Allison (A Kane Novel) (46 page)

After running a yellow light on Santa Monica Boulevard and hanging a left on Butler Avenue, Kane approached the West Los Angeles station house.  “Damn,” he said aloud, noticing a phalanx of news vans again jamming the street out front.

Kane had hoped to avoid reporters by arriving early.  “So much for that plan,” he said aloud, deciding not to park in his normal spot across the street behind the courthouse.  Turning a deaf ear to shouted questions as he passed the news crews, he continued on by the station, wondering whether Allison was among the mass of reporters blocking the entrance.  Angrily dismissing the thought, he took a right on the south side of the station and parked in a private lot in back reserved for just such occasions.

As Kane entered the rear entrance of the building and made his way upstairs to the squad room, he mentally reviewed the French case, realizing much was riding on what happened that morning.  Though there was no way to predict exactly what direction any given interrogation might take, Kane had always believed that preparation made the difference between success and failure.  With that in mind, he had spent most of the preceding days going over the contents of the Jordan French murder book, reexamining every piece of evidence, and studying a recording and transcript of Brent and Allison’s recently televised meeting with Jordan’s parents—a record that upon request CBS had readily provided.  Likewise, he had spent hours imagining how the questioning would go, assaying different ploys, tacks, and stratagems.  He had done everything he could to prepare save one:  He still hadn’t resolved how to handle the sticky legal problem of his suspects’ being man and wife.

As no other leads had panned out, Kane had progressively been unable to disregard a suspicion that at least
one
of the parents had been involved in Jordan’s murder—a suspicion that had eventually become as pervasive as a dead rat in the walls.  But if one of them did it, the other had to have at least known . . . and had probably cooperated in disposing of the body. 
But which one?
Because of the husband-wife confidentiality rule, even if one were to confess, nothing said against the other was admissible in court.

Nevertheless, if one parent admitted committing the murder, it could implicate the other by extension.  For example, if Mrs. French admitted killing Jordan, Mr. French must have known, as he had been in the house at the time of the murder.  He probably had to have helped dispose of the body too, as his wife wasn’t strong enough to do it alone.  Furthermore, Kane could always maintain that evidence found as the result of one parent’s testimony against the other fell into the “inevitable discovery” category—material that would eventually have been uncovered in another way—and should thus be admissible.  Nonetheless, the confidentiality issue and the uncertainties it entailed would present a problem, and one Kane knew he would have to treat with care.  At the very least, any mishandling could open the door to a plea bargain, an option he was unwilling to consider.  If Mr. and Mrs. French killed their daughter, Kane wanted them charged with first-degree murder, nothing less.

At precisely 9:45 AM, the Frenches arrived.  After battling their way through the brigade of waiting reporters, they entered the station house.  Accompanying them were two attorneys wearing identical Armani suits—a lawyer present for each parent, as Mr. and Mrs. French were slated to be questioned separately.  Included in the parents’ negotiations, along with a demand that their lawyers be present and that they could end the interview at any time, had been a stipulation that they be questioned together.  Kane had refused the latter request and on that point had held firm, wanting to preclude any communication between the parents during the interrogation so their individual stories could be compared for consistency.  Kane had also declined to give Jordan’s parents an accounting of evidence against them—another outrageous request made by their attorneys, and one Kane hadn’t taken seriously.  He had agreed, however, that a physician could be in attendance in the unlikely event that Mrs. French succumbed under the strain of interrogation.  Jordan’s parents had evidently decided a doctor wouldn’t be necessary after all, as none was present.  Neither were the representatives from the DA’s office that they had fought so adamantly to have included—strengthening Kane’s suspicion that it had all been more posturing for the press.

