a gathering all available board members were required to attend.  Recalling Brent’s advice about looking out for number one, I decided that this was too good an opportunity to let pass.  After making certain that Brent, who had departed earlier for Orange County, was still out of the newsroom, I hurried to Lauren’s office.

After listening to my proposal, Lauren initially refused.  “Out of the question,” she said.  “This is Brent’s story.  He’ll handle it.”

“Brent’s in Irvine doing a spot on Mr. French’s software company,” I countered.  “If we’re going to have
any
chance of getting an interview with Jordan’s mother, someone has to leave immediately.”

“And that someone should be you?” Lauren said skeptically.

I nodded.  “I totally agree.  Thanks.”

“Sorry, Ali.  I need someone more experienced.  One of the other correspond—”

“But you already sent me out with a cameraman to watch the Frenches’ estate,” I interrupted.  “Why is this any different?”

“It just is,” said Lauren, her tone cooling.  “For one thing, the story has changed considerably since then.  For another, you’re not qualified to do an interview.  Now, where do you think Mrs. French is going to be?”

I didn’t respond.  When laying out my plan to Lauren, I had purposely withheld the details of Mrs. French’s engagement, saying nothing about the museum or its board of directors’ meeting.  Instead, I’d simply stated that I had a hunch where Jordan’s mother would be later that afternoon.

Lauren stared.  “You’re not going to tell me?” she said, her voice hardening.

“Listen, she might not even be there,” I reasoned, dodging the question.  “It’s a long shot.  Why waste a staff correspondent?  Let me check it out.  I’ll take one cameraman and be back in a couple of hours.  If it doesn’t pan out, nothing’s lost.  And if it looks like Mrs. French is going to show, I’ll call for reinforcements,” I added, lying.

“Absolutely not.”  Lauren scowled.  “This has gone on long enough.  Where is Mrs. French going to be?”

I still didn’t reply, my temper beginning to flare.  Lauren wasn’t being fair.  After all, I had been the one who figured things out.  Why shouldn’t I be the one to go?

“Damn it, Allison.  Are you going to tell me or not?”

I shook my head, deciding I had gone too far to turn back.

“I could fire you for this,” Lauren warned.

“What would that accomplish?” I retorted, part of me wishing I could start over, another part realizing it was too late.  “C’mon, Lauren.  Give me a chance.  What have you got to lose?”

Lauren remained silent for several seconds, chewing it over.  “All right,” she finally conceded.  “As you said, it’s a long shot.  But if you
do
get lucky, make sure you call immediately for help.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading for the door before the bureau chief could change her mind.  “I won’t let you down.”

Accompanied by Max Riemann, the cameraman who had accompanied me to the Frenches’ estate, I drove to the museum.  After parking on a side street, I left Max in the car and walked back to museum grounds.  Within minutes I located Mrs. French’s silver Lexus in a private parking lot reserved for museum officials—matching the vehicle and license plate to the description given in Brent’s information-broker report.  I had been right.  She
was
there.

Disregarding my promise to Lauren to call for backup, I hurried back to my car, then returned to the museum—this time with Max and his camera equipment.  Careful not to attract attention, we positioned ourselves behind a concrete pillar at the rear of the parking lot, waiting for Mrs. French’s meeting to end.  It took several hours, but our patience eventually paid off.  Initially, however, Jordan’s mother made it clear that she had no intention of speaking with anyone—especially someone thrusting a microphone in her face.

“Mrs. French, do you have any comment on the LAPD targeting you and your husband as suspects in Jordan’s murder?” I asked, walking briskly to keep up with Jordan’s mother as she hurried toward her Lexus.  Following close behind, Max kept his lens angle wide, bracketing both Mrs. French and me in a traveling two-shot.

Mrs. French increased her pace without responding.

“Many people think you’re being treated unfairly by the police,” I persisted.  “Is there anything you want to say in your defense?”

Irritated, Mrs. French glanced at me.  A look of recognition lit her eyes.  “I know you,” she said, stopping for a moment.  “You’re the girl who rescued that youngster at the beach.”

Though surprised, I ignored her question and tried to get back on topic, switching to another one of my prepared questions.  “With all the confusion surrounding the investigation, do you—”

“My attorney has advised me not to talk about the case,” Mrs. French stated, starting again for her car.  Abruptly, she stopped.  “Actually, there
is
one thing I would like to say,” she added.  “I want to thank all of Jordan’s fans and friends who have been so supportive during this terrible time.  Jordan was a wonderful, loving child, and I miss her terribly.  I wish . . .”  Mrs. French’s words trailed off.

Though I felt a surge of compassion, I held the microphone steady.  As Jordan’s mother fought to regain her composure, I noticed Max slowly tightening his camera angle.  “I want everyone to know how much I loved her,” Mrs. French said at last, tears shimmering in her eyes.  “How much my husband and I both loved her.”

“And what would you tell those who think you were involved in your daughter’s death?” I asked softly.

Mrs. French gazed into the camera.  “I would tell them that it’s a heartbreaking thing to lose a child, and being accused of her murder has made it all the more horrible,” she answered, her eyes brimming.  “We loved our child.  We didn’t kill her.”

The spot was featured that night on the
CBS Evening News
.  It was subsequently aired on every network affiliate across the country.  Granted, nothing substantive came from my interview with Jordan’s mother, but the emotional tenor of the piece was exactly what the viewing public wanted—an intimate moment with Mrs. French, a mother suspected of complicity in her daughter’s death.

Ratings soared, with calls flooding in from people wanting to know whether Allison Kane was really the girl who had appeared in the beach-rescue segment a month earlier.  Interest in me was spurred even more when the connection was made between me and Detective Daniel Kane, lead investigator on the case.  Unlike the tabloids and other mainstream news stations, CBS chose not to comment on my family connection, but management privately indicated that further on-air appearances by me were under consideration—
particularly
in relation to the French case.

On the downside, Brent was incensed.  It was
his story, and I had scooped him.  Eventually I managed to smooth things over, at least I thought I did, but in the process I saw a dangerous, vindictive side of Brent that I didn’t like.  I knew I had come close to burning a bridge, but at the time the chance to snag an interview with Jordan’s mother had seemed worth the risk.  Plus it was my idea, and Brent was the one who had told me to look out for number one.

But now, with reporters mobbing me in the Television City parking lot and the news-starved media suddenly concentrating on
me
and my connection to the case via my father, I began to regret my rashness.  It was a regret that burgeoned as the story gained momentum, threatening to steamroll anyone in its path.