A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  Allison looked up from her desk, noticing Kane’s coat. “Fine, Dad. You going out?”

  “Yeah. Something came up at work,” Kane explained. “I don’t like leaving you kids here alone, but—”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be okay,” Allison interrupted. “Mom will be home soon, and I’m sure we can manage not to burn down the house till then.”

  “Your mom oughtta be home right now.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Allison patiently. “Go.”

  *

  The Firebird Trans Am, mag wheels and all, was parked taking up two spaces near the front of the theater—deliberately angled in the lot so no one could ding the dark-blue custom paint. Kane, Arnie, Santoro, and another CRASH detective sat in an unmarked car fifty yards down the block on Wilshire—Kane at the wheel, Santoro sitting shotgun, Arnie and Santoro’s partner in the back. Two-Adam-Six, a black-and-white backup unit from the Beverly Hills police department, was stationed around the corner.

  Kane glanced impatiently at his watch: 7:53 p.m. The movie, billed on the marquee as the last and final episode in a long-running series of horror-thrillers, would let out in a few minutes.

  “What’s the drill here?” asked Santoro’s partner. “Take him down as soon as he shows?”

  “No. We let him drive out of the lot, then have the uniforms pull him over,” Kane answered. “Let me see that picture of Voss again.”

  Santoro pulled a booking photo of Miguel Voss from his picket. “He goes by the street name El Galgo,” he said, passing the photo to Kane. “His juvenile folder runs three pages long—assault, robbery, and drugs. When he turned eighteen, he became one of the Sotel seniors, then promptly pulled a two-year stretch at Tehachapi State Prison. He got out four months ago.”

  “Anything on the girlfriend?”

  “A shoplifting bust when she was fourteen.”

  Kane studied the photo of Voss without comment, then passed it over his shoulder to Arnie. As he did, he stole a glance at his partner, noting that Arnie looked even worse than he had the previous weekend. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, his motions slightly unsteady. Although no one else seemed to notice, Kane detected the smell of bourbon coming from the backseat.

  “El Galgo,” Arnie mused aloud. “What the hell’s that mean?”

  “Greyhound,” Santoro answered. Then, “Why let him out of the parking lot? Why not just grab him right away?”

  “And then what? Haul him in for questioning, get nothing, and have to cut him loose?” said Kane. “We don’t have anything substantial on him yet. Hell, we don’t even have enough for a warrant on the car—just the word of an old sauce-head living in the bushes who can barely remember her own name.”

  “Then what—”

  “We let him get in the car,” Kane continued patiently, “establishing the link between him and the Trans Am. Once he’s cleared the lot, the patrol guys pull him over, lean on him a little, see what comes down. Maybe he’s holding, whatever. What we’re going for here is probable cause to search the car.”

  “You already ran this by your lieutenant?”

  “Long says it’ll fly provided we have PC for the search.”

  “What if we don’t?”

  Kane cracked his knuckles. “Then we find some reason to impound the car and drag ‘El Greyhound’ and his girlfriend in while we work on a warrant.”

  “I heard the feds haven’t picked up the third guy yet in the Bradley kidnapping,” said Santoro. “You still think Angelo Martin’s murder is connected? So far Voss just seems like some two-bit gangbanger to me—hardly the type to get involved in anything as complicated as kidnapping.”

  He’s involved, all right,” said Kane, retrieving the photo from Arnie. “I’m not certain how, but he is. If he’s not the third guy, he sure as hell knows where to find him.”

  Minutes later a theater employee wearing a shabby burgundy coat opened one of the theater’s front doors, and people began trickling in twos and threes onto the street. Kane scanned their faces, trying to spot Voss.

  “There he is,” said Santoro, pointing down the alley toward a man accompanied by a tall woman and a small boy. “Must’ve come out the side exit.”

