Allison (A Kane Novel) by Steve Gannon Page A

Department of Water and Power survey team discovered the body of the missing fourteen-year-old.”
    The picture switched to an overhead shot of a large body of water, its gray-blue surface shimmering in the foothills above the San Fernando Valley.  A number of police vehicles, large block numerals visible on their roofs, were parked by the reservoir dam.  Nearby, several men stood beside a white sheet at the water’s edge.
    “Although Jordan French was reported abducted from her home more than eleven days ago, police still have no leads,” Brent continued as the shot returned to him.  “In other developments, CBS News has learned from sources close to the investigation that a ransom note was delivered to the Frenches’ home shortly after Jordan’s abduction.  When contacted, LAPD officials had no comment regarding the ransom demand, or why its existence had previously not been disclosed.  This is Brent Preston, CBS News, Los Angeles.”
    “Damn,” I said aloud, realizing with a surge of regret that my slip with Lauren was at least one of Brent’s so-called “sources” close to the investigation.
    “Allison!  You have a visitor,” one of the girls residing in the dorm hollered up the stairs.
    “Be down in a minute,” I called back.
    Unsettled by Brent’s mention of the ransom note, I flipped off the TV.  Though regretting my slip with Lauren, I also realized that I had felt a deliciously guilty thrill when I’d heard Brent’s on-air revelation— my revelation —knowing millions had been listening.  With an uneasy shrug, I decided I would have to be more careful in the future.  Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it now.  I just hoped my father didn’t find out.  After donning a loose-fitting rugby shirt, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, turning off lights on my way out.
    At the bottom of the staircase I stopped midstride, my mouth dropping open in surprise.  Upon hearing I had a visitor, I’d concluded that it must have been a girlfriend from lit class who had called earlier that week about possibly joining me for dinner.  Instead, there in the entry wearing a pair of crisply pressed slacks, an open-collared shirt, and a leather aviator jacket, stood Mike Cortese.  Obviously enjoying my reaction, the cameraman grinned, his rugged features creasing with amusement.  “Hi, Ali,” he said.  “I wasn’t sure I would recognize you in clothes.”
    A rush of heat flooded my face.  “Just happened to be in the area and thought you’d drop by?” I asked, hating myself for my blush and wishing I had chosen something more flattering to wear than a pair of faded jeans and a rugby shirt.
    “Something like that.”
    “How’d you know . . . ?”  Then, shaking my head, I answered my own question.  “McKenzie.”
    Mike nodded.  “She gave me your address.  I hope you don’t mind.  Listen, I realize we got off on the wrong foot last weekend at the beach, and I’m sorry,” he said.  “And I did just happen to be in the neighborhood, so when I heard about your getting hired at CBS, I thought I’d look you up and offer my congratulations.”
    “Thanks,” I said, warming slightly.  “I appreciate your help.”
    “No thanks are necessary.  I simply made a call.  You nailed down the job yourself.  Brent says he thinks you’ll do great.”
    “He said that?”
    “Yep.  As a matter of fact, I’m meeting him tonight in Westwood for a drink.  The restaurant is just down the street.  Why don’t you join us?  He can tell you himself.”
    “I don’t—”
    “Have you eaten?  If you haven’t, we could grab a bite, too.  What do you say?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Why not?”
    “For one thing, I don’t know you that well.  For another, I’m not dressed to go out.”
    “Are you kidding?  You look great.  As for not knowing me, there’s only one cure for that.  C’mon, the place I’m meeting Brent is casual, serves fresh pasta, and we can walk