I don’t know how, but I will.
The sound of footsteps announced his arrival.
The glass window in the outside door darkened as he twisted the deadbolt. Moments later he stepped inside, tucking a key on a chain beneath his shirt.
Today he was smartly dressed—suit coat, slacks, a dress shirt open at the collar. His black hair had been neatly combed. Regarding his features, Ella was again struck by how much he resembled a fashion model—at least when he was wearing his human façade.
Unfortunately, she had seen him with it off.
“Good morning, Ella,” he said, moving to her prison door as smoothly as a dancer. He smiled, as if greeting a friend, but the smile never touched his eyes. “I brought you some breakfast. Egg McMuffins, I think they’re called. Yum. If you behave, you may have them later,” he added, setting a Styrofoam container with McDonald’s markings on the floor outside her cell, just out of reach.
“Is it morning? How long have I been here?”
The man glanced at his watch. “Actually, it’s a bit past noon. And don’t worry about the days. They will pass soon enough.”
“What do you want?”
The man sat in his armchair, once more steepling his fingers. He peered at her thorough the bars, as if considering. “I thought we might chat a bit today, get to know each other before you take your medicine,” he replied.
At the mention of medicine, Ella’s heart fell.
“To start, tell me about your father.”
“He’s a police captain, and he’s going to find you. You had better let me go right now.”
“I think not.” The man rocked back in his chair, touching his fingers to his lips. “Tell me about your policeman father, Captain William Snead. Did Captain Snead or someone like him sexually molest you when you were younger?”
“What? Why would you . . .”
“Answer the question,” the man instructed, reaching for something on the arm of his chair. With a chill, Ella realized it was his remote control.
“No.”
“No?” The man hovered his thumb over the control.
“No! I mean, no—I was never molested,” Ella corrected.
“Ah.” The man shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that a young woman as beautiful as you managed to avoid some sort of childhood sexual abuse. Maybe at the hands of an uncle, or a favorite teacher? Someone you trusted?”
When Ella remained silent, the man continued. “The statistics are staggering. The prevalence of childhood sexual abuse in the United States is close to twenty-five percent, and that’s for all female children—not just the unusually adorable little girls like the one I’m certain you were. Several studies put that figure at over a third, by the way—especially in countries like China and India.”
“I was never molested,” Ella repeated.
“Again, I find that hard to believe, but we’ll let it go for now.”
“I’m telling the truth. Now, tit for tat,” Ella suggested, deciding to take a chance. “I answered your question. You answer mine. Is the ceiling light on a timer, or do you turn it on?”
“Interesting choice of words,” the man mused. “But this is not a negotiation. Nevertheless, I’ll answer your question, as I can see why you might want to know. The light is indeed on a timer. I can also turn it on at will.”
“Thank you,” said Ella, hoping to set a precedent.
The man nodded. “Now it’s time to take your medicine.”
“You don’t have to drug me.”
“Oh, but I do,” said the man, standing. He crossed to the alcove cabinet and returned, offering her several colorful tablets in a paper cup. “Fill the cup with water from the sink and come back. I want to watch you swallow.”
“You don’t need those pills,” Ella pleaded. “They make me sick. I’ll . . . I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I know you will. And what I want is for you to take your medicine,” the man replied, his expression tightening. “Right now.”
Lowering her head, Ella took the cup.
“And don’t think you can trick me by hiding the pills under your tongue,” the man warned, as he had the day before. “If you do, I’ll know.”
7
Beach House
Upon leaving UCLA, I returned to the West L.A. station, checked in with Lieutenant Long, caught up on paperwork that had accumulated in my absence, and spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about the case.
Toward the end of my shift, I finally heard from Verizon regarding a *57 trace on the call I had received in the garden. At the time I had thought the caller must have been somewhere nearby—watching from the crowd across the street, or observing from one of the buildings overlooking the garden. Otherwise, how had he known I was present?
