After logging off Lexis-Nexis, Carns connected to Times Link, an archival program provided by the Times. Following a short search, a black-and-white image materialized on Carns’s screen. The picture showed an extremely attractive woman sitting on a stool, a cello between her knees, an out-of-focus curtain behind her. The woman on the screen had confident eyes, a delicate neck, and a generous mouth that hinted at passions below the surface.
Carns leaned closer. Although the woman had her hair pinned back, he could tell it was long. Dark blond or auburn. Either would be satisfactory, he thought, picturing how it would look down, imagining it running through his fingers.
Sensing a familiar stirring, Carns studied the screen. The longer he looked, the more he liked what he saw. No doubt about it, the woman was stunningly beautiful, although not quite as movie-star gorgeous as some he’d had. The last two, for example, had been exquisite. Vapid, but flawless.
Still, all in all, there was definitely something about Catheryn Ellen Kane that Carns found… interesting.
Steve Gannon
Kane
36
C atheryn Kane, please.” I had my feet propped up on the kitchen table at home, phone in one hand, files from work in the other. Thanks to Snead I had unexpectedly drawn weekend task force duty, and I’d be unable to pick up Catheryn at the airport on Sunday-at least if she arrived as originally scheduled. Although I needed to let her know, I resolved to keep our conversation short, hoping to avoid another hurtful, long distance exchange.
The switchboard connection was bad. Earlier I’d tried Catheryn’s cell phone without success. I assumed she probably had it turned off. Next I had called her hotel in Amsterdam. Laden with static, a woman’s voice finally came back, her accent a blend of Dutch and German. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Please hold. I’ll transfer your call to her room.”
Exhausted and depressed, I glanced at my watch: 11:15 PM. Eight hours time difference to Amsterdam would make it, what-a quarter after seven in the morning there? Or was the time difference only seven hours? I shrugged. Either way, Catheryn was an early riser and sure to be up.
As I waited for my call to be transferred, my thoughts traveled back to the disaster at the Bakers’ house. It had proved a profound embarrassment to every member of the task force, and things hadn’t improved since then. Although the killer’s recent attack had elicited several new wrinkles-confirmation of the attorney-DMV connection and the door-opener angle, for example-I held little hope of apprehending a suspect anytime soon. Our best chance had been to grab the guy in Sherman Oaks, and we’d blown it. Making things worse, an officer had been killed, a tragedy that should have been avoided.
The problem now was that the investigation had begun to show signs of complete stagnation, with task force members increasingly revisiting stale ground already covered. Most avenues of inquiry-analyzing paint scrapes from Julie Welsh’s damaged fender, locating the source of the magnetic signs, finding common connections between various victims, forensic examination of latent prints, found hairs, and so forth-had turned into complete dead ends. The high point of the day had been the chromatography analysis from Standard Oil confirming that the radiator coolant and oil drips found near the Bakers’ house matched those discovered in the Larsons’ garage. Great
… if we located the Toyota. Otherwise, useless. Given the situation, I had begun to suspect that Berns was right. If we ever did find the killer, luck would undoubtedly play a part.
At last Catheryn’s phone began ringing. A sleepy male voice answered. “Hello?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Must have the wrong room.”
“Speak up. I can’t hear you. Whom are you calling?”
The connection had grown worse. I raised my voice. “Catheryn Kane.”
“You have the correct room. She can’t talk right now. Please call back.”
“What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
“Of course she’s all right,” the man answered, his muffled response barely audible. “She’s in the shower. Do you want to leave a-”
“Who is this?”
“A friend, if it’s any of your business,” the man responded testily. Despite the hissing on the line, his voice sounded familiar.
Arthur West?
“Listen, friend, ” I said, “I want to speak to Catheryn. Put her on.”
“No need to be boorish. As I told you, she can’t talk right now. She just got up and is in the shower.”
Definitely Arthur West. What was he doing in Catheryn’s room that early in the morning?
“Is there a message?” the man asked curtly.
“No.”
I slammed down the receiver, a nauseous feeling of betrayal churning in my stomach. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, things with Kate had been strained. But an affair? With Arthur West?
It wasn’t possible.
On the other hand, I knew what I’d heard. Slowly, a tarantula of suspicion began poisoning my thoughts with images of Catheryn and Arthur in each other’s arms.
How could things have come to this?
Minutes later I redialed the Amsterdam hotel and left a message at the desk for Catheryn, informing her that I’d be working on Sunday and wouldn’t be able to meet her at the airport.
After hanging up, I pulled on a jacket and descended to the beach. A biting wind had picked up. I lowered my head against a peppering of stinging sand and made my way to the water’s edge. Numbly, I shoved my hands into my pockets and started toward the lights of Santa Monica, wintry gusts plucking at my clothes, heart-wrenching thoughts of Catheryn coiling in my mind.
Barefoot and dripping, Catheryn stepped from the bathroom, a robe cinched at her waist, hair wrapped in a towel. “What are you doing here, Arthur?”
From his perch on the edge of Catheryn’s bed, Arthur West smiled apologetically. “Sorry if I surprised you.” He glanced at his watch. “The airport bus leaves in twenty minutes. When you didn’t meet me for coffee as planned, I rang your room. You didn’t answer, so I came up. You’re always so punctual. I thought something might have happened.”
“How’d you get in?”
Arthur feigned hurt. “The maid was in the hall. I had her open the door. When I heard you in the shower, I decided to wait. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m just surprised. Now, shoo. I have to get dressed.”
Again, Arthur glanced at his watch. “Do hurry. I’ll see if I can hold the bus, if necessary.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Fine,” said Arthur, brightening. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Out, Arthur. Oh, who was that on the phone?”
Arthur headed toward the door. “I don’t know. I could barely hear him. He hung up before I got his name.”
“Someone from the orchestra?”
“I certainly hope not. He was extremely rude, to put it mildly. See you downstairs.”
After Arthur left, Catheryn puzzled over his departing statement.
Rude?
Catheryn finished drying her hair, then dialed her home number in Malibu. The phone there rang a number of times. Finally the answering machine kicked in.
She hung up without leaving a message.
37
Outside the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin, a steady rain that had begun Saturday morning continued to fall, flooding drainage culverts and triggering mud slides on Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica to Malibu. Not even January, and already it was shaping up to be a wet and miserable winter.