Mrs. French and her lawyer, a high-powered defense attorney named Jason Artz with whom Kane had tangled more than once in court, were led to a second-floor interview room.  Mr. French and his counsel were taken to another room down the hall.  Each interrogation chamber contained a gray metal table and chairs, and in Mrs. French’s case, a clean glass ashtray.  The rooms were also dressed with stacks of police files, detailed drawings of the Frenches’ house, and items of physical evidence including the extra gate padlock, black plastic bags, and the knotted ropes recovered at the reservoir.  Taped to the walls were forensic photos showing Jordan’s body sprawled on the shore.  Though lacking in subtlety, the presence of items associated with a case was a psychological ploy that Kane had often seen rattle a suspect into an admission of guilt.  In addition, everything said in both rooms, even a whisper, was being recorded in a small alcove down the hall—something that wasn’t revealed to the parents.

Figuring Mrs. French for the weak link, Kane elected to do the initial questioning on her, letting Deluca and Banowski tackle Mr. French.  Although neither parent was under arrest, nor had they been charged with any crime, Kane began by reading Mrs. French her Miranda rights, having instructed Deluca to do the same for Mr. French.  Next Kane reiterated his request that Mrs. French submit to a polygraph exam and give hair and blood samples.  On the advice of Mr. Artz she again refused, saying that the results of those tests could do nothing to exonerate her and, depending on the extent of the police’s mishandling of evidence, might even hurt her.  Besides, she pointed out, she had already passed a privately administered polygraph exam.

Moving on, Kane eased into questions covering the days and weeks before Jordan’s abduction, asking Mrs. French to describe her daughter’s daily routine, things that happened at the studio, what Jordan did during her evenings at home—attempting to put Jordan’s mother at ease and getting her talking at the same time.  Throughout this opening phase Kane asked questions to which he already knew the answers, a technique he routinely used to get the measure of someone.  Though initially nervous, Mrs. French settled down as things progressed, smoking constantly during the proceedings.  At one point her attorney also started to light a cigarette.  Kane politely informed him that there was a no-smoking rule in the building, and that the LAPD’s making an exception for his client was a consideration not extended to him.

When Mrs. French’s narrative reached the night of Jordan’s birthday, Kane interrupted to query her about the presence of any strangers approaching their table at The Ivy, raising the possibility of a stalker.  Next he asked her to elaborate on other items:  what Jordan had been wearing that night, what she had eaten, what time the family had left the restaurant.  He also casually slipped in a question about leftovers.  By now having grown inured to answering Kane’s battery of inquiries, Mrs. French responded to the latter by saying she couldn’t recall having taken home any food that night from the restaurant.

Jumping ahead to the day of Jordan’s disappearance, Kane asked Mrs. French to recount in detail everything she could remember, encouraging her to leave nothing out.  He asked when her daughter had awakened that morning, how she had felt about not going to work, who telephoned the studio to say she wouldn’t be in, what she ate, what calls she received, what she did during the day, what time she went to bed.  Following that, Kane posed personal queries delving into the intimacies of the Frenches’ marriage, most of which Mrs. French refused to answer.  Lastly, his voice remaining neutral, Kane asked the most difficult questions of the morning:  “Did you kill her?”  “Do you know who did?”  “Did you send the ransom note?”  “Did you molest Jordan, or suspect that she had been sexually molested by your husband?”

To all, Mrs. French emphatically answered no.

After pretending to study his notes, Kane took Mrs. French through it once more, point by point, step by step.  On issues about which she had been evasive or said she couldn’t recollect, he tried other approaches, probing every inconsistency.  And when they reached the end, he started anew.  Mr. Artz sporadically asked Kane to keep his questions to the point, but for the most part—with the exception of conferring with his client before she answered some particularly difficult interrogative—he allowed Mrs. French to give what seemed to be a full and complete accounting of events relating to her daughter’s murder.

Two hours into it Kane left the room, asking another homicide detective to stay with Mrs. French during his absence.  Before departing, Kane privately told the detective that although Mrs. French could light up if she wanted, Mr. Artz was
not
permitted to smoke.

Keeping a prearranged meeting in the squad room, Kane and Deluca compared notes.  It soon became apparent that Deluca and Banowski had experienced no more success with Mr. French than Kane had with Jordan’s mother.  The parents’ accounts of their daughter’s abduction correlated perfectly.  A little
too
perfectly, in Kane’s opinion.  Nevertheless, both parents were steadfastly maintaining their innocence, and as yet nothing had come to light to prove otherwise.  In an appraisal of Mr. French that Kane thought applied to Jordan’s mother as well, Deluca summed up the interrogation thus far by saying, “If that guy’s lying, he’s one hell of an actor.”

