Stepping Stones (33 page)

“I’ve been home awhile now.  Sorry I didn’t call earlier.  My parents dragged me down to Newport Beach for our annual family vacation.  Ugh.  We just got back.”

“How was it?”

“Newport?  Actually, great,” answered McKenzie.  “Matter of fact, I met a drop-dead gorgeous lifeguard there over Fourth of July weekend.  His name is Jeff, and he works at the Wedge,” she added, referring to a popular bodysurfing spot at the tip of the Balboa Peninsula, forty miles south of Los Angeles.  “I’m heading down there this morning to meet him.  Why don’t you join me?  Maybe he can find a friend for you.”

“I’d love to, but—”

“C’mon, Ali.  It’s a beautiful day, and I hear that big surf is hitting the coast.”

“Mac, I have a class at ten.”

“It’s summer.  You’re getting your usual straight A’s, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing.  Missing one class won’t kill you.  Besides, I need another body in the front seat so I can use the carpool lane.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you called,” I noted dryly.

“I’m serious, Ali, and I’m not taking no for an answer.  Look out your window.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Puzzled, I walked to the window and gazed down at the street.  Angled into a no-parking zone out front was a powder-blue VW convertible.  McKenzie was sitting behind the steering wheel, grinning up at me from the car her father had bought her as a high school graduation present.  She waved.  “I don’t have all morning,” she said, speaking into her cell phone.  “Get down here.”

“I’m tempted, Mac.  But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.  We’re going.”

“Mac . . .”

C’mon, Ali.  We haven’t seen each other since Christmas, and we have a lot of catching up to do.  Am I going to have to come up there and drag you out?”

I hesitated a moment more, then smiled in resignation.  I knew from experience that when McKenzie made up her mind, there was little use arguing.  “You win,” I sighed.  “I suppose I can get today’s lecture notes from someone in class.  Gimme a sec to change.”

After swapping my school clothes for a one-piece Speedo swimsuit, a pair of sweats, and sandals, I grabbed my surfing fins and a beach towel and headed for the door.  When I arrived outside, McKenzie smiled at me warmly.  “Great to see you, Ali,” she said, reaching across to open her passenger door.

“You, too,” I shot back, feeling like a kid playing hooky as I climbed in.  McKenzie was wearing an abbreviated pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse over a red bikini top.  As usual, she looked stunning, but something about her had changed.  McKenzie had always been a head-turner, but over the past year she had transformed in some way I couldn’t quite define.  Though she still parted her dark, shoulder-length hair in the center, neatly framing her amber eyes, patrician nose, and generous mouth, there was something different about her.  A moment later I had it.  Always a bit on the shy side, McKenzie now seemed to exude an aura of confidence that I wished I felt in myself.  “How’s school going?” I asked, stifling a tinge of envy.

With a perfunctory glance over her shoulder, McKenzie slipped the VW into gear and executed an illegal U-turn that sent us south on Hilgard toward Westwood.  “My design and architecture courses are going fairly well,” she answered with a shrug, selecting an oldies station on the radio and turning up the volume.  “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my science classes.  Plus my love life is almost nonexistent.  Wayne and I broke up last month.”

“I’ll notify the media.”

“Nonetheless, I
do
have prospects,” McKenzie added cheerfully, ignoring my sarcasm.  “Lifeguard Jeff, for instance.  How about you?  Anyone special?”

“Nope.”

“Who are you going out with?”

“Whom.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

McKenzie groaned.  “Ali . . .”

“
Whom
are you going out with,” I corrected, attempting to dodge her question.  “Even better, ‘Whom are you seeing?’ would eliminate that nasty dangling preposition.”

“Thank you, Ms. Perfect English.  I’ve missed your enflamed sense of grammar.  Okay,
whom
are you seeing?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“I’m not dating much, Mac.  Actually, I’m not dating at all.  I don’t have time.”

“Don’t have time?  Ali, sometimes I think you’re afraid of men.”

I felt myself flush.  “That’s not it,” I said, realizing that my friend had struck closer to the truth than she knew.  With the exception of my parents and a rape-counseling therapist, I had never told anyone about my attack, not even McKenzie.

