Steve Gannon - Kane

“Cute,” said Deluca. “But if he’s as smart as we think, he must’ve known his game of musical plates would eventually be discovered.”

“He knows,” I said.

“Still think he’s screwing with us?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s use it,” suggested Huff. “Put out an APB on the last set we know he stole, the teacher’s from Tarzana.”

“It’s a shot,” I said. “Unfortunately, if we’re lucky enough to find her plates, by then they’ll probably be on somebody else’s car.”

“Then we search for the most recent set. It’s better that nothing.”

“How about notifying insurance companies to be on the lookout for accident claims in which an incorrect license number is reported?” offered Deluca.

“Good idea,” said Huff.

“Along those lines, the guy’s been seen driving a white van and a blue Toyota,” I added. “He might have rented them. We could canvass auto rental agencies and cross-check accident dates reported by the victims. We should check to see whether we can get a paint scraping from the Welshes’ damaged fender, too. Could come in handy if we find the Toyota. We might be able to get a year and model from the paint analysis, too.”

“Worth a try. What about checking vehicle ownerships with DMV?”

“At this point, with what little we have on the Toyota, and without a year or even a make on the van-no way.”

“Right. Anything else?”

I thought a moment. “Mrs. Larson and Mrs. Welsh both belonged to health clubs. I’ll bet we’ll find that the first woman did, too.”

“So we search for a member or employee who’s connected to all three clubs,” said Deluca, picking up the thread.

“Plus, we check for anyone who might have witnessed the accidents. Maybe we can get a description of the guy,” I said. “Putting female vice officers in the involved clubs might be worthwhile, too.”

Huff made several entries in his notebook. “I’ll run it by Snead when he gets back.”

“One more thing,” I said. “We’re still looking into unexplained break-ins, correct?”

Huff nodded. “To date, Collins and Shanelec have investigated twenty-seven occurrences. Without result, I might add.”

“To the other search parameters, we can now add the health club angle.”

“That could narrow it down. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re working on Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Nope.” It had been decided that one member of each detective pair would work on Thanksgiving. Deluca had lost the toss. “My pesto-sweating partner will be here, though. I’ll save some leftovers for him.”

“Save some for me, too,” said Huff.

“I’ll do that. Happy Thanksgiving, Lieutenant.”

“Same to you. And Kane?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

Thanksgiving morning, following a brief workout on the deck and quick swim to the raft, I showered at an outside nozzle, toweled off, and remounted the stairs to the kitchen. Still shivering from my ocean swim, I made a pot of coffee, savoring the dark, earthy smell as it brewed on the counter.

Steaming mug in hand, I returned to my bedroom and changed into dry clothes. Next I searched the top drawer of Catheryn’s dresser, finally finding her list of hotels. Although she and I had attempted to call each other several times over the previous week, neither of us had succeeded-each of us leaving hollow promises to call back later. Running my finger down the paper, I found the number of the Hotel Luna in Venice. According to Catheryn’s written schedule, she would be leaving for Geneva the next day.

Cell phone and Catheryn’s hotel list in hand, I descended to the lower deck. I intended to have a long-overdue talk with Allison and Nate that morning, but first I wanted to bring Catheryn into the loop and confer with her about how to proceed. Sitting on the swing, I called Catheryn’s cell. When she didn’t answer, I tried her hotel. After a long wait, I finally reached the desk at the Hotel Luna, learning that Catheryn had already departed for the morning. I then asked to be connected with the symphony manager, who informed me that Catheryn was having lunch with Arthur West and would be proceeding directly to rehearsal after that.

Disappointed, I returned to the kitchen and poured a second cup of coffee, trying to decide whether to talk with Allison and Nate without first conferring with Catheryn. I called her cell once more. Still no answer. I didn’t leave a message.

Wondering why Catheryn hadn’t turned on her phone, I absently checked the refrigerator to make certain I had everything I’d need to prepare Thanksgiving dinner later that day. For a change I’d decided to cook a prime rib roast, which was easy. The main work lay in preparing the traditional side dishes. Over the years everyone had settled on a favorite, and it had become customary for me to fix them all. Satisfied I had all the necessities, save for a few items I could pick up in Malibu later on, I came to a decision. With a determined frown I marched down the hall to Allison’s room. “Reveille! Up and at ’em, sunshine,” I called, banging on her door.

“Huh?” Allison’s sleepy voice filtered out.

“I want to hear feet hitting the deck,” I ordered. “You have ten minutes to get dressed and meet me out by the car.”

“C’mon, Pop. It’s not even light out.”

“Tough.” Resolutely, I proceeded down the hall. “You too, sport,” I added, throwing open Nate’s door and flipping on the light. “Ten minutes. Out front.”

“Dad, it’s Thanksgiving,” Nate moaned.

“So?”

Nate sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Can Callie come, too?”

“No. Leave her here.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. We’re going someplace private and have a nice long talk.”

Allison and Nate sat mutely in the back of the Suburban as an unbroken line of houses bordering the beach slipped past, the darkened homes eventually surrendering to ice plant and palms as Pacific Coast Highway curved through the McClure Tunnel-reemerging on the far side as the Santa Monica Freeway. Traffic picked up when we turned north on I-405, increasing steadily as we wound through the Ventura Freeway interchange and headed east. By then I was certain the children knew where we were headed.

After exiting on Forest Lawn Drive, I drove west. A mile farther on I entered a pair of wrought-iron gates, slowing as I passed a small guard house, then accelerating again as we headed up a narrow road traversing cemetery grounds. Shortly afterward I pulled to the curb and cut the engine.

Far below, like monoliths rising from a blanket of smog and mist, the blocky structures of Burbank’s studios, industrial parks, and business towers pierced the morning air. To the north, ascending on a trail of pale-blue smoke, an early commuter flight from the Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena airport climbed toward the mountains. The soft rush of the freeway, its lanes hidden by trees guarding the cemetery’s lower reaches, drifted up from below.

“Why are we here, Dad?” asked Allison.

I stepped from the car and started up the hill. “Come with me,” I said instead of answering.

Allison and Nate followed reluctantly, picking their way through the lines of bronze memorial plaques set in the hillside. Upon topping the rise, they joined me by Tommy’s marker.

“I know you’re wondering why I dragged you out here this morning,” I said when they arrived. Actually, regarding my choice of location, I wasn’t completely certain myself. Part of it was simply a basic interrogation technique-I wanted to uproot Allison and Nate from their normal surroundings, putting them off balance for questions I had planned. But in the back of my mind I knew there was more to our being there than that-something I hadn’t quite brought into focus, even for myself.