“Sure, Mom. But can we eat soon? I’m starving.”
“We’ll be done in a few minutes. I promise.”
“Okay. Catch you later, Detective Kane.”
“Nice kid,” I observed as the youngster bounded up the stairs.
“She’s a great kid. I wish I could take credit, but being a single parent isn’t easy, with work and all…”
“You have to be doing something right.”
“Thanks,” said Lauren, a catch in her voice betraying her nervousness. “In all fairness, her dad’s great with her, too.”
“He live around here?”
“Pasadena. We share her as much as possible. Candice is spending Christmas Eve with me this year; Eric gets her tomorrow. You, uh, want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I can’t stay. I’ve gotta get…” I hesitated, realizing I had been about to say “home.” Although adequate, Arnie’s guest room was definitely not home. “… some things taken care of before tomorrow,” I finished lamely.
“Last minute shopping?”
“Right,” I lied. In truth, my Christmas shopping was done, and the highlight of my evening would probably be a meal of cold leftovers scavenged from Arnie’s refrigerator. “What did you want to talk about?”
Lauren glanced up the staircase. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I followed Lauren through the family room, passing a lavishly decorated Christmas tree with a glowing red star on top and a jumble of presents at its base. I smiled, suspecting that most of the gifts there had Candice’s name on them. Past the family room we entered an airy kitchen. Spicy and inviting, the aroma of tomato, garlic, onion, and basil wafted from a pot simmering on a six-burner stove. I noticed an assortment of stainless-steel pots and pans hanging above a maple chopping stand, along with a rack of German cutlery and a small library of cookbooks. “You cook?” I asked.
“I’m not a gourmet, but I have a few recipes,” Lauren answered. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? We’re having pasta. It’s an old Christmas family tradition I just started tonight. There’s plenty.”
“Thanks, no.”
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, Lauren retired to a small breakfast nook and sat. I remained standing.
Lauren took a sip from her mug, grimaced, and set it down. “I had a meeting with the bureau chief today,” she said. “I know you shot down our news team being in the task force meetings, but let me make a suggestion, okay?”
I didn’t respond.
“With your hotline approach and awareness meetings, you guys have been indicating all along that it’ll take public involvement to catch this guy,” she went on, apparently construing my silence as consent. “What I’m about to propose could provide it.” Lauren took another sip of coffee, then rushed ahead, her words obviously rehearsed. “My network’s willing to post a million dollar reward for information leading to the murderer’s capture and conviction. All we want is a presence at your meetings. One cameraman, me, and maybe one other person.”
“We get our man; you kick butt in the sweeps.”
“Everybody makes out. What do you think?”
“I think your station’s already presented the idea to the brass,” I said. “Last week, as a matter of fact. I heard about it Friday. I also heard it got shot down. We can’t play favorites with the media, and the truth is we’re already drowning in tips from concerned citizens. A reward would bring out every dirtbag in the city with a cash flow problem.”
“It’s still a good idea,” Lauren maintained stubbornly. “I thought maybe you could persuade your superiors to take another look. We could-”
“Forget it, Van Owen. It’ll never fly.”
“No. I guess not. Anyway, that’s… that’s not why I asked you here.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Van Owen. I can’t see you anymore.”
Lauren turned her head to hide her disappointment. “Why? Need glasses?”
“My vision’s fine. It’s my judgment that’s off. What happened between us was a mistake. You know that.”
“I’m not too sure about anything right now.”
“I’m married.”
“I don’t care,” she said softly.
“ I do. And you don’t need that kind of trouble, either. You’re a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman, and-”
“I could change.”
I smiled. “Did I mention funny?” Then, more seriously, “Anyway, I wouldn’t want you to change. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I like you just the way you are.”
“Then why?”
“Because of Catheryn,” I said simply. “Things haven’t been right between us for a long time, but I’m going do my level best to get them straightened out. I don’t know whether I can, but I’m going to try.”
“Have you told her about us?”
I shook my head. “We had a falling out recently. I haven’t had the chance.”
“But you’re going to?”
“I have to tell her. Kate and I don’t keep secrets.”
“Your wife’s a lucky woman.”
“There’re plenty who’d disagree. And they would probably be right.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’re the one who needs glasses.”
Lauren started to respond, then paused thoughtfully. “Catheryn came to visit me today. She knows.”
I froze, feeling as if I’d been kicked in the chest. “How’d she find out?”
“I don’t know. She mentioned picking up a few things being married to a cop.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, momentarily at a loss for words. “I have to go,” I said, realizing that Lauren’s revelation could explain a lot.
“You’re sure?”
I nodded.
“Well, thanks for stopping by. Merry Christmas. And Kane? Whatever it is you want, I hope you get it.”
“Thanks, Lauren. I hope you do, too.”
Steve Gannon
Kane
42
H eart racing, Catheryn stood in the stage-right wing of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, her stomach tied in knots. She had performed for large audiences in the past, especially since joining the Philharmonic, but never as a featured soloist, and never with so little preparation. A capacity crowd was rapidly filling the 2,265-seat auditorium, with late arrivals filtering in as concert hour approached. With mounting misgivings, Catheryn realized that most of those present had come to hear Arthur West’s celebrated performance of the Dvorak Cello Concerto, and they would undoubtedly be disappointed to find a substitution slip in their programs. Another soloist? What happened to Arthur West? And who is this Catheryn Kane, anyway?
Who, indeed? Catheryn wondered.
Mother, musician, wife, came the answer, followed by a bitter addendum: And possibly not the latter for much longer. She remembered her husband’s hateful accusation of the night before, again feeling his words settling like spit on her face. She had wanted to lash out, protest her innocence, scream her knowledge of his betrayal. Most of all, she had wanted to hurt him, hurt him as he had hurt her. Resolutely, Catheryn shook her
