Allison (A Kane Novel) (36 page)

“You said that before,” said Nate, who until now had remained silent.  “You said your treatments were going to make you better.”

“I know, honey.”

“The chemo was all for nothing.”  Nate shook his head.  “You’ll never get better, will you?”

Mom started to tell Nate he was wrong.  Seeing the look on his face, she stopped midsentence.  And this second time that her guard was down, we all saw her uncertainty, reading it in the tightness of her lips and the slump of her shoulders as plainly as if she had confessed her fears aloud.

Head down, Nate rose and walked from the room.  Callie climbed from her bed and trotted after him, close at his heels.  A moment later we heard the bang of the downstairs door out to the beach.  With a sigh, Dad pushed away from the table.

I stood quickly.  “I’ll get him.”

“That’s okay, Ali.”

“No, I want to,” I insisted, hurrying from the room before my father could object.

After descending the stairs and making my way outside, I crossed the deck to the sea wall.  Stepping to the sand below, I gazed up and down the deserted beach.  By now the sun had painted a final smear of orange on the western horizon; to the east, the evening star glittered over Santa Monica like a distant diamond.

Not spotting Nate, I headed to the water, where the ebbing tide had exposed a wide swath of sand.  Past the shoreside berm I noted a fresh set of tracks bordering the ocean.  Walking briskly, I followed the trail.  Rounding a rocky outcrop, I spotted Nate sitting on the sand fifty yards up, Callie at his feet.  To me, something about their lone figures looked as defeated and forlorn as an abandoned farmhouse.  Nate glanced up as I approached, then rubbed his eyes and resumed staring at the ocean.  Callie gave me a perfunctory tail-thump, then lay her muzzle on her paws.

I stopped beside my brother, not knowing what to say.

“Go away,” Nate said.

Ignoring his order, I sat beside him.

“Go away.”

“Listen, Nate,” I said gently.  “Normally I save being nice to you for special occasions.  This is one of those times.  I want to help.”

Nate scooped up a handful of stones and began flicking them at the water.

I rested a hand on Callie’s head, working my fingers into her soft yellow fur.  “Nate, I know we haven’t been piling up the Kodak memories in our family lately,” I went on, “but you’re not helping Mom by acting this way.”

“You’re one to talk,” Nate spat, angrily winging a rock at the ocean.

“Just because Mom and I don’t get along sometimes doesn’t mean—”

“Shut up, Ali.  You don’t care about anybody but yourself.”

“That’s not true, Nate.”

“Yeah, right.”

Without thinking, I took my brother’s shoulders and turned him to face me.  “I
do
care about Mom,” I said fiercely.  “Don’t ever say I don’t.”

Nate glared back, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

“I don’t know
why Mom and I go at each other like we do,” I said.  “I wish things were different.  Trav gets along with Dad, now.  Maybe later, Mom and I will too.”

Nate shrugged free of my grip.  “What if there isn’t a later?”

“There will be.  Mom will get better.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Because she has to.”

“That’s not good enough.”  Nate turned away.  “You know what, Ali?” he went on.  “I just realized something.  All these years Dad has been telling us that if we wanted something bad enough,
no matter what it was,
we’d get it.”

I didn’t respond.

“You wanna make the team, you gotta
want
it, bucko,” Nate went on harshly, lowering his voice in a surprisingly passable imitation of our father’s.  “But you gotta want it
bad
, sport.  Hard work, determination, and desire will get you anything you want. 
Anything
.”  Nate gazed out at the waves.  “He was lying.  You don’t always get what you want.  No matter how
bad you want it.”

Again I remained silent, taken aback by my brother’s bitterness.  Nate had always been the most optimistic member of our family, able to find silver in even the darkest cloud.  I sighed, struck by the thought that even with those you loved, it was impossible to ever fully know another person.

A troop of terns skittered along the shoreline, their curved beaks probing the sand for a final morsel before nightfall.  As they passed, an offshore breeze whistled up the beach.  Hearing the wind before it reached us, Nate and I both lowered our heads against the pelting grains of sand that followed.  The gust plucked at our clothes.  When it was gone, we sat without speaking.

