by Steve Gannon
“Yes, sir.”
Kane looked at Allison. “Is the guy who went out the back armed?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“Good. Nate, go make the call.”
Gun extended, rage swelling in his chest, Kane followed the trail of blood down the stairs and onto the outside deck. He found the body on the far side of the seawall.
The assailant hadn’t made it far. He lay in a circle of dark sand, his right leg twisted at an odd angle, his jeans soaked with blood. The slug must have broken the femur, caught the femoral artery at the same time, Kane thought. He felt for a carotid pulse. He found none.
After returning to the house, he searched the music room for the other intruder, then climbed the stairs to the entry. “Nate? You call the sheriffs?”
“They’re on the way, Dad,” Nate answered from the kitchen.
Moving from room to room, Kane rapidly searched the remainder of the house. He found only smashed lamps, spilled drawers, and broken furniture. At last he returned to the living room.
Allison looked up as he entered. “Did you find him?”
“One of them. He’s out on the beach.”
“Is he … ?”
“Yeah,” Kane replied. “He’s dead.”
Nate gasped, releasing a flood of sobs. Fighting back her own tears, Allison took her brother’s hand.
Kane put his arms around his children and held them both. “I’m so sorry, Ali,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You, too, Nate. I don’t apologize for much, but I’m apologizing for this. Your mom and I should never have left you alone like that. It won’t ever happen again.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Daddy,” Allison replied. “It wasn’t Mom’s fault either,” she added quickly.
“Yeah, it was, at least partly. But I mostly blame myself ,” said Kane, regarding Allison closely. “I won’t be taking it out on her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Nobody’s to blame.” Allison repeated numbly. “It just happened.”
Outside, Kane heard the sound of approaching sirens. “The sheriffs will be here in a minute,” he said. “You’re both going to have to talk to them. After that we’ll head up to the emergency clinic,” he added, looking at Allison. “Take care of that face.”
“I’m okay. I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Honey, those cuts need looking after.”
“Dad, I don’t—”
“We’re going as soon as we’re done here,” said Kane firmly. Puzzled by his daughter’s reluctance, he glanced at Nate, then returned his gaze to Allison. “Is there anything you forgot to tell me? Something you left out?”
“No.”
“Nate?”
Nate raised his eyes to his sister. Still holding his hand, she stared back at him for a long moment.
“Nate? You have something to say?” Kane asked again, alarm bells beginning to sound in his mind.
“No, sir,” Nate finally answered. “It happened like Allison said. The shot woke me up. I didn’t see anything.”
Kane heard a squeal of tires in front of the house, accompanied by the sound of dying sirens. The sheriffs’ cruisers had arrived. “Allison, they’re here. If there’s anything else, I have to know right now. I want to help you, honey—more than I’ve every wanted anything in my life. Please trust me.”
“There’s nothing else to tell.”
“Allison …”
“Dad, I just what to get through this,” Allison said in a small, quavering voice.
“But—”
“Daddy, please,” Allison begged. “Leave me alone. There’s nothing more to tell.”
With a surge of utter, overwhelming desolation, Kane dropped his hands to his sides, for the first time in as long as he could remember feeling completely powerless and unsure of how to proceed. “Okay,” he sighed, unable to shake the suspicion he was missing something, but not knowing what else to do. “Let’s go talk with the sheriffs.”
17
The following morning, still immersed in thoughts of Allison’s attack and blaming himself for not having been home to prevent it, Kane pulled into the police parking lot behind the county municipal courthouse. As he killed the engine, he noticed a Channel 2 mobile news wagon parked in a red zone across the street on Butler, right in front of the West L.A. station house.
Kane hesitated as he slid from behind the steering wheel, momentarily considering parking behind the station to avoid running the news gauntlet. He wasn’t surprised to see them; the media had picked up Arnie’s accidental shooting of the young boy in time to get it on the morning news, and Kane suspected that the presence of the Channel 2 crew would just be the first of many. To make matters worse, a city election was coming up, and the mayor had predictably promised a thorough investigation. Kane had a feeling that, as usual, the politicians of the city of Los Angeles would be lining up to stand firmly behind their beleaguered police department. Way behind.
Scowling, Kane slammed the door and strode across the lot, deciding to meet the news crew head on. As he approached, he realized with a renewed surge of irritation that the news team had already begun taping, and he couldn’t have picked a worse time to arrive. A cameraman wearing a heavy battery belt had positioned himself so the sign reading West Los Angeles Police Station would be prominently displayed in the background, and Lauren Van Owen, an attractive blond news correspondent with whom Kane had crossed paths on numerous occasions, was standing in front reading from a cue card held by an assistant. She had the microphone gripped in her right hand and was occasionally gesturing with her left toward the building behind her as she spoke. Kane couldn’t make out her words, but he knew one thing for certain: She wasn’t heaping praise on the department.
Years ago Lauren Van Owen had carved a niche for herself as a crack crime reporter, but in Kane’s opinion she intermittently used, as did many in the media, the excuse of “giving the public what they want” as license to file sensational, biased reports, often prejudicially slanted against the police. Although she wasn’t as bad as many and at times had even sided with the department, Kane knew she could be a dangerous adversary. He groaned inwardly as she spotted him crossing the street.
