Allison (A Kane Novel) (7 page)

4

As I wheeled into the CBS Television City visitors’ parking lot early Monday morning, I still wasn’t certain what I was doing there.  Getting an internship at a national news bureau would be great, but I was already enrolled in class at UCLA, and I was fairly certain I couldn’t do both—even if I got the job, which wasn’t likely for someone with little or no experience.  Making an effort to shelve my concerns for the moment and just see how things went, I proceeded down a broad driveway, stopping at a parking kiosk near the far end.  There, with a disapproving glance at the beach-rusted Bronco I had borrowed from Travis, a uniformed guard handed me a parking stub and waved me past.  Straight ahead, the looming hulk of CBS Television City rose above a sea of cars, its eyeball-festooned black-and-white walls and squat lines reminding me of a giant cardboard box.  After minutes of searching, I found a slot at the west end of the lot, parked, and twisted off the ignition.  Refusing to die, the Bronco bucked repeatedly before finally shuddering to a stop.

Struggling to suppress my apprehension, I stepped out, smoothed my skirt and wool blazer, and started for the huge, windowless building.  As I approached, I noticed a number of people queued along the western perimeter, apparently waiting to see one of the daytime game shows that I knew were shot inside.  After asking directions from a production assistant polling those in line, I threaded through the crowd, arriving at an artists’ entrance a hundred yards east.  Still inexplicably nervous, I entered.

Inside, I found myself in a small but pleasant lobby decorated in plastic and chrome.  A coffee table and couch, several chairs, and a ceiling-mounted TV took up most of the space to the left; to the right, a waist-high stainless-steel counter curved toward a door opposite the entrance.  From behind the counter, a portly African-American man politely asked, “May I help you, miss?”

I nodded, feeling out of place and again wondering why I had come.  “I’m Allison Kane, here to see Brent Preston.”

The guard slid a register across the counter and lifted a phone.  “Sign in, please.  I’ll see whether Mr. Preston is in the newsroom.”

After I had printed and signed my name in the entry record, I glanced at the TV across the room.  Not surprisingly, it was tuned to Channel 2, CBS’s Los Angeles affiliate.

“Mr. Preston will be down shortly,” the guard informed me.  Then, after checking my name in the register, he filled out a guest pass and slid it across the counter.  “You’ll need this.”

“Thanks.”

I pinned the pass to my blazer and sat in a chair across from the TV.  Twenty minutes later, after viewing all I could stand of a mind-numbing morning talk show, I rose and made my way back to the desk.  As I was about to ask the guard for an update, Brent Preston, a tall, sandy-haired man in his late twenties, stepped into the room.  Noticing me, he smiled, his slate-gray eyes lingering on me for several seconds before he spoke.  “Sorry it took so long,” he apologized.  “I was in a meeting.”

Nervously, I smiled back, deciding that Mr. Preston looked even more striking in person than he did on TV.  “I’m, uh, I’m Allison Kane, Mr. Preston,” I stammered, reaching out to shake his hand.  “I’ve seen lots of your newscasts, starting back when you were doing the local news for KCBS.”

“Ah, the good old days at Channel 2,” said the newsman.  “Well, thanks, Allison.  And please call me Brent.  The bureau chief is tied up right now, but she’ll be able to see you shortly.  C’mon.  I’ll give you a tour while you’re waiting.”

I followed Brent through the door.  A procession of promotional photos lined the walls of a wide hallway on the other side.  Some pictures were of CBS news anchors, but most of the photos depicted stars of network game shows, daytime soaps, and sitcoms.  “Looks like the soap-opera hall of fame,” I observed, noting a conspicuously empty slot as we passed.

“More like the hall of shame,” joked Brent, noticing my glance at the empty spot.  “If your ratings are down, your picture’s gone the next day.  And we call them ‘daytime dramas’ around here,” he cautioned with mock severity.

“I’ll remember that,” I laughed, beginning to relax.

Farther down the corridor the ambiance abruptly changed, the forest-green carpet replaced by industrial-grade linoleum, the acoustic ceiling tiles giving way to a maze of pipes, cables, and ductwork.  A misplaced pair of promotional photos from another era—Red Skelton as “Freddie the Freeloader,” and Jack Benny posing with a chimp—were the final attempts at decoration.  From there, a labyrinth of passageways branched deeper into the building, their industrial mien reminding me of the interior of a factory, or possibly a ship.

