Steve Gannon - Kane

“What did you do?”

“I did the right thing.”

“What happened to your partner?” Travis probed.

“Jerry left the force. His wife walked out on him before he finally got help from AA. Now he owns the biggest Chrysler/Plymouth dealership in El Monte. Got remarried a few years back, too.”

“Were you invited to the wedding?”

“Nope. Let’s get back to you. I take it from your question that there’s something you’re unsure about.”

Travis looked away.

By now I had mental alarms going off right and left. I stepped closer, deciding to voice a suspicion that had been plaguing me since Nate’s nightmare. “If you won’t talk about yourself, maybe you can tell me what’s going on with Nate. Allison, too. They have some secret, and you know what it is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I immediately recognized the lie. “Yeah, you do. Are you going to tell me?”

Travis’s shoulders slumped. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll find out sooner or later, so it may as well be now. Talk to me, Trav.”

Travis shook his head. “Have you ever made a promise you’ve regretted?” he asked miserably.

“So that’s it. You promised to keep quiet. Now you’re thinking you made a mistake and there’s nothing you can do about it.” I considered a moment. “Okay,” I continued. “Right or wrong, you made a promise, and I’ll respect it. But here’s something I want you to think about: The world isn’t black and white. There are shades of gray, and as you get older you’ll run into times when it’s tough to know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The things you’ve learned at home and at church will help, but despite what you may have been told, there’s no all-purpose rule to live by,” I went on. “So what it boils down to is this: More important than anything else, you need to have your own inner sense of right and wrong. When all else fails, you fall back on that.”

Travis said nothing.

“I have to be in court before long, so let’s wind this up. Whatever’s between you and Allison and Nate has to come out. I know you promised, but there are responsibilities that go way past other considerations. Even a promise.”

“Like being part of a family. Mom thinks that, too.”

“Right. So with that in mind, do you have anything else to say?”

Travis shook his head.

I stared at him a moment more. “Okay, Trav,” I sighed. “Think about what I said. I know you’ll do the right thing. See you for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“I’ll be home around noon.”

“Good. Don’t be late.” Reluctantly, I turned and started down the hall.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Ask Ali and Nate what actually happened the night of the break-in.”

I turned. “There’s something they haven’t told about that night?”

“Ask them, Dad.”

“They held back something about the break-in from Catheryn and me, but they told you?” I said incredulously.

“No. I… I found out on my own, kind of by accident. By then weeks had gone by, and I didn’t know what to-”

“Found out what?”

“Ask them, Dad,” Travis repeated. “They should tell you themselves.”

“Damn it, Travis-”

“Please, Dad.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll ask them.”

“I should have said something sooner. I could see things were getting worse, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“At least you’re doing the right thing now.”

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Are you disappointed in me?”

I saw the self-accusation in Travis’s eyes, and the response I had been about to utter died on my lips. “We all screw up, kid,” I said instead.

Travis lowered his gaze. “Not like this.”

I returned and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, Trav,” I said.

Slowly, Travis raised his eyes to mine. “Listen, kid,” I said gently. “When it comes to making decisions, I told you life doesn’t come with a universal yardstick, but there are some universal truths. One is that every father wants to see his son become a better man than he is. That’s true of every father, and I’m no exception. You’re asking whether I’m disappointed in you?”

“Yes, Dad, I am. Are you?”

I shook my head. “Not for a minute, Trav,” I said. “No way.”

Following my court appearance in West Los Angles, I returned to headquarters, still mulling over my discussion with Travis. More than anything, I missed Catheryn and for about the hundredth time since she’d left, I wished she were home.

Upon arriving at my desk, I found a message slip. Someone named Yolanda Blum had called. Thinking back, I recalled that she was the claims adjuster I had attempted to contact regarding the Larsons’ damaged Infiniti. For the moment postponing thoughts on how to deal with my children, I removed my jacket, hung it on the back of my chair, and dialed the number on the slip. A woman with a pronounced southern drawl answered. “Twentieth Century. Claims.”

“Yolanda Blum?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

“This is Daniel Kane, LAPD. I called some time back concerning a claim made by Susan Larson.”

“Oh, yes, through USAA. The Tenaka case. Give me a sec to pull it up.”

“Tenaka?”

“Our insured. Ah, here it is. By the way, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. This flu that’s going around is awful.”

“As I understand it, your company refused payment on the Larsons’ claim,” I said, ignoring her excuse. “Why?”

“Under the circumstances, we felt completely justified,” Ms. Blum replied defensively. “It’s terrible what happened to them, though. I heard about it on the news.”

“Yes, ma’am. What circumstances?”

“For one thing, Mrs. Larson said in her claim that a man named Ron Phillips damaged her car.”

“You said your insured’s name is Tenaka.”

“Right. According to Mrs. Larson’s claim, Mr. Phillips, who was driving a white van, told her he was covered by Twentieth Century Insurance.”

“A white van?” I said, my pulse quickening. “Did you get a make on it?”

“No.”

“How about a license number?”

“Yes, that was included on the claim. When I found we had no one named Ron Phillips as an insured, I ran a DMV trace.”

“And?”

“The owner of the plates proved to be a Mr. James Tenaka of El Monte, who is, coincidentally, covered by Twentieth. But his vehicle is a red ’99 Ford sedan, not a white van. Furthermore, Mr. Tenaka denied any involvement in an accident with Susan Larson. He said he had never heard of Ron Phillips, and that he hadn’t been in West Los Angeles during the past year. In her claim, Mrs. Larson clearly stated that the other party was driving a white van, and in the absence of a police accident report…”

“… you denied payment,” I finished. “Did you call Mrs. Larson?”

“Right after talking with Mr. Tenaka. She was upset. Said she was absolutely certain she had copied down the license number correctly. She couldn’t believe that the other driver had lied to her. Do you think this might have something to do with the murders?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. At this point we’re checking everything. Did Mrs. Larson say anything else?”

“Hold on. Let me get my notes.” A rustling of paper, then, “She said her car was dented while parked outside her health club. The other driver was waiting for her when she came out.”

“What club?”

“Hinds Health Center. Olympic and Bundy.”

“I know the place,” I said, realizing I had been less than a block away when visiting Hank Dexter’s electronic shop. “Did she give a description of the man?”