by Steve Gannon
“Congratulations, Ali,” Mom said carefully. “I know how hard you’ve been working at your intern job. I just …” Her voice trailed off.
Afraid our old tensions were about to resurface, I resumed staring out at the beach without replying. I noticed that my father and Nate had finished lining the sand pit with rocks and were now constructing an enormous firewood teepee in the center, using driftwood from a pile stacked near the sea wall.
“What’s bothering you, Ali?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Because I know you.” Mom reached for my hand. “Something’s on your mind, and it isn’t just our disagreement about your news internship. What is it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Ali, I love you. If something’s wrong, I want to help. Please, Ali. Talk to me.”
I finally responded, my words barely audible. “Mom, I know that your doctors are doing everything for you that’s medically possible, but what if—”
Mom cut me off. “I’m going to get better. Now, I don’t want to hear anymore about that. Not today. Especially not today. I’ll be fine.”
Wanting to believe, I searched my mother’s eyes. And for a brief, chilling instant, I glimpsed the doubt behind her iron curtain of control. Shocked, I started to say something more.
Mom silenced me before I could speak, raising her fingers to my lips. “I’ll be fine.”
*
Hours later, having burned most of the driftwood that was stacked near the sea wall, Kane instructed Nate and Travis to shovel the remaining coals from the rock-lined pit into a shallow depression in the sand nearby, leaving only the fire-blackened stones in the pit as a source of heat. Then, after laying down a bed of bladder kelp taken from tangles of seaweed they had stored in several thirty-gallon trash containers, he layered in foil-wrapped food: a twenty-pound fresh Alaskan salmon, a dozen lobsters, buckets of clams and mussels, whole chickens and crabs, bushels of corn and potatoes, racks of marinated pork ribs, and pumpkins stuffed with seafood and vegetables—judiciously interspersing additional seaweed between layers and placing slower-cooking items on the bottom, faster-cooking ones higher up. The remainder of the kelp went on top, followed by a tarp and three inches of sand, leaving a small hole near one edge for steam to escape.
Satisfied with the status of the cooking pit but determined that nothing should go awry, Kane surveyed the growing party with an eye seasoned by many similar endeavors—though none in recent years, not since the old house had burned. Standing on the beach with his hands on his hips, he proceeded to go over a mental checklist, reviewing various other party preparations. Beer: kegs in ice tubs on the redwood deck. Soft drinks: cooling in chests beside the kegs. Porta Potties, a precaution to avoid overstressing the house’s septic tank: two stationed on the street near the outside staircase. Trash cans: lined with plastic bags and strategically positioned around the deck. Serving tables: set with paper plates, plastic forks, and an assortment of appetizers, casseroles, and side dishes that early-arriving guests had already brought. Salads, both green and fruit: staying fresh in the upstairs refrigerator. Desserts: butter-pecan ice cream and a huge chocolate cake waiting upstairs, along with watermelon and baskets of fruit.
Everything was ready. As predicted by the tide tables consulted weeks earlier, the ocean was still receding, affording the luau pit a wide margin of safety. Overhead, the summer sun beat down from a cloudless California sky, sending the afternoon temperature into the mid-eighties. With a shrug, Kane decided that if he had forgotten anything, it was too late to rectify the omission. Although many of those invited had said they wouldn’t be coming till later, by now over fifty guests had arrived, and like a runaway locomotive barreling down a mountain grade, the party was gaining momentum by the minute.
Deluca, Banowski, Kane’s ex-partner Arnie Mercer, Lt. Long —the single member of the LAPD brass who had been invited—and various other police associates not camped out near the beer kegs were engaged in a clamorous competition on the volleyball court. Feet churning the sand, the generally overweight and out-of-shape police officers were offsetting their athletic shortcomings with boisterous enthusiasm and good-natured ribbing. Most of Catheryn’s music associates, including Alexander Petrinski and a score of Philharmonic musicians, were gathered beneath the upper balcony, claiming a rare bit of shade. Escaping the hot sand, a number of younger partygoers had taken to the ocean, where several hundred yards offshore a dozen swimmers had crowded aboard the raft, with a dozen more in the water waiting to climb on. Along the hard sand at the water’s edge, Travis, McKenzie, and Allison were sailing a Frisbee back and forth. Kane smiled as he saw Allison charge through the shallows to snag an errant pass from Travis, then tumble backward into an oncoming wave just as she snapped a perfect backhanded toss to McKenzie.