  Kane glanced at the photo in his hand, then back at the trio. The man was definitely Miguel Voss. Older than his picture, but him. Tall, skinny, with pockmarked cheeks and black hair worn in a stubby ponytail. He was joking with the woman, a chesty blond in her mid-twenties. The boy, maybe about ten or eleven, followed behind, kicking rocks and sending them skittering up the alley. When they got to the car, Voss unlocked the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, then reached across and opened the passenger door. Kane waited until the boy and the woman were in, then picked up the mike and alerted the patrol unit around the corner.

  After exiting the lot, the Firebird turned left on Wilshire. Kane followed, easing into traffic three cars back. A few blocks up, the black-and-white cut over from a side street and slipped in behind. Together they followed Voss for several minutes, waiting for an excuse—giving him time to run a light or break the speed limit—anything. It really didn’t matter. They were going to pull him over anyway, but it would have been nice. Finally Kane got tired of waiting and radioed the uniforms to hit their lights.

  A moment later Two-Adam-Six accelerated past, their red-and-blues flashing as they dropped in behind Voss. When Voss showed no sign of slowing, they tweaked the siren and used the bullhorn, ordering him to pull over. Instead, the Trans Am jumped forward with a burst of speed and wove dangerously in and out of traffic, slamming off the side of a taxicab as it shot through a red light one block up.

  “What have we here?” said Kane with a satisfied grin, stomping on the accelerator. “Felony evading? How accommodating.”

  The black-and-white skidded sideways into the intersection, getting hung up between the taxi Voss had clipped and a Mercedes driven by a panicked older woman with blue hair. Kane swerved left, careening past the jam-up in time to see Voss turning off Wilshire four blocks up. Hunching over the wheel, Kane smoked into the side street Voss had taken.

  Voss hadn’t gone far. The Firebird had come to a stop beside a large metal Dumpster—one wheel up on the curb, the driver’s door flung open. The left front tire had been shredded by the fender, which had evidently been jammed against it during the accident with the taxi. The woman sat alone in the front, her terrified face illuminated by the dome light.

  “Anybody see him?” Kane yelled.

  “There!” Arnie pointed down a narrow alley forking to the right.

  Kane saw a dark figure slipping into the doorway of a burned-out building. After sending Santoro to cover the back, he spoke briefly into the mike, giving Two-Adam Six their position and requesting backup. Leaving Santoro’s partner with the woman in the car, Kane and Arnie proceeded down the alley on foot, guns drawn—Kane moving quickly, Arnie, working to keep up.

  Arnie was red-faced and breathing hard when he joined Kane at the entrance of what appeared to have once been a service garage. A scrawl of gang writing covered the door’s metal surface. A combination padlock beside the knob had been jimmied sometime in the past. It dangled now, sad and useless, from a rusted hasp.

  “Damn, I thought my days of busting through doors were over,” puffed Arnie.

  “Yeah. Me, too,” said Kane. Both men had gone through more than a few doors when they’d worked the street, never quite sure what lay on the other side. It was always one of the most frightening aspects of police work. Common wisdom on the force held that if you went through enough doors, sooner or later one would have your name on it.

  Kane regarded Arnie carefully, trying to assess his condition. “Voss could be anywhere by the time backup arrives,” he said. “You want to wait?”

  “Do you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “I was afraid you were gonna say that.” Briefly, Arnie spoke into a handset he’d brought from the car, advising Two-Adam-Six of their intention to enter the building.
Then, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Kane counted down from five. He kicked open the door on one.

  Kane went in low, moving to the right. Arnie followed close on his heels, slipping to the left. Weak rays from a streetlight filtered down from a boarded-up window high on the opposite wall, revealing a large, cavernous room that smelled of smoke and mildew. The two men moved forward in a silent, efficient pattern they had established over the years, each covering the other as he worked his sector. The drill came back with unconscious ease, etched in their minds by years of experience.

  Staying in the shadows, Kane crept through a litter of twisted metal and rotting drywall. He approached a ruined line of service bays, some with lifts and others with recesses under the ramps. He checked each bay carefully.

  Nothing.

  On his right a number of rooms branched off the main chamber. Straight ahead, a metal staircase led to a loft and more doors fifteen feet up. Kane hesitated, then started up the stairs.