Several turns took us to
The Price is Right
backstage area, an aircraft-hanger-sized chamber jammed with couches, beds, kitchen appliances, cars, boats, Jet Skis, sports equipment, and an endless array of televisions, stereos, washing machines, refrigerators, and other household items.  I whistled under my breath.

“And this is only
one
of the studios here,” Brent informed me.  “Impressive, huh?”

“I’ll say.  Is the newsroom like this?”

“I wish,” Brent answered.  “We in the news give network a certain stature and prestige, but if the truth be known, we’re fairly low on the corporate pecking order.  Actually, make that the bottom of the pecking order.  The reality shows, daytime dramas, and game shows are the real money-makers around here, so they get the space.  I enjoyed better working conditions at Channel 2.”

“But I thought—”

“Never mind what you thought.  Just don’t be too disappointed when we get to the newsroom.  It won’t be what you expected.”

A quarter hour later, after escorting me through several other studios, an extensive woodworking shop used for set construction, and the CBS employee cafeteria, Brent checked his watch.  “Lauren should be done by now,” he said.  “I suppose we should head over to the newsroom.”

“Lauren?”

“The bureau chief.  Lauren Van Owen.”

My throat tightened.

“Is something wrong?” Brent asked, looking at me curiously.

“No,” I lied.

“People are often surprised to learn that the bureau chief is a woman,” Brent went on, misinterpreting my reaction.  “When Sid Gilmore, our old chief, retired six months back, the suits in New York tapped Lauren for his spot.  You may remember her.  She was a reporter for Channel 2 before an accident ended her on-camera work.

“I recall the incident,” I said, thinking that what had started as a promising morning had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

*        *        *

It had been more years than Kane cared to admit since he had ridden patrol for the LAPD Van Nuys Division, but the streets were beginning to come back.  After turning left off Ventura Boulevard onto Alonzo, he drove into the chaparral-covered mountains that marked the southwest borders of the San Fernando Valley.  New homes with bricked patios and wrought-iron fences flanked the street all the way up, but with the exception of these recent additions, the rugged hillsides of the Santa Monica Mountains still looked the same:  steep, dusty, and overgrown with sage, scrub oak, and sumac.

Fifteen minutes later Kane arrived at a cul-de-sac, high above the housing developments and shopping malls of the valley below.  Crossing overhead, high-voltage power lines arced up the mountainside, the thick spans of electrical cables glinting in the midday sun.  At the pavement’s end, two black-and-white patrol cars were stationed near a dirt fire road.  An eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire prevented access on either side.  A young patrol officer, notebook in hand, guarded the open gate.  Other officers stood nearby, questioning a group of neighbors.

Kane pulled up to the gate.  “Detective Daniel Kane, West L.A. homicide,” he said, flipping out his ID.

The young officer checked Kane’s credentials, made an entry in his notebook, and waved him past.  As Kane drove in, he noticed a heavy chain and a number of interlinked padlocks dangling from the gate.

The dirt fire road swung right, then steepened as it continued up the slope.  Kane’s late-model Ford, one of several “city cars” assigned to the West L.A. homicide unit, began to strain, its wheels slipping on loose gravel.  After several hair-raising curves, Kane surmounted a steep rise.  There, the road forked.  To the right it proceeded higher into the mountains.  To the left, several hundred yards down a steep incline, lay the blue surface of Encino reservoir, enclosed within a second chain-link fence.  Unlike the outer perimeter fence ringing several square miles of mountain hillside, the inner fence ran a mere twenty yards from the water’s edge.  Within this secondary barrier Kane spotted three more patrol cars, two unmarked vehicles, and a gray van with a Department of Water and Power logo on the side.

Pumping the brakes, Kane eased his Ford down toward the reservoir.  Finally reaching more level ground, he entered an open gate in the inner fence, arriving at a flat section of shoreline.  There, beyond the parked cars and a loose knot of men, he saw the nude body of a young girl sprawled at the water’s edge.

Kane turned off the engine and stepped from his vehicle.  One of the men in the group saw him and started over.  As the man neared, Kane recognized the round face and bulldog bearing of Carl Peyron.  The ranking detective for the West L.A. Major Assault Crimes unit, Peyron had drawn the Jordan French abduction case weeks before.  Kane knew that for lack of evidence, Peyron had made little progress to date on the investigation.  Kane also knew that situation was about to change.

