by Steve Gannon
Snead smiled. “Why, Detective Kane. What makes you ask that?”
“Never mind, slugger. What do you want?”
Snead’s face darkened. “Don’t push it, Kane. One more crack and Ill have your badge for insubordination.”
“What is it, Snead? Cramps? Or is that pesky yeast infection back?”
Snead paused. He studied his fingernails, then glowered at Kane. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“You fucked up bad this time, cowboy. This one isn’t going away.”
“Cut the crap. What happened last night was an accident, and that’s the way the review board’s going to see it.”
“You think so? I’ve got two words for you, Kane: excessive force.
“I’ve got two words for you too, champ.”
Snead stared at Kane, his anger barely in check. “Let me spell it out for you,” he said tersely. “We’ve got two detectives here. One has a history of ventilating suspects whenever he feels like it. A real maverick. He’s been up on charges more than once, but nothing has ever stuck.”
“Nothing’s ever stuck because the charges were all horseshit.”
Snead resumed shuffling though the file on his desk. “His partner’s a different story,” he continued, ignoring Kane’s objection. “Worked his way up to D-three, twenty-five years on the force, only fired his gun once in the line of duty before this. The only questionable area in his record seems to involve covering up for his hotshot partner.” Snead looked up, clearly starting to enjoy himself now, getting into it. “So guess what? The D-three accidentally shoots a ten-year-old kid—says it was dark, he fired at the muzzle flash, that kinda shit—and this time his cowboy partner covers for him. A little payback, Kane?”
“We were fired upon. Mercer returned fire. Period.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t you fire, too?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Is that right? Or was it that in your judgment the use of lethal force didn’t constitute an appropriate response to a single shot from a .22—especially when you knew there was a child in the building?”
“I told you, I didn’t have time to shoot. And we didn’t know the kid was in there.”
Snead snorted derisively. “Yeah, that’s what you told me. Where the hell did you think the kid was? And speaking of judgment,” he went on, “here comes the interesting part. We do some checking and find out that this D-three’s taken to uncorking his lunch every day.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We know Mercer has a drinking problem. We also know he was under the influence last night at the time of the shooting.”
“We all take a drink now and then. It doesn’t mean—”
“Was Mercer drinking last night when he shot the kid?”
“Let’s lay our cards on the table here, Snead. This isn’t about Arnie, is it?”
Snead’s hand moved to a partially opened drawer. Kane heard a click. He’d been right. Snead had been recording .
The IA officer closed the drawer and carefully folded his hands. “I don’t like you, Kane,” he said slowly. “We don’t need your kind on the force. Mercer, either. He’s history, and I’ll let you in on a secret. If you try to cover up for him, so are you.”
“Is that so? How do you figure?”
“I’ll find a way,” Snead snarled. “Last chance, Kane. Mercer was drunk last night. He screwed the pooch when he shot that kid, and I want your testimony to that effect. If you don’t cooperate, I’m going to take you down, too—if not this time, then the next. I can’t think of anything that would give me greater pleasure.”
“This interview’s over.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant. As I said before, if you want to talk to me, call my attorney.”
Snead shot Kane a malevolent grin. “Sure thing, cowboy. Play it that way. It’s your funeral.”
Placing his thick-knuckled hands on Snead’s desk, Kane leaned across. “You know something, Snead?” he said. “I don’t mind cops checking on cops. I really don’t. It has to be done. Just not by tight-assed, small-minded, chickenshit pricks like you.”
18
Catheryn sat at the kitchen table, watching as Allison toyed listlessly with her lunch. The stitches in her daughter’s cheek and lip had come out weeks before, and the bruises were finally beginning to fade, turning from an angry purple to a sickly yellow-gray. The doctor had assured them the scars would be minimal. Nonetheless, Catheryn suspected that Allison had sustained a deeper wound in the attack, something that had not yet begun to heal.
Following the breakin, Catheryn had canceled her tutoring lessons and skipped rehearsals as much as possible to be with her daughter, spending long hours walking with her on the beach, taking her on shopping excursions to Santa Monica and Westwood, and often simply joining her in the solitude of her room—trying without success to comfort her and at the same time draw her out about the incident. At one point, concerned with Allison’s reticence, Catheryn had insisted she visit a counselor. Allison had gone once, then abruptly terminated the sessions.
“What’s new with McKenzie, honey?” Catheryn asked, attempting to pry open a conversation.
“I don’t know,” said Allison. She shoved away her tuna sandwich, adding, “We haven’t talked much lately.”
“You should start getting out more,” advised Catheryn, trying to keep her tone light. “See some of your friends, maybe catch a movie—”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“I know,” said Catheryn, powerless in the face of her daughters’ obstinate withdrawal. “But, honey, you’ve been through a terrible experience. The best thing right now would be for you to start picking up the pieces, even if you don’t feel like it.”
Allison gazed pensively out the window.
“Allison, please talk to me.”
“I don’t feel like talking. Nate’s back from day camp. Talk to him.”
“Allison, don’t shut me out. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me do what, Mom?”
“I don’t know. I just know you’re unhappy, and I want to—”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Allison interrupted. “Kane kids are tough, remember? It takes more than a little slamming around to keep us down.”