  Suddenly he saw a flash of light. An instant later he sensed a slug whine past his head just as he heard the shot.

  Small-caliber weapon, he thought as he hit the floor.

  A split second later Arnie’s gun thundered in the darkness. Two quick shots, then another. Kane heard footsteps crashing over a piece of sheet metal. Then the screech of hinges as someone forced open a door …

  Silence.

  “Arnie?”

  “Over here. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Kane peered across the darkened chamber, wishing he had taken the time to put on his Kevlar vest. “He get away?”

  “I think so. Out the back. He probably won’t make it far. With any luck the uniforms will pick him up.”

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” said Kane, finally spotting Arnie’s dim shape across the room. He listened as Arnie spoke into his handset, advising the backup officers that shots had been fired and an armed suspect had left the west end of the building on foot. Kane started to rise. Abruptly he froze, his senses straining. “You hear that?”

  “What?”

  Kane listened. He could just make out a low, scraping sound, as though something were being dragged. It seemed to be coming from a burned-out office in the back. “Movement. Far wall.”

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  The noise stopped. “Give it up, Voss,” Kane yelled into the shadows. “You can’t get away. Come on out.”

  No response.

  Kane motioned with his gun, signaling Arnie to circle left. Moving in a low crouch, Kane worked his way right, keeping as much cover as possible between himself and the far wall.

  Arnie got there first. Seconds later he called through the darkness, his voice strangely urgent. “Dan. Dan … over here.”

  Kane crossed the remaining distance. He found Arnie kneeling beside a young boy, the kid who’d been with Voss and his girlfriend at the theater. A dark stain covered the boy’s stomach. It had soaked through his shirt and was rapidly seeping onto the rubbish-strewn floor. The youngster was still conscious, his eyes uncomprehending and wide with fright.

  Kane checked the boy, then the surrounding area. No gun.

  Arnie handed Kane the radio. His hands were shaking, his face mottled and sweaty. “Call for an ambulance,” he said. “Advise them we’ve got a gunshot victim who doesn’t have much time. And tell them, tell them …” Arnie’s voice broke.

  Kane made the call, watching as Arnie rolled up his jacket and pressed it against the boy’s abdomen. The kid was losing consciousness, starting to twitch. Blood quickly covered Arnie’s hands. “Aw, damn, Arnie,” Kane said.

  “I fired at the muzzle flash. I didn’t know …”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Shaking his head, Arnie continued applying pressure to the wound.

  As he watched, Kane noticed that Arnie’s lips were moving, murmuring something that sounded like a chant. All at once Kane recognized it. He stood silently, not knowing what to say. Halfway through Arnie stumbled, forgetting the words. He started over. “Our Father, Who art in heaven …”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Kane repeated softly as Santoro and two backup officers entered the garage at the far end. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  *

  Allison heard the sound of breaking glass.

  “Nate?” she called.

  No answer.

  She checked the clock on her desk, surprised to see that so much time had elapsed since her father’s departure. Suddenly she heard it again.

  It sounded as if it had come from the street. Allison stood and stretched, welcoming a diversion from the story she was writing, even if it were only chasing away one of the neighborhood dogs perusing trash cans in front of the house. A moment later she heard a heavy thump, and again the tinkle of broken glass. With a sigh, she walked to the front door and stepped outside, wondering which of the local canines she would find with his nose buried in a tipped-over pile of garbage.

  She glanced to the right. The Kane trash cans, enclosed in an open wooden frame between their house and the next, appeared undisturbed. Puzzled, she turned and walked to the left. She stopped. Crystalline shards of glass littered the pavement beside a BMW parked next door. A pair of Levi-clad legs protruded from the car window.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Faster than she would have thought possible, a powerful-looking youth in his early twenties scrambled from the car. Surprise and anger twisted his face, transforming it into a mask of rage. His eyes took in Allison at a glance, then darted up and down the nearly deserted highway. Once again they settled on Allison.

  Allison turned and ran. He caught her before she reached the front door. She struggled but he held her easily, twisting her arm behind her back and clapping his hand over her mouth.