“Man, that grub’s smellin’ mighty good, Dan.”
Kane turned to see Lou Barrello, an Orange County Sheriff’s detective with whom he had worked several years before. “Hey, Lou. Glad you could make it.”
“No way I’d miss one of your shindigs, amigo. From what I hear, your parties are the most fun someone can have while still wearing underwear.”
Kane inspected his friend, noticing that Barrello’s fire-plug body had grown even more padded over the past year, his balding pate even more devoid of hair. Following the death of his wife, Barrello had taken an early retirement and now skippered a scuba-dive boat berthed at Port Hueneme, a short drive up the coast from Malibu. “So how’s the seafaring going?” Kane asked, shaking Barrello’s outstretched hand. “Still puking over the rail every time the channel gets a little choppy?”
“Not me,” Barrello retorted, his twinkling eyes belying a scowl as crusty as a tugboat keel. “We Italians are born with constitutions of steel. You must be thinking of someone else. One of your pansy Irish friends, maybe,” he added with a grin. Then, his smile fading, “Seriously, Dan, why don’t you and the family come up sometime? My treat. We still have space on a charter next weekend to the outer islands. Should be a great trip.”
“I’ll take a rain check on that,” replied Kane. “We have a lot on our plate right now.”
“I know,” Barrello said sympathetically. “I was so sorry to hear about Kate. Believe me, Dan, I understand what you’re going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all …”
“I appreciate that, Lou. If there is, I’ll let you know.” Kane glanced at Barrello’s empty beer cup. “Appears your drink needs a little freshening, pal,” he said, changing the subject. “Can’t have you getting parched out here in the hot sun.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Barrello, sensing Kane’s discomfort. “But I meant what I said. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please let me know.”
The two men negotiated a three-foot rise to the top of the sea wall, then fought through a throng of people crowding the deck, heading for the kegs of Heineken and Michelob chilling in tubs filled with ice. In an eddy formed in the flood of partygoers by the metal tubs, a knot of beer drinkers stood jostling for cup position beneath the flowing spigots. Using his low center of gravity, Barrello pushed forward and jammed his cup beneath the Heineken tap. “One for you, Dan?” he asked, grabbing another cup.
“I’m sticking to Coke,” Kane answered. Ignoring Barrello’s quizzical frown, Kane gazed across the deck, catching Catheryn’s eye. He winked and smiled. Pausing in a conversation with Arthur West, the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s principal cellist, Catheryn smiled back.
“Kane’s still riding the Shirley Temple wagon,” explained Arnie Mercer, who was waiting behind Barrello for a refill. “Didn’t you know that, Lou? Dan swore off booze years ago. Gave up drinking right around the time he started squattin’ to take a piss.”
“Up yours, pard,” Kane chuckled.
“Same to you,” said Arnie, impatiently cramming his cup under the spigot and spilling half of Barrello’s newly filled drink.<
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“As we’re discussing personal matters, I heard Mercer’s got his whole security crew switching to Maxi Pads,” offered Deluca, who had followed Arnie up from the beach. “Says there’s less chance of leakage on those troublesome heavy days.”
“Screw you, Deluca,” Arnie said.
“I’d rather pay a visit to your fiancée for that,” Deluca replied with a grin. “Course, if Stacy ever sampled the Italian stallion here, she’d be dissatisfied with all other men, including you, for the rest of her poor unfortunate life.”
“Funny, your wife mentioned that very same thing to me last night,” Arnie shot back. “Which reminds me. I had to leave in a hurry, and I forgot my shoes under your bed. I’ll swing by for ’em later.”