“You’re not fine, honey, and it’s killing me that I can’t make things better.”
“I’m all right,” Allison repeated angrily. “Some guy beat me up, and I shot him. Happens all the time. I’ll get over it.”
“Allison …”
“Jesus, Mom! I’m sick of everyone fawning over me. Why don’t you just get off my back?”
Tears of helplessness sprang to Catheryn’s eyes. “Ali, I know you don’t really feel that way.”
“The hell I don’t!” Allison declared defiantly. She was about to add something more when she saw the look of desolation on Catheryn’s face. Ashamed, she glanced away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“It’s okay, honey. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Look, I just want to forget what happened. I never want to think about it again.”
“Ali …”
“Please, Mom. Stop worrying about me. I’ll call some friends, start going out again, whatever you want. I promise. Maybe McKenzie would like to come over for dinner tomorrow. I’ll invite her, okay?”
Catheryn took a deep breath, then let it out. “That sounds like a great idea.”
An instant later the front door banged open. “Anybody home?” Kane’s voice boomed into the house. “Kate! Allison! Nate!”
Allison and Catheryn made their way to the front of the house. There they found Kane setting down a large cardboard box in the entry.
“Dan. What are you doing home so early?” Catheryn asked, regarding him curiously.
“Just taking a long lunch, honeybunch. Came home to eat with the family,” Kane answered. “There’s more stuff in the back of th
e Suburban,” he added, smiling mysteriously at his daughter. “Bring it in before we eat, okay, Ali? Ask Nate to give you a hand. Where is he, anyway? Hey, Nate!”
“Up here, Dad,” Nate answered from his room above. “What do you want?”
“Come help your sister unload some stuff from the back of my car. And don’t drop anything. It’s fragile.”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on, Dan?” asked Catheryn. “I haven’t seen you this excited since the fireworks show.”
“Yeah, what is this?” asked Allison, bending to examine the box.
“You’ll see, petunia,” said Kane, closing the box and firmly placing his foot on top. “Get the rest of the stuff in the house first.”
Minutes later, after Allison and Nate had completed several trips to Kane’s Suburban, a desktop computer, mouse, ink-jet printer, and a Gordian tangle of cables lay on the entry floor beside the carton Kane had first brought in.
“A computer?” said Allison, finally opening the cardboard box and lifting out a 19-inch flat-screen monitor. “It’s about time you upgraded,” she noted, referring to an older computer that Kane and Catheryn had in their bedroom.
“I picked it up from Hank Dexter, an old friend who just happens to own an electronics shop,” Kane said proudly. “The monitor’s brand new, and the rest of this stuff is a little used but still almost top-of-the-line. What do you think?”
“It’s great,” Allison conceded with a shrug. “Where do you want it?”
“How about your room, sunshine?”
“My room? This is for me?”
“Yep. I figure if you’re going to keep writing those stories of yours, you might as well be doing it on your own computer.”
Allison stared in shock at the equipment strewn across the entry floor. In the past, except for occasionally logging on to her parents’ computer at home, she’d done most of her first-draft writing longhand—later typing and editing her work on a computer at school. “You got me a computer? I … I can’t believe it.” Bursting into tears, she threw her arms around Kane and hugged him.
“Now, don’t get all mushy on me,” Kane said gently, exchanging a quick look of concern with Catheryn. “Come on, let’s get this stuff into your room. You know how to set it up?”
Allison stepped back and nodded, trying to cover her embarrassment. “We use Macs at school,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes. “This is a PC, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Good.”
“Do you have the manual?”
“It’s in the box with the monitor, sugarplum. Hank said the system has Microsoft Word already loaded, along with a ton of other software. Should be everything you need.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Allison, still blinking back tears. “I … well, thanks.”
“Forget it. Just do me one favor,” Kane joked. “Never again, under any circumstances, put the ol’ dad here in one of your stories.”
“Fighting for control, Allison took a deep breath, let it out, and shook her head somberly. “You’re safe, Pop,” she said with a small smile. “That’s one genre I’ve given up.”
“You’re giving up writing science fiction?”
“No. Horror.”
Following lunch with Catheryn at the beach, Kane returned to West Los Angeles and spent the rest of the afternoon in court testifying—or more accurately, waiting to testify—on a case he had put together more than a year before. It proved a frustrating experience, with a legal technicality threatening to blow the entire prosecution. Although at the end of the day he would have liked nothing better than to climb into his car and start for home, earlier that morning Arnie had asked him to stop by the station before leaving, saying he had something to discuss.
Reluctantly, Kane headed back to the station. Walking briskly, he took a shortcut through the West L.A. Municipal Court parking lot and entered the Butler station across the street. Most of the day-shift detectives had gone for the day when he arrived. He found Arnie upstairs at his desk shuffling through a pile of paperwork. As Kane crossed the deserted squad room, he saw his friend make an entry in a three-ring binder, then add it to a swelling mound on a workstation across from his own. Kane’s.
“What’s going on?” Kane asked, staring with dismay at the files and folders strewn atop his desk. “I just got this thing cleaned up.”