  A van screeched to a stop beside them. A white face appeared in the open window. “Jesus, Cal. What the hell you doin’?”

  “This bitch caught me. Open the slider.”

  “You crazy? We’re after stereos, remember?”

  “Shut up, Joey. If we let her go, she’ll call the cops. How far do you think we’ll get then?”

  “I don’t give a shit. She ain’t comin’ in my van.”

  The youth holding Allison captive hesitated. “Anybody else in the house?” he hissed, his breath warm and fetid on her cheek.

  Allison nodded.

  “Bullshit. Where’re the cars? There was cars out front when we came by earlier. Your folks left for the evening, right?”

  Allison shook her head, groaning as her assailant wrenched her arm even higher behind her back. “Don’t lie to me, bitch. You’re doing a home-alone scene, right?”

  Allison shook her head again, tears stinging her eyes. She felt the coarse hand over her mouth relax slightly so she could speak. Twisting in his grasp, she caught a finger between her teeth and bit down hard.

  “Shit!” the youth screamed, releasing his hold. “You fuckin’ bitch!”

  Allison broke free and raced the final few steps to the house. As she flung open the door, a strong hand grabbed her hair, snapping back her head.

  Enraged, the powerful youth circled Allison’s throat with his forearm and squeezed, choking her into submission. He held her immobile and listened through the open door. Allison clawed at his arm, beginning to black out.

  “Cal, let’s get the hell outta here!” begged the man in the van, his voice cracking with urgency.

  “Nobody’s home,” Allison heard the first one say. “Gimme a hand gettin’ her inside.”

  “What for?”

  “So’s we can tie her up, stupid. Give us time to get down the road. Besides, there’s probably cash in there, maybe jewelry.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doin’,” the driver said.

  “Don’t worry,” the first one answered. As Allison felt herself descending a long tunnel into unconsciousness, she heard him add, “And while we’re at it, maybe we can have some fun with the bitch.�
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  16

  An hour after the shooting Kane stepped from an interrogation room on the second floor of the West Los Angeles station, fighting to control his anger. He had just given his testimony regarding the accident to the lead detective of the officer-involved shooting team, an LAPD headquarters’ senior officer from Robbery-Homicide Division. It was Arnie’s turn next. After the questioning Kane had just experienced, he knew it wouldn’t go easy. None of the others present at the scene had heard the initial shot, and the possibility of an unreasonable-force charge being levied against his partner, although ridiculous, was becoming more and more a reality. Hoping Arnie would be all right, Kane nodded to his friend as he brushed past. From the expression on Arnie’s face, it didn’t look good.

  Taking a deep breath, Kane swallowed his rage and decided to concentrate on the problem at hand. Purposefully, he entered another interrogation room two doors down. Miguel Voss sat at a small table in the center—eyes closed, head slumped on the green metal surface, cheek resting on his forearm. Although he had managed to slip out the back of the garage past Santoro, Two-Adam-Six had picked him up at a bus stop five blocks from the burnout. No gun.

  Kane slammed the door. Voss stirred groggily, looking up with half-lidded, surly eyes. From his pocket, Kane withdrew a fresh pack of Camels and tossed them onto the table, ignoring the no-smoking rule in the station. “I’m Detective Kane, Los Angeles Police Department, West Los Angeles Division,” he said, pointedly failing to mention the unit in which he worked.

  Voss scooped up the Camels and shook one out. “I ain’t saying nothin’.”

  “Fine,” said Kane, watching as Voss searched for a match. “You do that. In fact, that’s exactly what I want you to do. Just for the record, though, your name’s Voss, right? Miguel Voss?”

  Voss grunted.

  “Speak up,” Kane ordered. Because the interrogation was being recorded down the hall, he wanted Voss’s verbal affirmation on tape.

  “Yeah. Miguel Voss.”

  “Good, Miguel. Now, just sit there and listen to what I’ve got to say.” Kane dropped into a chair across from the sallow, pockmarked youth. He pulled out a pack of matches and tapped them on the table. “Don’t get up, don’t ask questions, don’t even open your mouth. Got it?”