Kane by Steve Gannon Read Free Book Online

would be done.
     
    Afterward I stood at a window in the upper hallway, gazing out at the foggy street below.  Three more TV newswagons had arrived, along with the usual assortment of newspaper reporters.  I watched as the remains of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson—wrapped in clean white sheets and strapped to gurneys—were wheeled across the asphalt.  After a long moment, I headed downstairs.
    Time to talk to the media.

4
     
    L ater that evening I pulled into an underground parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Music Center.  I handed the attendant a twenty, receiving a parking stub and a disappointing handful of change in return.  Flipping the stub onto the dashboard, I turned down a maze of ramps, tires squealing on the slick concrete.  Four levels down I pulled into an empty slot and shut off the engine.
    After leaving the Pacific Palisades crime scene, I had made a quick stop at Arnie’s to shower and change, then driven to the West Los Angeles police station.  Working through the remainder of the afternoon, I had filled out death reports on the Larson family, completed preliminary entries in the crime report, and updated my notes.  As much as I like my job, I hate doing paperwork, but it’s a necessary aspect of any police investigation, and over the years I’ve found that putting it off just makes things worse.
    Now, as I climbed from the Suburban, I made a determined effort to push earlier events of the day from my mind.  Nevertheless, the sobering thought kept recurring that, in all my years on the force, the savagery of the Larson family’s murder was something I had never before encountered.  I’ve seen a lot of terrible things people can do to one other, but what happened to the Larsons was cruel beyond measure.  At this point, except for the obvious, I didn’t have a feel for what had happened in that house.  Despite my attempts at compartmentalization, I also realized from past experience that I would keep gnawing on pieces of the puzzle until I did.  Two things I already knew:  I wanted to find the monster who’d done it.  And whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.
    Minutes later, an escalator deposited me on a broad terrace above the street.  There are many ugly places in Los Angeles, but there are plenty of beautiful places too, and this was one of them.  Taking long strides, I headed toward the south end of the concourse, stopping briefly to admire a large fountain fronting the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  The sun had set, and interior lights now illuminated the fountain’s cross-shaped geysers.  The jets sprang directly from the stone surface of the plaza, rose to varying heights, and crashed down with a sibilant hiss reminiscent of applause—falling through hidden cracks in the pavers and disappearing like water into a sponge.  In the center of the fountain stood a gigantic bronze statue entitled “Peace on Earth.”  To me, the sculpture resembled an oddly shaped egg (the world?), supported from below by a twisted mass of humanity, from above in loops and furls of ribbon held aloft by a dove in flight.  An impressive centerpiece, but in my opinion the fountain stole the show:  now twelve feet high, now three, now eight, now dying away to nothing—startling the observer with hissing claps and abrupt, unexpected silences.
    I watched the water’s undulating dance for several seconds, then headed down a stone stairway to the street below, making my way to a door marked “Artists’ Entrance.”  A guard at a desk inside looked up as I entered.  I badged my way past, pausing briefly to sign the register.  Having been there before, I proceeded without asking directions, passing through a wide pair of doors into the performers’ lounge beyond.  From the floor above came the sound of the orchestra, stopping and starting in short, teasing bursts.
    Although the LA Philharmonic had been a resident company at the Walt Disney