Arnie rocked back in his chair. “Sure, you did,” he said, glancing up wearily.
“Well, maybe not clean, but at least I used to know where everything was.”
“Right.”
Kane looked carefully at his partner. Arnie appeared tired, deflated. The past weeks, during which he had been restricted to desk duty, seemed to have aged him. Although Kane had been quickly exonerated in the accidental shooting, Snead’s IA investigation of Arnie’s recent actions showed signs of dragging on interminably, and the media’s interest in the case—fueled by Kane’s ill-chosen words to Lauren Van Owen following the accident—showed no signs of flagging, either.
With a sigh Arnie picked up a murder book labeled “Bradley,” initialed it, and added it to the pile. “By the way, I got a call from the Bureau today.”
“What did they want?”
“They phoned to let us know they finally picked up the third kidnapper.”
“They found Jimmy Kearns? Where?”
“Vegas. Evidently he stopped off in L.A. just long enough for him and Voss to whack Angelo Martin, then headed back. Turns out you were right. Kearns thought Angelo had ratted out the kidnapping, and he wanted to make sure Angelo’s sister Sylvia didn’t get similar ideas. Threatened her family, said he’d kill them if she talked. With Kearns now in custody, Sylvia finally cut a deal with the feds. Voss is turning state’s evidence, too. Everybody involved should be going away till the middle of the next century.”
“Martin and Voss will probably do less than ten.”
“Yeah. That’s the way it goes. Anyway, I heard the captain was pleased with your work on that. You’ll be getting a commendation letter.”
“Swell,” said Kane dryly, glancing again at his workstation. “Look, Arnie, you didn’t ask me to stay late to pat me on the back. What did you want to tell me—that you decided to turn my desk into your own personal junk pile?”
Arnie picked up another file. “Nope.”
“What, then? Jeez, you’re acting like a virgin on her first date. Spill it.”
“I put in my papers today,” Arnie said quietly. “You’re gonna be the new ranking detective around here, at least till they get a replacement. Who knows?” he added. “Play your cards right, this could all be yours on a permanent basis.”
“You’re retiring over that thing in the garage? Damn it, Arnie, don’t do anything rash. Snead couldn’t touch me, and sooner or later he’s going to have to give up on you, too.”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, that’s not the only reason.”
“Bull,” said Kane, sinking into a chair behind his desk. “Look, I know you’re fed up with IA breathing down you neck. I have news for you, pard. Every job—and I’m talking any one you can name with the possible exception of being a Penthouse photographer—is going to have its downside. If you leave, you’ll probably wind up trading the brand of crap you have to eat now for a new and undoubtedly less tasty variety.”
“Let’s just say I’m ready for a change and let it go, amigo.”
“I’m not buying that. C’mon, Arnie. Take a couple weeks off, go fishing, whatever. Things’ll look better when you get back.”
Arnie shook his head. “It’s not the ass-duty they’ve got me on, Dan. I’m sick of the whole damn thing: the press, the brass, the bodies, the paperwork, and most of all the unending parade of butt-wad scumbags we’ve gotta deal with every day.”
“You already mentioned the brass and the press.”
Arnie gave a small shrug and continued, ignoring Kane’s attempt at humor. “You know something? In all my years on the force, I never shot anybody before. Never.”
“Yeah.”
“The kid’s going to be fine, right?”
“Right,” Arnie replied. “He’s making a full recovery.” Then, ruefully, “His parents are suing the city for 3.5 million.”
“I heard. The brass will probably take it out of your paycheck.”
“Screw the brass.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Kane, immediately regretting his choice of words.
Arnie saw it in his eyes and looked away. “You know I’ve been thinking about retiring for a while now,” he said. “I’ll have twenty-five years in at the end of the week.”
Kane did the calculations aloud. “Forty percent base salary after twenty years; three percent per year after that. You’ll barely be getting over half pay,” he pointed out. “Can you live on that?”
Arnie shrugged. “No kids, the house is paid for, and Lilith isn’t around anymore to blow it on clothes. Plus I’ve been offered a job with a security service down on Crenshaw. Hell, with my pension I’ll be making more than I am now.”
“You can’t start drawing till you’re fifty-five. That’s still a few years off.”
“Not so many, partner. Anyway, I have some money saved.”
“Aw, Arnie …”
“Let it go, Dan.”
“It’s the kid, isn’t it?”
Arnie looked away.
“Listen to me. Shooting that kid was an accident. A terrible, unfortunate accident. That’s all it was. An accident.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“What are you talking about? It was dark in there. That dirtbag shot at us, and you—”
“We both know I’d had a couple drinks that night,” Arnie interrupted. “More than a couple. Maybe Snead’s right. Maybe my judgment was off. The kid wasn’t in the car. I should have known he followed Voss into the garage.”
“I forgot about him, too. That’s no reason to shoulder this kind of blame.”
“You may have forgotten about the kid. I shot him.”
“Arnie, we can fight Snead on this. We’re not talking criminal charges here, so even if the investigation doesn’t go your way, what’s the worst that can happen? A suspension—maybe getting sent back for retraining. You can handle that.”