I had instructed Deluca to take photos of the crowd across the street. In addition, I contacted the UCLA police and had them check for suspicious individuals in nearby buildings. Their search proved fruitless, and I didn’t expect much from Deluca’s cellphone photos, either—but one never knew.
Regarding my *57 trace, it turned out that the voice-altered call had been made from an untraceable burner phone, with cell-tower triangulation placing the origin at a mall in Orange County.
Had the timing of the killer’s call simply been a coincidence?
Maybe. But when it came to a murder investigation, I didn’t base explanations on coincidence.
Later, after identifying myself as a police officer and jumping through a few legal hoops, I’d had Verizon place a trap-and-trace device on my phone. In the future, the trap-and-trace would reveal a caller’s phone number and all routing information necessary to ID the source location. It could not, by law, include the contents of whatever conversation I might have, so afterward I visited the iTunes store and downloaded a recording app to my phone as well.
Someone, possibly the killer, wanted to stay in touch.
The next time he called, I planned to oblige.
I returned to my home in Malibu later that evening, taking Pacific Coast Highway north to Las Flores Beach. After parking on a shoulder of PCH outside my house, I pried myself from the confines of Catheryn’s Volvo, hoping my larger Suburban showed up soon.
From the impression often given in film, many think that Malibu is exclusively populated by movie stars, Academy-award winning film producers, A-list television personalities, and trust-fund millionaires. Granted, there are plenty of those, but there are also lots of the rest of us—normal, hardworking individuals who prize residing in an area that’s beautiful, close to the city, and relatively smog-free, and who are willing to put up with coastal traffic, brushfires, mudslides, floods, and storm surf to live there.
Years back Grandma Dorothy had grown up in Malibu, spending summers at her family’s getaway beach cottage. The ancient house had been built in the early thirties on a small cove at the mouth of Las Flores Canyon, situated near the northernmost crescent of Santa Monica Bay. At the time, the ramshackle structure had been a Gilligan’s Island-type bungalow, its termite-ridden timbers seemingly supported by little more than beach cane and bougainvillea.
Dorothy had eventually inherited the property, and when Catheryn and I were married, she had deeded it to us as a wedding present. In years to come, it was there that we had raised our four children, with porches walled in and bootlegged additions tacked on to accommodate our growing family.
On a night that had nearly taken all our lives, our rustic home had burned to the sand. We eventually rebuilt on new piers and pilings, and our new house was solid, better than ever. Nevertheless, we all still missed the rickety, tumbledown structure that for years had been the cornerstone of our lives.
“Something sure smells good,” I called into the house as I pushed through the front door, making an effort to put aside the problems of my job, at least for the moment. As usual, inside the entry I was greeted enthusiastically by our family dog, a yellow Labrador retriever named Callie.
“That’s
gotta be me, Pop,” Allison’s voice floated back. “Just took a shower.”
I smiled, regarding my daughter as I stepped into the kitchen, with Callie at my heels. Although Allison had been a tomboy when growing up, she—like her mother—could look absolutely stunning without much fuss. Also like Catheryn, and to Ali’s credit as well, I had never seen her unfairly use her appearance to get her way.
“We’re having jambalaya,” Grandma Dorothy announced from the stove, where she was stirring something in a large pot. “And it’s dinner you’re smelling,” she continued, shooting Allison a good-natured look of admonishment. “Not Allison’s recent shower.”
“Whatever it is, it smells great,” I repeated, noticing that my oldest, Travis, and his girlfriend, McKenzie, were also present. I smiled and hugged them both. Then, stepping back, “Trav, great to see you. And McKenzie, a big welcome to you, too.”
“Thanks, Mr. Kane.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” said Travis. Tall and lean, with fine features and an economy of grace not inherited from me, Travis would be starting his third year of graduate study at Juilliard that fall. Along with a talent for composition and conducting, he was a concert-level pianist, and as such he had difficult choices to make regarding his future. Though I wanted to help, those were decisions for which I was totally unqualified to offer advice, as Trav’s musical abilities were also gifts not inherited from me, but from his mother—who before her death had been offered the position of principal cellist for the LA Philharmonic.