Slowly a sprinkling of stars crept into the darkening sky, leaving only a faint tinge of red on the western horizon.  At last I rose to my feet.  “C’mon, Nate,” I said, brushing sand from my legs.  “I’m cold.  Let’s go back.”

“You go.  I’ll see you later.”

“I’m not going home without you.”  When Nate didn’t respond, I took his arm and tried to pull him to his feet.  I quickly gave up, aware for the first time that my little brother was no longer little.  Somehow, while I hadn’t been looking, the skinny younger sibling I’d always been able to push around had grown into a strong young man.

“Please, Nate,” I said.  “Mom needs you right now.  She needs us all.”

Nate’s face opened for an instant, then closed.  Wordlessly, he stood and began walking slowly down the beach toward the house.  Callie bounded to her feet and took her place out front, leading the way back.  I dropped in beside Nate, walking with him along the water’s edge.  Halfway to the house Nate glanced over at me, then once more gazed straight ahead.  “Ali?”

“What?”

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Sure, Nate,” I said quietly, slipping my hand into his.  “That’s what big sisters are for.”

24

During the night a tropical storm that had been stalled for days over the Pacific finally moved onshore, and first light revealed banks of thunderheads squatting over the mountains, with more threatening on the horizon.  His overcoat collar turned up against a raw wind gusting from the north, Kane stood on a narrow fire road that led down to Encino Reservoir, staring out over the wind-chopped water.

Allison had been right.  There
were
six locks on the chain securing the upper gate:  the same five present on the lower gate . . .
and an unauthorized sixth
.  Calls to the various agencies confirmed that none of them had placed an extra padlock.  Kane had suspected all along that the distance to the reservoir from surrounding neighborhoods made it impractical for someone to have carried in a body, even the body of a child.  No, whoever dumped Jordan French’s body had cut the gate chain and then
driven
to the reservoir—or at least to a spot nearby.  And upon leaving, he had repaired the break in the chain by inserting an extra padlock.  Kane shook his head, berating himself for not having checked the upper gate himself.

Turning from the reservoir, Kane glanced up the dirt road behind him.  At the top of the ridge he could make out several patrol cars from the Van Nuys Division.  An SID unit was there too, its members carefully removing the chain and its extra lock from the upper gate.  On the road in between, officers were combing the brush.  Below him, Deluca, Banowski, and several other members of the West L.A. homicide unit were working their way up from the water.  The odds were unlikely that any tire tracks, footprints, or other evidence would be discovered at this late date—especially considering that the area had been well tromped during earlier canvasses.  Nevertheless, it had to be done.

Again Kane swept his eyes over the choppy water at the south end of the reservoir, glad to be working.  Activity kept his mind from thoughts of Catheryn, kept him from obsessing about her treatment.  Focusing on the investigation, he attempted to place himself in the killer’s shoes.  It was probably night when he dumped the body, Kane reasoned.  Where would he have chosen?

Kane narrowed his eyes, scanning the surrounding area.

Someplace not too far from the road.  Someplace hidden.

A quarter mile from where Kane stood, the access road dropped sharply, joining another road that twisted up from the valley.  Near this junction lay the easiest approach to the water, and the very section of shoreline where they had found the body.  From where Kane stood, it looked open and exposed.

Not there.  The killer would have wanted more privacy for what he had to do.

Kane started walking.  He had originally insisted that in addition to examining the outer fence and gates for signs of tampering, the inner fence also be scrutinized.  Areas in both were in disrepair, but no suspicious breaches had been found.  Miles of outer and inner fencing circled the reservoir, however—offering ample opportunity for something to have been overlooked.  On a hunch, Kane began rechecking the interior chain-link fence.  Along the way he detoured around several patches of poison oak, recalling the rash he had noticed on Mr. French’s hand.

Ten minutes later he found a cut in the inner fence.

