Allison (A Kane Novel) by Steve Gannon

right,” I said absently.
    “Your father thought Jordan French was dead?  Why?”
    “Well, when there was no follow-up on the ransom—”  I stopped short.
    “So there was a ransom demand,” said Lauren, pouncing like a cat on a crippled sparrow.  “I knewthe police were holding something back.”
    I flushed, angry with myself for my slip.  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
    “Don’t worry about it.  Now that the body’s turned up, there’s no longer any reason for investigators to withhold that particular piece of information.  I’m sure they’ll be announcing it shortly.  Incidentally, I didn’t know your father was working on the case.”
    “He’s not.  At least he wasn’t.”
    Lauren studied me for a long moment.  “How are your computer skills?”
    “I’ve been online since I was twelve, and I can type like the wind.”
    Again, Lauren paused thoughtfully.  “It took guts for you to walk into my office today, knowing who I was,” she said at last.  “That kind of nerve is unusual for a girl your age.  You remind me of myself when I was first starting out.  I’ll tell you what, Allison.  I’m going to take a chance and give you a shot at working here.  With pay .  I’ll find some way to bury the expense in the budget.  We’ll call you an assignment-desk assistant or an associate producer.  Whatever.  The position will be open for a year, but you can quit in September when it’s time to return to school.  As I said, you’ll be a gofer for the most part, but there may also be opportunities for you to get involved in the news.  What do you say?”
    “I say yes!” I answered impulsively, my hostility toward Lauren temporarily forgotten.
    “There is one condition,” Lauren cautioned.  “You indicated that your working here might cause friction at home.  I won’t get caught in the middle on this.  You have to tell your parents.”
    “Of course.  My mom won’t like my dropping out of summer session, but she’ll get over it.  And I can handle my father.”
    “I’m glad someone can,” Lauren noted skeptically.  “When can you start?”
    “I’ll need the rest of today to withdraw from my literature class and tie up loose ends at school,” I answered.  “I have an article to finish for the school paper, too.  And I’m leaving on a trip this weekend and won’t be back till Monday, so I’ll have to miss a day then,” I added, remembering my trip to D.C. for Trav’s NSO performance.  “But other than that, I can start first thing tomorrow.  Is that okay?”
    “Tomorrow morning works fine.  Be here at eight,” said Lauren, reaching across her desk to shake my hand.  “Welcome aboard.”
     

5
     
    Feet propped on my desk, phone in one hand, TV remote control in the other, I sat in my room later that evening talking with McKenzie.  Rocking back in my chair, I lifted the remote and flipped through the channels, stopping on the CBS Evening News .
    “So how did your mom react to your dropping out of summer session at UCLA?”  McKenzie asked.
    “I can hardly hear you, Mac,” I said, dodging her question.  “Are you in your car?”
    “Yeah.  Hold on.  I’ll roll up the window.”
    “Is that better?” McKenzie’s voice came back a moment later.  Then, without awaiting my reply, “C’mon, tell me what your mom said.”
    “I haven’t told her yet.”
    “You haven’t?  Well, you’ll have to tell her soon.  I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that one.  Listen, I have a date, and I just pulled into my driveway.  Keep me filled in, okay?”
    “You’ll be the first to know,” I promised.
    As I hung up, I noticed a photo of Jordan French flashing up on the TV screen.  Then the scene abruptly shifted to a dead-end residential street.  Microphone in hand, Brent Preston stood gesturing toward a brush-covered hillside behind him.  Curious, I turned up the sound.
    “ . . . recovered from Encino Reservoir, where earlier today a