“It’s great to be home, Mr. Kane, if only for a few weeks,” said McKenzie, taking Trav’s hand. With a smile, Travis circled her with an arm and pulled her close.
Watching the two of them, I noticed that although McKenzie had always been a head-turner, she had recently changed in some way I couldn’t quite define. Though she still parted her long, dark hair in the center, framing her intelligent amber eyes and high cheekbones, there was something different about her. A moment later I had it. Always a bit on the shy side, McKenzie now carried herself with an air of confidence that sometimes came with maturity. It suited her.
“Jeez, get a room, lovebirds,” Allison groused. “And to think you used to be my best friend, Mac. Have you no taste in men?”
“Shouldn’t you be checking on your daughter, Ali?” laughed McKenzie, who, like the rest of us, had long ago grown inured to Allison’s teasing.
“Katie is sleeping peacefully in Grandma’s room, thank you very much,” Ali replied. “Let’s not do anything to wake her. Please.”
“You’re saying I can’t visit my own granddaughter?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her in a week.”
“Later, Dad. After dinner, okay? Let her sleep for now.”
“Speaking of dinner, the jambalaya is almost ready,” said Dorothy. “Can we get the table set?”
“Inside or out?” asked Travis.
“Let’s eat on the deck,” I suggested. “It’s still light out, and it’s a nice evening.”
Minutes later, after Travis and McKenzie had shuttled plates, napkins, and silverware downstairs to our redwood deck, we assembled at a picnic table overlooking the beach. Callie lay on the planks nearby, as usual picking a strategic spot from which she could keep an eye on the food.
After Dorothy finished saying grace—invoking a blessing for friends, family, and all our loved ones who were no longer with us—everyone dug in, serving up generous portions of the rice, shrimp, smoked sausage, and chicken creation that Grandma had flavored with just the right amount of Cajun seasoning and cayenne pepper. With the addition of warm sourdough bread and a fresh salad that Allison had prepared, it proved a perfect meal. Although I had enjoyed my time with Taylor and Nate at the river, I was happy to be home.
“Good grub, Grandma,” Travis said between bites. “Makes me forget any thoughts of becoming a vegetarian.”
“We humans didn’t claw our way to the top of the food chain to be vegetarians,” I noted sagely.
“Thanks for that tiny bit of wisdom, Pop,” Allison laughed.
“Mmm, this is absolutely delicious, Mrs. Erickson,” said McKenzie.
“Thank you, McKenzie. And please call me Dorothy.” Then, after glancing at Travis, she returned her attention to McKenzie. “You’re nearly family now, right?”
This was the type of question that normally would have gone right over my head. I was aware, however, that Dorothy didn’t approve of Travis and McKenzie’s sharing an apartment in New York. And in Dorothy’s opinion, neither would have Catheryn. Although Dorothy would never volunteer her opinion on that issue unless asked, I also knew that if Trav and McKenzie were to continue their current living arrangement, Dorothy wanted to see them married—and the sooner, the better.
McKenzie blushed, not missing the implication of Dorothy’s query. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, turning to Travis for help. “At least I feel that I am.”
Oblivious of the feminine undercurrents coursing at the table, Travis nodded and continued shoveling down jambalaya.
“How’s work at the agency going, Mac?” Allison jumped in, attempting to save her friend further grief.
“Great,” McKenzie replied with a grateful smile. “I’ve already made inroads at several major publishers, plus I have three new books in the works, including yours—if you would ever finish your edits.”
