Steve Gannon - Kane

“Don’t worry,” said Deluca. “I have done this kinda thing before. By the way, the missing car turned up. It’s in a Santa Monica body shop.”

“One mystery down. I still want the opener examined. Do it now, okay? I’ll wait for you to call back, so don’t take all day.”

After closing the garage and relocking the house, Barrello exited the front door in time to hear the last of my conversation. “So are we gonna cooperate on this?” he asked.

“Think you can handle working with a hotshot big-city detective such as myself?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly. “What’s first?”

I thought a moment. “For one, we can have our labs cross-compare all physical evidence. We’re currently examining the Larsons’ personal records, and we’ll be interviewing every friend and family member we can turn up. I’m sure you guys have already done the same, so let’s cross-check those areas, too. It would be helpful to establish a link, even if it’s only marginal.”

“So we’re goin’ on the assumption that the killer knew both families?”

“Oh, he knew them,” I said, my eyes searching a ridge west of the house. “Maybe only peripherally, but he knew them. The women are the key. You don’t turn up two women that beautiful at random. He selected them, stalked them, and when the time was right, he killed them.”

Noting my stalking reference, Barrello glanced up at the ridge, where the framed skeletons of three homes under construction were silhouetted against the skyline. “Think he lives in the complex here?”

“Not necessarily, but close enough to know the area. By the way, I talked to a kid at the gate. Anybody can get through, especially in the morning when work crews arrive.” My cellular phone rang. I flipped it open. “Deluca?”

“The one and only, paisano, ” Deluca answered. “That prick from the security company finally called. He’s on his way.”

“What about the utility light on the door opener?”

“It was out, like you said. I pulled the cover and found what appeared to be two dead bulbs. I tried one in a house lamp, where it worked fine. But get this. As I was unscrewing the other bulb, I discovered that a wire had been cut on the light unit and tucked back into the housing.”

“Good work, Paul. Get SID out there again. Have them dust the bulbs and light cover, and anything else on the opener the guy might’ve touched. As a matter of fact, have them take the whole thing back to the lab. I want all doorknobs in the house examined for fibers, too.”

“Anything else?”

I thought a moment. “Sample any oil and radiator coolant drips in the garage.”

“I’m on it.”

I broke the connection, then looked over at Barrello. “The light on the Palisades opener was disabled. On purpose.”

Barrello nodded. “I’ll have our guys go over the Pratts’ opener. Doorknobs, too. Could be we’re on to something.”

“Maybe.” I glanced at my watch, realizing there was no way I would avoid freeway traffic on the return trip to West LA-especially if I stopped to have the Chevy checked. “Time to hit the road. I’ll be in touch.”

Barrello shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Kane?” he said, gazing back at the house. “What’d you mean when you said it made sense? You know, when you found the fibers on the bathroom doorknob?”

“Simple. I’m betting those fibers will match the clothesline rope our guy used.”

“Gee, I’ll alert the media.”

“Remember the missing eyelids?” I continued, ignoring Barrello’s sarcasm.

“So?”

“So here’s what I think. Before our guy went to work on the wife, he trussed up Mr. Pratt, choked him out, and snipped off his eyelids.”

“But why?”

“Can’t close your eyes without eyelids.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Barrello, beginning to understand.

“Then, when the killer was ready to start on Mrs. Pratt,” I finished grimly, “he pulled the husband to his knees, tied him to the door, and made him watch.”

The drive back from Orange County proved as much of a pain as the trip there. By the time I had conferred with Lt. Long in West LA and then made the trek to Malibu to pick up Catheryn and the kids, it was after six. Glad to be finished for the day, I pulled off on the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway across from our house. As I waited for a break in the traffic to make a U-turn, I studied the beach-weathered structure that had been my home from the time Catheryn and I were first married.

It’s a common misconception that everyone in Malibu is either rich, a movie star, or a rich movie star. Actually, although Malibu has more than its share of high rollers and celebrities, there are also plenty of ordinary, hardworking residents who’ve lived there for years-struggling to hold on to their homes as real estate values skyrocketed around them. Located near the mouth of Las Flores Canyon, our house sat on a sandy cove near the northernmost crescent of the Santa Monica Bay. A wedding gift from Catheryn’s mother, who had spent her childhood there years back, the dilapidated wood-framed structure, undoubtedly a detraction from the considerable value of the beachfront lot upon which it sat, appeared to rise in some organic fashion from a thicket of beach cane, aloe, and ice plant. Emperor palms framed it on either side, rising high above the second level, with tendrils of flowering bougainvillea climbing the ancient walls in a thicket of lavender that hid much of the cracked siding and sagging roof. It was a family joke that if the plants died and the termites moved out, the building would probably collapse. Nonetheless, it was our home, and every member of our family loved it.

Inside, apparently having finished her homework and chores for the evening, I found Allison camped in the living room watching the evening news. Nate, who had been playing video games in his former bedroom loft above the entry, came down to join us. Travis was present as well, having driven from USC for Catheryn’s final evening home.

“Kate, I’m here,” I called into the bedroom.

“Be out in a sec, Dan,” she called back.

“How’s it going, rookies?” I asked, dropping down on the couch beside Allison and reaching for the remote control.

Before any of them could answer, a familiar face flashed up on the screen.

“Hey, Mom!” yelled Nate. “Dad’s on TV again!”

“Darn,” Catheryn answered from the bedroom. “Has the screen cracked yet?”

“Not yet,” Nate laughed. “But you’d better hurry.”

“Yeah,” added Travis. “Smoke’s coming out the back of the set.”

Recognizing the Larsons’ Pacific Palisades house in the background behind my image, I raised the remote control and flipped through the stations, pausing on the Channel Two news.

“C’mon, Dad,” Nate complained. “Turn back to seven. We want to see you.”

“Tough. Nobody ever said this family was a democracy.”

“Perish the thought of anyone but Dad getting his hands on the remote control,” Allison complained. “This family needs two TVs. One for Pop, another for the Earth people.”

“Maybe your new dad will buy you one,” I said. “Now hush. I’m trying to listen to this.”

“Since when have you taken an interest in foreign affairs?” asked Catheryn, glancing at the television as she entered the room.

“The sports roundup will be on in a sec, honeybunch.”

Catheryn smiled, folding a blouse she’d carried in. “As if anyone here cares about football but you and Nate. I swear, Dan-oh, look. You’re on this station, too.”

“Turn it up,” cried Nate.

“Turning it off’s more like it,” I said. “You kids don’t need to see this kind of stuff.” As I raised the remote, however, a map of southern California flashed up on the screen. The cities of Pacific Palisades and Mission Viejo were both circled in red. I hesitated, realizing the implications.