“Check for my jock strap while you’re there,” chimed in Banowski, who had also drifted up for a refill. “It’ll be the one that’s all stretched out.”
“In the butt area, maybe,” said Deluca. “Besides, you wouldn’t know what to do with a good-looking woman like Sarah. I’ve seen the dogs you go out with.”
“When you’re pokin’ the fire, you don’t look at the mantle,” Banowski retorted.
“How are your wedding plans going, Arnie?” asked Kane, attempting to elevate the conversation.
“We’re still on for this spring, but things are getting more and more complicated by the minute.”
“Nothing against Stacy, but take my advice and forget the whole thing,” advised Deluca. “You think things are bad now, wait till later. I’ll tell you something about women. Once you marry ’em, they’re never satisfied. It’s like that old philosophical question: If a woman talks in the woods and there’s no man around to hear her, is she still complaining?”
Arnie shook his head. “Damn, Deluca. I had no idea you were so deep.”
“Plenty more deepness where that came from, paisano.”
“So how’s about keepin’ it to yourself?” suggested Banowski, the thumb of his left hand unconsciously fumbling for a wedding band he hadn’t worn in years. “None of us brought our hip boots.” Then, to Arnie, “Not that I don’t see eye-to-eye with our Italian friend here on marriage, though. In fact, here’s my advice on the subject: Instead of tying the knot, just find some woman you really hate and buy her a house.”
“Nice,” remarked Kane, abandoning his attempt to raise the level of discussion. “Ever consider working for Hallmark?”
“I call ’em as I see ’em.”
“Stacy’s not that way,” protested Arnie, beginning to bristle.
“They’re all that way,” Banowski replied.
“Not Stacy. She’s perfect for me.”
“Why? She own a liquor store?”
“Good one,” laughed Arnie. Then, more seriously, “You may laugh, but after I retired from the force, I had time to think back over the years since Lilith and I split up, and I wound up asking myself what was the one thing in life I still needed.”
“To go on a diet?” guessed Banowski.
“Plastic surgery?” quipped Deluca. “A shower? Listerine?”
“Aw, hell,” said Kane before Arnie could respond. “Look who just waltzed in.”
*
Flushed from a dip in the ocean, I headed for the deck and rinsed off in our outside shower, then made my way back to a spot McKenzie and I had claimed on the far side of the volleyball court. As I grabbed a towel and began drying my hair, I glanced around, surprised at the number of people who had already arrived. Despite the crowd, I knew that the majority of those coming wouldn’t show up until dinnertime. “I hope there’s enough to eat,” I observed, dropping into my beach chair beside McKenzie.
“There will be,” assured McKenzie, stretching out her tanned legs and digging her toes into the sand. “Hordes of people brought food. Have you seen the serving tables? They’re loaded with goodies. Especially desserts.”
On the volleyball court before us, Travis and Christy White, my brother Tommy’s former girlfriend, were playing a game of doubles against two young officers Dad had invited from the West L.A. Division. Travis and Christy had grown up playing beach volleyball and were an excellent team. In addition to disregarding any and all rules of acceptable ball-handling, their LAPD adversaries were compensating for their lack of skill by serving to Christy as often as possible. They were still losing. Having called “winners,” Nate and a friend were stationed on the ocean side of the court, ready to retrieve wild shots before the ball reached the water. I watched the one-sided contest for a few minutes, then glanced toward the house, noting that Alexander Petrinski had abandoned Mom’s music enclave to join Grandma Dorothy. The two were sitting side-by-side, perched on the edge of the sea wall. Petrinski touched Dorothy’s hand, saying something that made her laugh.
I tipped my head. “Check it out, Mac. Trav’s music teacher is making moves on my grandmother.”
McKenzie turned toward the house, studying the older couple. “I think they look cute together,” she observed. “By the way, what’s new with you and Mike?”
“Nothing.”
“He hasn’t called?”
“He phoned twice. I’ve been too busy to see him.”