“Detective Kane! Detective Kane! Can we have a word with you?”
Kane stopped when he reached the sidewalk, cursing under his breath as Van Owen hurried toward him. As the newswoman drew near, he grudgingly conceded to himself that even that early in the morning she looked great—silk blouse, every blond hair impeccably in place, her slim, Beverly Hills health-club figure fashionably clothed in an expensive-looking gray suit.
“Ms. Van Owen. What a pleasure,” Kane said with a mordant smile when she arrived. “Universe still revolving around you all right?”
The young woman stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. “Good one, Kane,” she chuckled. “Especially coming from you. Mind giving us a statement?”
Kane checked his watch. “I’d love to, but I’m late for an intimate breakfast with the chief. He wants my opinion on some high-level policy changes he’s considering.”
“Would they include one about not firing on unarmed civilians like the ten-year-old kid your partner shot last night?”
Kane bristled. “That’s bull and you know it,” he said, realizing Van Owen was deliberately pushing his buttons to gull him into talking, but—still disturbed and angered by events of the previous evening—unable to stop himself. “That boy getting shot was a justifiable accident.”
“Uh-huh. At least according to your department’s preliminary investigation. A case of the foxes guarding the hen house, wouldn’t you say?”
Instead of answering, Kane turned and started down the sidewalk.
Van Owen followed. “Isn’t it true that no gun was found at the scene?”
Kane whirled. “Yeah, it’s true. We found it four blocks away in a sewer. We’ve also got a suspect who admits firing it, which is something you people have so far forg
otten to mention.”
“And you think that justifies your partner, Detective Arnold Mercer, shooting an unarmed ten-year-old? Speaking of which, just two weeks ago you and Detective Mercer were involved in another shooting, correct?”
“For once you’ve got something right. I blew away some dirtbag after he and his pal shot two feds and tossed a kid out a third-floor window. I’d do it again.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would, Detective. But isn’t there a pattern here? Allegations of excessive force came up concerning your treatment of one of the suspects in that case. In view of this, will Detective Mercer—”
“Those allegations never went anywhere for the simple reason there was nothing to them,” Kane interrupted. “As for what happened last night, my partner was completely justified in returning fire. Hitting the kid was an accident.”
“But according to—”
“Another thing,” Kane continued. “Here’s a news flash for all the bleeding hearts out there watching your show. You shoot at a cop, he’s going to shoot back.” With that, he turned and again strode toward the station.
Lauren smiled, signaling the cameraman to cut. “I have a proposition for you, Kane,” she said, hurrying after him.
“What?” Kane asked, noting with mounting irritation that the newswoman seemed extremely pleased with herself.
Lauren touched her hair, smoothed it, and let her hand drop to her side. “I’m more than willing to listen to your side of things,” she said. “Meet me for lunch and we’ll discuss it.”
Kane kept walking. “Not in a million years, honey,” he said.
After mounting the stairs to the second floor, Kane entered the detectives’ squad room, mentally kicking himself for letting Van Owen goad him into an interview. With some imaginative editing at the studio, he knew he would undoubtedly come off on the evening news sounding like some trigger-happy killer. In fact, his interview probably didn’t even require that much editing, he decided miserably.
Kane took off his coat, hung it on the back of his chair, and slid behind his desk. He surveyed the mountain of paperwork piled at his workstation, momentarily daunted as he considered the tedious task of correlating files, chronological logs, and forensic evidence on the Bradley kidnapping with the more recent murder of Angelo Martin—updating and cross-indexing the two wherever possible.
Following Kane’s interrogation of Voss, the Bureau had been notified of the tie-in to the Bradley case, as agreed. A subsequent search of the Department of Justice computer database, along with a check of the California Prison Index and calls to the prison authorities, had revealed that James Kearns and Miguel Voss had been cellmates at Tehachapi State Prison. Kearns was currently on parole but hadn’t checked in with his parole officer for months. Barring something unforeseen, Kane knew it was just a matter of time until someone—either the FBI or members of the local police—picked him up, and at this point in the investigation it was essential to update everything in both burgeoning murder books.
Although it was a chore that would probably take more time than he cared to spend, it had to be done. Kane threw himself into the work, gratefully suspending thoughts of the previous evening, as well as his more recent and ill-advised talk with Lauren Van Owen. Although he worked steadily, he had made only a small dent in the task when Arnie arrived a half hour later.
Kane looked up. “You all right?” he asked.
Arnie slumped wearily at his desk across from Kane’s, looking as if he hadn’t slept all night. “Just got back from the hospital,” he said. “The kid’s out of surgery. It was touch and go for a while, but he’s gonna pull through.”
“That’s good, Arnie. That’s real good. I’m glad.”
“Me, too.” A pause, then, “Listen, Dan. I just heard about what happened at the beach last night. Is Allison going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” Kane answered. “Kate got home from her concert about the time the sheriffs finished taking our statements, and we took her up to the emergency clinic together. She needed some stitches. Nothing was broken.”