*        *        *

“Excuse me, Brent.  May I have a word with you?”

Brent Preston had just exited one of the newsroom editing bays, Liz Waterson at his side.  Turning, he nodded curtly as he saw me in the hallway.  “I’m busy right now, Ali.”

“It won’t take long.  Could you give us a second, Liz?”

“Sure,” the slim newswoman replied pleasantly.  Though I knew Liz still referred to me as “mermaid girl” behind my back, over the past months the acerbic producer’s antagonism toward me had been supplanted by something a little closer to respect.  “See you later, Brent,” Liz added with her trademark confectionery smile.

“I thought you were covering the Frenches’ interrogation this morning,” I noted after Liz had departed.

“I am,” said Brent.  “We got shots of the parents entering the police station.  They’ll be in there for hours, so I left the camera crew on location and came back to edit the initial footage we got.”  Brent checked his watch.  “I’m heading back over right now.  What did you want to talk about?”

I studied Brent for a long moment.  “Well, for one thing, I’ve been thinking about your blowup with Mike,” I said, broaching a subject that had been bothering me since last weekend.  At the time, blinded by hurt and anger, I’d thought Mike’s confrontation with Brent had been sparked by jealousy.  Later, when I’d cooled down, I had begun to suspect there was more to it than that.

“Don’t read too much into our little spat,” Brent said smoothly.  “Mike was drunk.”

“He may have been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk.”

Brent folded his arms.  “Okay, he wasn’t drunk.  What are you getting at?”

“Just this.  In referring to your autopsy and sexual abuse story, he said
you called him
.”  I stared at Brent.  “You told me that
he phoned you.
  Which was it?”

“What’s the difference?”

“It makes a difference to me.”  My tone hardened.  “You also said that Mike divulged things to you about the French investigation—things I had told him in confidence.  Is that how it happened?”

“Allison, I don’t have time for this.”

“What’s more, Mike thinks that I told you he was the one who shot my reservoir footage,” I continued.  “Where did he get that idea?”

Guiltily, Brent looked away.

“You figured out Mike shot the reservoir footage for me, didn’t you?” I persisted.  “Then you started wondering what else he knew, so you convinced him I had confided in you—tricking him into telling you everything.  No wonder he said you’d do anything for a story.”

Brent’s lip curled.  “And I suppose you wouldn’t?”

I shook my head, my suspicions confirmed.  How could I have been so blind?  “I wouldn’t lie,” I said.  “And I wouldn’t screw a friend.”

“Oh, sure,” Brent snorted.  “And the check is in the mail.  Like I said, I don’t have time for this.”  He turned, heading toward the exit at the far end of the hall.  “Let me know when you come back to planet Earth and we’ll talk,” he added over his shoulder.

Furious, I stomped across the newsroom and stormed into the bureau chief’s office.  “Lauren, there’s something I have to know,” I said, banging the door shut behind me.

Lauren glanced up from her desk.  “Don’t bother knocking, just barge right in,” she said.  Then, noticing the look on my face, “Listen, before you say anything, I know you’re mad about not being at Frenches’ interrogation this morning.  It wasn’t my call.  But don’t worry.  You may have something even better coming up.  New York is thinking about having you do a live update tomorrow for the evening news.”

“Me?”

Lauren nodded.  “It’ll run live on the East Coast, so we’ll shoot sometime after three-thirty.  The idea is to have you go out to Jordan’s grave for a recap of your interview with Mr. and Mrs. French, contrasting it with whatever we learn today about the parents’ LAPD interrogation.  Can you handle it?”

“I can handle it,” I said.  Part of me felt excited about the prospect; another part realized that the network executives intended once again to capitalize on my relationship with my father.  “But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Oh?  What, then?”

“Do you know where Brent got his information on the autopsy story?” I asked.

Lauren shrugged.  “He got a tip from your friend Mike and followed up on it.”