Steve Gannon - Kane

“I’ll make sure everything goes as smooth as glass,” I interrupted. “Sugar, you’re acting like a nervous hen. Nate will catch the school bus every morning, Allison will get to class on time, and Travis will be coming home on weekends to help. If I have to work late, Christy said she would stay over. Don’t worry, when you return you’ll find all the Kanes well fed, relatively clean, and definitely happy to see you. Jeez, Kate. Don’t you trust me?”

Catheryn smiled. “Absolutely not.” Then, again referring to her list, “I left my tour schedule on the bedroom dresser. Dates, locations, and hotels are all listed, although some might change. I included hotel phone numbers, too. My cell should work most places over there, but if you can’t get through, try me at my hotel. I’ll try to call as often as possible, but the time difference will make it difficult.”

“We can talk on weekends. Keep the phone bill down.” I slid from behind the wheel and crossed to Catheryn’s side of the car.

“Okay,” she said as I helped her out. She hesitated a moment. “One more thing, Dan.”

I noticed a tall, distinguished-looking man climbing from a cab three cars back. Arthur West. “What?” I asked.

“While I’m gone, will you think about what we discussed Sunday night?”

“We talked about a lot of things.”

“You know what I mean. I’m serious about our getting counseling. Think about it. Please.”

“Catheryn!” called Arthur, spotting us by the curb. “There you are.” As a porter began loading his suitcases onto a handcart, Arthur hurried over. Ignoring me, he kissed Catheryn on the cheek.

“That’s right,” I said. “Here we are.”

Arthur nodded curtly. “Good morning, Detective.” Then, turning back to Catheryn, “It’s getting late. We should get our bags checked in.”

“You go ahead.” Catheryn gave Arthur a gentle push toward the terminal. “I’ll meet you at the departure desk.”

“Please hurry. I’ll have the agent arrange for us to sit together.” After signaling the porter to add Catheryn’s bags to his, Arthur started for the entrance.

I watched Arthur ascend a ramp to the terminal. “I guess this is it,” I said as the cellist entered through the glass doors.

Catheryn put her arms around my neck and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Good-bye, Dan. I’ll call when I arrive. And I’ll be back before the Christmas Mercado,” she added, referring to a Music Center fundraiser that had been scheduled to coincide with the conclusion of the Philharmonic’s tour. “It won’t be that long. In the meantime, will you think about our discussion?”

“Kate…”

“Please?”

I shrugged. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

Catheryn smiled and kissed me again. “Thank you.”

Minutes before the scheduled ten AM meeting, I arrived at Los Angeles Police Department headquarters, better know as the new Police Administration Building, sometimes shortened to PAB. Ten levels above street grade of stone and glass, the huge, 500,000 square-foot structure had replaced the aging Parker Center LAPD headquarters in 2009, and it’s modern architectural elements and extensive gardens, terraces, and green space occupied an entire city block on West First Street. Located near the new city hall building, it served as the command center for a law enforcement organization that encompassed twenty-one far-flung patrol divisions, and its closeness to the city’s political seat of power was more than just physical. It was common knowledge that the administration of the LAPD via the mayor, city council, and police commission had increasingly become a political wild card-and one that no politician, especially Mayor Fitzpatrick, could afford to ignore.

As I drove past the entrance, I noticed a fleet of newswagons jamming the street outside. From each van tangles of thick black cable ran toward the building, trailing past a decorative waterfall and a lattice of planters that served as an effective vehicle barricade. Wondering about the media’s presence, I circled the block to a nearby parking structure, leaving my car in a slot clearly reserved for the bomb squad. The Larson murder files tucked under my arm, I made my way back to the main building.

Upon arriving at the ground-floor lobby, I hung my ID from my coat pocket, glancing around the crowded room. It appeared that representatives from every conceivable news organization were present, with more clustered around the entrance to the 400-seat civic auditorium.

I threaded through the crowd to the reception desk. “May I help you, sir?” asked the duty officer there, an Asian woman in her early twenties.

“Hell of a mess,” I observed.

The officer eyed my ID. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m attending a ten AM meeting with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Any idea where that might be?”

The woman referred to a handwritten list. “Seventh floor,” she said, finding my name.

“Thanks.” After signing in and receiving a temporary pass, I started for the elevators.

“Detective Kane!” a woman’s familiar voice called across the lobby. “Detective Kane!”

I turned, cursing inwardly as I spotted Lauren Van Owen threading toward me through the crowd. She flashed a smile when she arrived. “You don’t seem happy to see me.”

“For once you’ve got something right.”

“No need to be hostile. You know, Kane, if you ever gave me a chance, you might find I’m not half as bad as you think.”

“And it might rain dollars tomorrow, too. Look, I’m late for a meeting, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“How about getting together afterward for lunch? On me. We could go over the case.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No. So how about it?”

“Frankly, I’d rather be locked in a closet with a chainsaw juggler.”

“I’m not that bad,” Lauren laughed. “I’m just saying that perhaps we can help each other.”

I shook my head and turned again for the elevators. “Not in this lifetime, Van Owen.”

Upstairs, in a large office overlooking the southern skyline, I found a number of police personnel already assembled. Present from the LAPD were Lieutenant Long and Captain Theodore Lincoln (the West LA Division’s commanding officer), Paul Deluca, and two other detectives I recognized from the Hollywood Division. The OC Sheriff’s Department was represented by Lou Barrello and a younger man I took to be his partner, and a second detective pair that had been detailed to the squad. Most of the men had assumed places at various desks and chairs, but some still stood at the windows gazing out at the high rises and industrial buildings beyond.

“Nice of you to make it,” noted Lt. Long as I took a seat beside him.

“Bad traffic,” I said.

Long started to say something more, stopping as Mayor Fitzpatrick marched briskly in, with Police Chief Ingram, Sheriff George Baskin, and several ancillary officials from Orange County close behind. Bringing up the rear was Lieutenant William Snead, a tall, hatchet-faced man with whom I had a less than pleasant history. In each hand, Snead carried a cup of coffee. He passed one to Chief Ingram; the other he set on a chair beside the mayor. Then he stepped back, his eyes sweeping the room. I noticed them turning as hard as ice when they arrived at me.

“What’s that hump doing here?” I asked. “He still in Internal Affairs?”

“Snead recently moved up to lieutenant-two,” Long answered. “He’s Pacific Division’s detective commanding officer now.”

Mayor Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and addressed the group. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. As the room quieted, Chief Ingram and Sheriff Baskin moved to stand beside Fitzpatrick. He glanced at them briefly, then made eye contact with several others in the room, including Captain Lincoln. Absently, I noticed that the mayor’s face seemed even more flushed than usual, with a new crop of ruptured capillaries adorning his whiskey-bloomed nose and sagging jowls.