“Lucky.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Kate handling it?”
“As well as can be expected. She’s taking some time off to spend with Allison. The kid’s acting a bit withdrawn, which I guess is natural after something like that. Allison’s tough, though. She’ll get over it.”
“And Nate?”
“He’s fine.”
“Any luck finding the second guy?”
“Not yet,” Kane said angrily. “The sheriff’s detectives got a positive ID on the dead one, though. Right now they’re checking every one of that punk’s associates with a fine-tooth comb. Don’t worry, they’ll find the other guy. And if they don’t, I will,” he added.
“I’m sure you will. Lemme know if you need any help.”
“Thanks, but if it comes to that, I’ll handle it myself.” Then, abruptly changing the subject, “When you got here, was Channel 2 news still out front?”
“Lauren Van Owen? Yeah, among others. Good-looking broad, for a ghoul.”
“You talk to her?”
“Hell, no. Did you?”
“Well, uh …”
“Jesus, Kane. What’d you say? Never mind, I don’t want to know. I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it soon enough.”
“Sorry. She got under my skin.”
“Right,” said Arnie.
Just then Lieutenant Long entered the squad room. With a wave he signaled Arnie into his office. Every head in the room turned, following the senior detective as he rose from his desk and crossed to the lieutenant’s door.
Five minutes later Arnie returned.
“What?” asked Kane.
“I’m being placed on administrative duty until the Shooting Review Board makes its ruling,” Arnie said simply. “Long said it came from the top. Nothing he could do.”
“But why?”
“Who knows? Whatever it is, I’m riding my desk until this thing blows over. Long wants to talk to you next.”
“Good. Because I definitely want to talk to him.”
Kane stomped from the room, ignoring questioning looks from Deluca and Banowski as he passed. A moment later he banged on Long’s door. “Come,” the lieutenant’s voice boomed from the other side.
“What’s this crap about Arnie being taken off the roster?” Kane asked as soon as he’d entered.
Lieutenant Long looked up, his dark eyes registering a seething impatience barely under control. Hunching his shoulders, he motioned to a metal chair beside his desk. “Sit down and shut up.”
“What happened last night was a justifiable accident, and you know it,” Kane went on. “The review board’s gonna clear Arnie. What the hell are you—”
“What part of ‘shut up’ didn’t you understand?” Long interrupted.
Sensing he had gone too far, Kane slouched over to the chair and sat.
“That’s better. You ready to listen?”
“Yeah. I’m all ears,” said Kane, impatiently cracking his knuckles.
“Good. I’ve been on the phone for the last hour with both the mayor and the chief. Do you have any idea what the press is going to do with this?”
“Screw the press.”
“Unfortunately, everyone doesn’t share your simplistic view of the situation. Things could get a lot worse.”
“What do you mean, worse?”
“Between you and me, Internal Affairs is going after Mercer for being under the influence while on duty,” Long said. Then, lowering his voice, “Was Arnie drinking last night?”
“If he was, I didn’t see him,” Kane hedged. “And even if he did have a pop or two, it sure as hell didn’t affect his judgment. That punk shot at us, for chrissake.”
“Whether or not Arnie’s drinking played a part in the accident isn’t for us to decide. Right now the best thing you can do to help your partner is to lose the attitude. Understand?”
“Yeah. I understand just fine. Shit flows do
wnhill. The mayor wants the press off his ass, the brass want the focus off the department, and Arnie’s on the hot seat.”
“It sucks, but that’s how it’s going down. I’ll go to bat for you and Mercer, but you’ll have to help.”
“How?”
“IA wants to talk with you this morning. I suggest you put a lid on your sunny disposition and cooperate.”
Kane hesitated. “Sure, I’ll cooperate,” he said at last. “We did everything by the book. There’s no way Internal Affairs can screw Arnie.”
“I hope not. There’s something I didn’t mention.”
“What?”
“The investigation’s being headed up by an old friend of yours. Lieutenant Sneed.”
Two hours later found Kane impatiently pacing the confines of a small alcove outside Lieutenant Snead’s office. At that point Snead had kept him waiting more than fifty minutes, which Kane took to be a crude demonstration of who held the upper hand. “This is bullshit,” he said, finally turning to leave. As he reached the exit, one of the IA secretaries finally stuck her head around the corner and motioned him in.
Snead didn’t look up as Kane entered his office, pretending instead to study the contents of a thick folder on his desk. Kane stood quietly for several seconds, then began inspecting an eclectic assortment of pictures hanging on Snead’s walls: Snead with the chief, Snead with his arm around the captain, Snead with members of the city council, Snead standing beside the district attorney. In each, Snead had the same officious, obsequious expression plastered on his face.
Tired of being ignored, Kane picked up a brass-framed picture sitting on the bookcase. Snead and ex-Chief Gates. “Where’s the one of you and Mayor Fitzpatrick?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There are plenty of shots here of you kissing everybody else’s ass. I figure you should have one with your lips planted on the mayor’s butt, too.”
“Put that down.”
Kane placed the 8x10 of Chief Gates facedown on Snead’s desk. “No problem. Let’s get on with it. You recording this?”