Upon graduating from college, McKenzie had taken a position as a literary agent at a New York firm, in large part to remain close to Travis. In addition to being an up-and-coming journalist at CBS, my daughter was also a talented writer, and Mac was currently representing Ali’s second novel—an as-yet untitled exposé based on Allison’s experiences as a fledgling journalist. My daughter’s new book focused on the kidnapping/murder of a young Hollywood starlet named Sharon French, loosely mirroring a case I had investigated some years back. With Ali’s misuse of inside information repeatedly causing friction between us back then, it had been a difficult time for us both, with a measure of mistrust and hard feeling between us still remaining.
“Yeah, well . . . as for finishing my novel, I’m still trying to figure out how to publish it without torpedoing my career at CBS,” Allison replied.
“Just get it done, Ali. We’ll figure out where to go from there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Allison replied, shooting her friend a sloppy salute.
“I don’t make an appearance in this new book of yours, do I?” I asked. Allison’s debut novel, a story in which I had been portrayed as a less than sympathetic father, had been published the previous year. Making matters worse, during a blizzard of media attention following a recent investigation, my face had been plastered on every news rag, magazine, and TV screen across the country. Spurred by interest in the case, sales of Ali’s initial novel had skyrocketed. To be fair, I deserved most of the criticism leveled at me in that first book, but I was wary of a repeat.
“Don’t worry, Pop,” Allison replied with a grin. “Everyone on the planet already knows you’re not perfect, but who is? I myself have been accused of being condescending,” she confessed, glancing at her brother across the table. “That means I talk down to people, Trav.”
“Thanks for the clarification,” Travis laughed.
“Is Nate still in Idaho?” McKenzie ventured, sending our freewheeling discussion in another direction.
“He is,” I replied. “When I got recalled to work, Nate decided to remain up at the Payette River with Agent Taylor and learn to kayak.”
“You’re kidding. You left Nate up there in the woods with this, uh, friend of yours?” Allison demanded, raising an eyebrow.
“Nate wants to learn to paddle, and Taylor signed him up for a weeklong kayak clinic with some friends of hers. Anything wrong with that?”
“Whatever,” said Allison.
“You have a problem with Taylor, Ali?”
“No problem,” Allison replied, her tone indicating otherwise.
“Well, I miss Nate,” said Travis.
“We all do,�
�� said Dorothy. “But after all that’s happened, he deserves to have some fun.
“No argument there,” Allison sighed. “I just . . . worry about him.”
“Nate is going to be fine,” I said, willing it to be true.
“Anyway,” Travis continued, “when Nate gets back, I was thinking—”
“I wondered what that grinding noise was,” Allison interrupted.
“I was thinking that when Nate gets back,” Travis pushed on, ignoring Allison’s gibe, “we should throw a family get-together. A barbeque or something.”
“A barbeque next week sounds good,” I agreed.
“Mike should be back from his shoot by then, too,” said Allison.
“How’s that going? Mike’s the second-unit director of photography on this one?”
Allison nodded. “It’s a big step up for Mike, and things are going great. In fact, they’re going to wrap ahead of schedule, which is almost unheard of on a feature film.”
“Excellent news,” I said. “When he gets back, at least there will be someone else to help Grandma with your daughter.”
Allison looked away. “Katie is doing just fine. Maybe I should have taken more time off before returning to work, but that’s not how things are in the news business.”
“Lord knows I love taking care of Katie,” Dorothy interjected. “But it certainly wouldn’t hurt for you to spend a little more time with your daughter.”
“Katie is fine,” Allison repeated, lowering her head in a stubborn gesture that reminded me of her mother. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s the new investigation of yours going, Pop? One of our reporters saw you this morning at UCLA.”
“I don’t think we should discuss Dan’s work at the table,” said Dorothy.
“Okay, let’s talk about the news,” Allison persisted. “Anyone see the photos The Magpie has been posting on the internet?” Then, turning to me, “Do you think he has anything to do with your UCLA case, Dad?”
“Allison,” Dorothy warned. “Enough.”
“I agree with Grandma,” I said, disturbed by Allison’s question.
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