“Morning, Kane,” Peyron wheezed when he arrived.  “Make that afternoon,” he corrected, squinting at the sun.

“How’s it going, Carl?” Kane replied, noting beads of perspiration glistening on Peyron’s forehead, a faint trace of Maalox ringing his lips.  “A bit far from home, aren’t you?”

Peyron, a stocky Hispanic in his late thirties, mopped his brow with a crumpled handkerchief.  “Yeah.  Now I recall why I transferred out of the valley.”

Kane smiled.  “Me, too.”  Then, his smile fading, “Is it her?”

Peyron nodded somberly.  “It’s her.  The body’s been in the water for some time, but you can still tell it’s Jordan French.”  Peyron glanced toward the men assembled a dozen yards from the body.  “The Van Nuys guys who first responded recognized her and contacted us, because they knew we were handling the abduction.  Needless to say, they’re more than happy to let West L.A. take over, especially now that it’s turned into a homicide.  Unless the parents want to involve the Feds, it’s all yours.”

Kane knew that although LAPD detectives had jurisdiction over the investigation of Jordan’s abduction and murder, the FBI could be brought in by request to assist in the kidnap portion of the case.  It was an option that neither Jordan’s parents nor LAPD authorities had pursued to date, and that’s the way Kane wanted it to stay, having had problems in the past with what he considered unnecessary FBI interference.

Kane turned toward the shoreline.  “Who found her?”

“DWP workers who were surveying for some water-quality improvement project.  Seems they’re upgrading all open reservoirs in the system.”

“Make sure those guys stick around.  I want to talk to them.”  Kane thought a moment.  “Where was she found?  On the bank?”

“Floating a few yards offshore.  One of the survey guys dragged her in.”

“Anybody else touch her?”

“According to the first officers to arrive, no.”

“The DWP crew had to unlock that gate at the street to get in,” reasoned Kane.  “Did they report any signs of tampering?”

“Nope.  They said everything looked normal.”

“How about the other gate?” asked Kane, indicating the one in the inner fence near the water.

“That was open.  The DWP guys say it hasn’t been locked all summer.”

“I noticed a string of padlocks on the outside gate.  Who has locks on that gate?”

“That’s the first thing I asked when I got here,” said Peyron.  “DWP, Southern California Edison, the Fire Department, and LAPD all have locks on the chain.  Nobody else.”

“The dirt road I drove in on appeared to keep on going up the ridge,” Kane said, glancing toward the top of the hill behind them.  “Where’s it wind up?”

“It connects with an unimproved section of Mulholland,” answered Peyron.  “One of the uniforms hiked up there.  He says there’s another gate at the top.  Nothing looked disturbed.  The chain and locks there are all intact, and no cuts in the fence.”

“We’ll want to recheck that, along with everyone who has keys.”  Kane swept his eyes over the miles of brush-covered hillside encircling the reservoir, noting a number of animal trails cutting through the undergrowth.  “For that matter, it’s possible our man entered from one of the nearby neighborhoods.  It would have been a long hike carrying a body, but it’s possible.  We’ll have to canvass the neighbors, too.”

“Right.  Inquire about any strange cars in the area, check for cuts in the fencing, that kind of thing,” Peyron agreed.  “I called the Van Nuys watch commander and asked him to send more guys out here for some door-knocking.  I also took the liberty of contacting SID,” he added, referring to the LAPD Special Investigative Division crime-scene unit.  “I notified the coroner’s office, too.  They’re on their way.”

“Good.  Anything else?”

Peyron hesitated, then referred to his notebook.  “One thing.  Maybe it’s not important, but I asked the DWP workers about currents in the reservoir.”

“To get an idea of where the body was dumped?”

“Yeah.  It appears the corpse was weighted down before it broke loose.  According to the DWP guys, there’s a subsurface current draining toward a collector at the north end of the dam.  But once the body rose to the surface, the wind could have blown it in any direction.”

Kane gazed out over the reservoir.  “A lot of shoreline to search.”

“You’ve got that right.”

Just then one of the patrol officers yelled to them from his cruiser.  “Detectives, I got a call here from one of our guys out on the street.  A news crew just arrived.  They want to know whether there’s any statement yet.”