It was hidden behind a clump of sumac, invisible unless viewed from precisely the right angle.  After pushing aside some branches, Kane knelt and examined the cut.  Someone had made a vertical three-foot incision in the fence, then repositioned the severed sections.  Kane leaned closer, noticing something caught on a strand of wire at the bottom.  Using a ballpoint pen, he teased free a tattered tag of black plastic.  Trash bag?
he wondered.  He gazed at the reservoir.  The slope leading down to the water was steep, but not too steep for someone determined to make it.

After withdrawing an evidence bag from his pocket, Kane inserted the torn piece of plastic he had found, stuffed the baggy into his coat, and returned to the fire road.  He arrived in time to see Deluca and Banowski approaching from below.  Deluca was telling a joke, as usual punctuating his story with animated arm sweeps, his expressive Italian hands shaping his words.  “So the grizzled old RAF officer lecturing to the women’s group says, “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.  A Fokker is definitely a German aircraft.  However, these particular Fokkers were flying Messerschmitts.’”

“Good one,” snorted Banowski, nodding to Kane as they arrived.  “Reminds me of the one about the—”

“Save it,” said Kane, cutting him off.  “Which one of you comedians brought the handset?”

“I did,” said Deluca, reaching into his coat and pulling out a mobile radio.  “What’s up?”

“I found a break in the fence.”  Kane pointed to the clump of sumac concealing the cut.  “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide it.”

“So our man didn’t drive all the way to the water?” Banowski said doubtfully, glancing toward the spot Kane had indicated.  “He cut the fence and hiked down?  Why?”

Kane shrugged.  “Who knows?  Things might have looked too exposed by the dam for his taste.  It’s also possible he didn’t realize that DWP workers had left the inner gate unlocked.  Or maybe he thought there was a night watchman.  Whatever the case, I think our guy dragged the body down to the water right there.”

“And the corpse broke loose from whatever was anchoring it and floated to where we found it,” Deluca added.  “Could’ve happened.”

Kane nodded.  “Radio one of the cruisers and have them send the SID guys down when they’re done with the gate.  And contact the divers who searched the reservoir before.  We need them out here for a second look.”

“You want ’em out here now?”

Kane nodded again.  “Right now.”

*        *        *

I hadn’t slept much the night before, worrying about Mom.  I heard my father rise early, but I remained in bed at the beach house until after he had left.  Then, dressing quickly, I left as well, not talking with anyone on my way out.  Pushing the speed limit, I drove to Westwood, attempting to contact Mike on his cell phone several times on the way.  No answer.  Upon returning to my dorm room, I located Mike’s home number in the Palisades telephone directory.  Feeling a growing sense of urgency, I called him there.  The phone at the other end rang a half-dozen times before someone finally picked up.

“Hello?” a sleepy male voice answered.

“Mike?”

“I think so.”

“It’s Allison.”

“Ali?” Mike yawned.  “What time is it?”

“Early.  Listen, I need a favor.  I’m at UCLA.  I know it’s Sunday, but can you meet me here ASAP with your video camera?  And bring your biggest telephoto lens—one that can pull in an image from a long way off.”

“Hold on,” Mike said, starting to wake up.  “What’s this all about?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Tell me now.”

I hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” said Mike.  “Don’t trust me?”

“That’s not it.”

“Of course it is.  C’mon, Ali.  What’s up?”

“I told my father about what we found on our bike ride,” I replied.  “He’s searching the reservoir site again this morning.”

“And if you call CBS, Lauren will probably send Brent.”

“Not probably.  Definitely.  As you once pointed out, it
is
his story.  All I’d get would be a pat on the back.”

“And you want
all
the credit.”

“I was the one who came up with this, not Brent,” I said.

A long pause.  “Somehow I find it difficult to believe that your dad’s revisiting the reservoir simply because you discovered that Mr. French knew it was there.”

“There’s more to it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as things I can’t talk about.  But believe me, my dad has good reason to suspect the Frenches.”

“He does, huh?  Then it has to be the autopsy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because according to leaks, nothing useful was found in the way of evidence at Jordan’s house,” Mike reasoned.  “Nothing much turned up at the reservoir when her body was discovered, either.  The autopsy is the only thing left.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” I demanded, amazed that Mike had caught on so quickly, and angry with myself for having said anything to him at all.

“Not.”