“What’s wrong with you, girl? You’re going to screw things up, just like always. It’s obvious he likes you, so why don’t you—”
“I invited him to the party today.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad to see you’re finally coming to your senses. When is he getting here?”
“I don’t know. I thought he would be here by now.” I again gazed toward the house, searching the crush of people milling on the deck. As I was about to turn back to McKenzie, I spotted Mike descending the outside stairway from the street. He was wearing shorts, sandals, and a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. As he rounded the corner, I noticed Brent Preston following close behind, his crisply pressed slacks, loafers, and sport coat a sharp contrast to Mike’s comfortable attire. A moment later my dad, who was conversing with friends near the beer kegs, also spotted the CBS network correspondent. Lips compressed in a hard, thin line, Dad started across the deck.
Without a word, I rose and headed toward the house.
McKenzie got up and hurried after me. “What’s wrong?” she asked, running to catch up.
“Trouble,” I said grimly. “I, uh, sort of invited Brent Preston. Dad’s going over to talk with him. You’d better stay clear.”
McKenzie laughed. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
By the time McKenzie and I reached the deck, Dad had already intercepted the sandy-haired newsman. Dad’s mouth was smiling. His eyes were not.
“Hi, Brent. How’s it going?” I blurted before my father could speak. “Dad, I want you to meet—”
“I know who he is. I take it you invited him.”
“You take it right, Dad.”
Dad’s smile tightened. “It’s your party, petunia, so I guess you can invite anybody you want. One thing, though,” he added, addressing Brent. “This is a social event, pal. No interviews, no questions, and absolutely no discussion about police work. Is that understood?”
Brent nodded. “Of course. I can’t stay long anyway. I just thought I would drop by and wish Allison happy birthday.” He hesitated, and then went on. “Listen, Detective. I know you have a healthy distaste for the press. Nevertheless, you must know we’re only doing our job.”
Dad scowled. “I must, huh?”
“You may not like it,” Brent continued evenly. “But it’s the simple truth. The Jordan French murder has become a national obsession, and your news blackout has only made things worse. People want to know, and if authorities like you were more forthcoming, we in the press wouldn’t have to pry.”
“We have good cause for withholding details of the investigation, as I’m sure you must know,” Dad shot back.
“Just as I’m sure you realize that it’s our job to dig up as much as we can and report it.”
“Even if it jeopardizes the investigation?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“We have a difference of opinion on that.”
“At least we agree on something, chum.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Detective,” Brent went on, making one last attempt. “The news serves a purpose. For instance, how many other parents of murdered children would give anything for some public pressure to solve their cases?”
“Oh, I get it,” Dad said slowly. “You’re mobilizing public pressure to close the case. So you’re actually helping? Gee, since you put it that way, let me be the first to apologize.”
Recognizing the signs of anger stirring in my father, I stepped forward. “C’mon, Dad, this is a party. Brent will behave himself. Here, I want you to meet someone else,” I said. “Mike Cortese, this is my father. Dad, Mike Cortese.”
Suspiciously, Dad shook Mike’s hand. “Are you a reporter?”
“No, sir,” Mike replied. “A cameraman. I met Ali at Newport Beach on the day she rescued that swimmer.”
“So you’re the guy who plastered her mug all over the TV,” said Dad. Then, looking at Mike more closely, “Cortese, huh? I know you. Your old man was a cop. Frank Cortese.”
Mike nodded. “I met you at his funeral when I was twelve. I didn’t think you would remember.”
“Dad doesn’t forget much,” I said, staring at Mike in amazement. “How come you never told me your father was on the force?”
“The subject didn’t come up,” Mike answered. “I did tell you I knew something about cops, remember?”
I thought back, recalling Mike’s words the night we’d eaten at the Oaxacan restaurant.
“Your father was a good man, Mike,” Dad went on. “He and I went through the Academy together. How’s your mom? Doris, right?”
“She passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
At that moment Nate hollered up from the beach. “Dad, you’d better get down here! Some of your friends have decided it’s time to eat.”