“What, then?  You don’t like fraternity guys?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I scowled, trying to hide my embarrassment.  Thankful that McKenzie had her eyes on the road and not on me, I replied, “Well, for one thing, most of them display an intellectual maturity somewhere in the range of broccoli—not to mention being about as subtle as a pair of brass knuckles.  Or as romantic as a love scene from
Alien
,” I added, warming to the subject.  “By the way, I’m an English major, so don’t try to use those similes at home.”

“As usual, you’re letting your brain do too much of your thinking, Ali—especially when it comes to men,” McKenzie said as we turned right on Wilshire and took the 405 Freeway on-ramp south.  By then rush hour traffic had thinned a bit, but even at 10 AM, commuters still crowded the highway.  After negotiating the Santa Monica Freeway Interchange and proceeding south, McKenzie edged into the 405 carpool lane and picked up speed.  “I simply think a little romance in your life might be a welcome improvement,” she added.

“As I said, I don’t have time for that right now.”

“So make time.  And don’t tell me you’re not interested.  Remember that short story you wrote about a blind girl falling in love for the first time?  It was so romantic, I cried at the end.  What was the title?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Sure you do.  Your main character went through all these changes, only to finally discover what she truly wanted in life was to have someone who really
knew
her—what food she liked, her taste in music, what side of the bed she slept on, how to make her laugh.  In the end, she realized that sharing herself with someone was the one thing that could make her feel complete.”

“She was a character in a story, Mac.  A
short
story.  Perfect for people like you with short attention spans.”

“But you said that when you write, you put parts of yourself into your work.”

“It was just a story,” I insisted.

“Well, I think it’s a big contradiction for someone to be able to write so movingly about something they don’t feel themselves.  It doesn’t make sense.”

“Life doesn’t make sense.  And contradictions make characters interesting.”

“In fiction, maybe.  In real life, contradictions lead to trouble.”  Then, noting my darkening
mood, McKenzie finally relented.  “So you’re off to USC this fall?”

“Right,” I replied, grateful for the change of subject.  “UCLA doesn’t have an undergraduate journalism curriculum, and USC does.  I can transfer most of my lower division credits and still graduate in four years.  Tuition’s considerably more at SC, but my folks have worked it out.”

“Your dad’s borrowing on the beach house?”

“He planned to, but Grandma Dorothy offered to help—at which point my mom unilaterally accepted.  Dadzilla wanted to handle everything himself, of course, but even he knows better than to tangle with Mom and Grandma at the same time.  He didn’t take kindly to being overruled, however.”

“I can picture it now,” laughed McKenzie.  Then, keeping her voice light, “When you start at SC, will you be seeing much of Trav?” she asked, referring to my older brother Travis, who was attending USC on a music scholarship.

I shrugged.  “More than I see of him now, I suppose.  For the past two summers the Kane family prodigy has been touring on his Van Cliburn recitals, leaving for parts unknown the minute school lets out.  Right now genius boy is in Washington, D.C., preparing for a concert with the National Symphony Orchestra.”

McKenzie nodded.  “On my way to your dorm this morning, I stopped by the beach house.  Speaking of which, the rebuilt version looks terrific.  Not as much character as your old house before the fire, but it’s great,” she added.

I remained silent at McKenzie’s mention of the fire, for the second time that morning finding my thoughts venturing into territory I didn’t want to revisit.

“Anyhow, while I was there, your mom told me about Trav’s concert,” McKenzie went on.  “You’re going?”

“Uh-huh.  Mom and I are catching an early flight to D.C. next weekend.  Which reminds me.  Now that you’ve broken up with your college flame, do you want me to tell Trav you’re available?”

“Don’t you dare!” McKenzie
squealed.

I grinned.  McKenzie had been sweet on Travis in high school, and I knew she still wasn’t over her crush.  “Whatever you say, Mac.”

“Your mom invited me to a barbecue at the beach house
tonight,” McKenzie continued, trying to cover her outburst.  “Will you be there?”

“Yep.  My dad’s cooking.  There’s no way I’m going to miss one of his meals.”

McKenzie smiled.  “Me, neither.”

As we drove south under a cloudless Southern California sky, the high-rise condos and office buildings of Westwood gradually surrendered to a succession of retail businesses, warehouses, and car dealerships lining the freeway from West Los Angeles to Orange County.  Continuing our rambling conversation, McKenzie and I brought each other up-to-date on our lives.  Forty minutes later, still engaged in our nonstop exchange, we exited the freeway on Brookhurst and turned left on the 101 coastal route.  A few miles farther on, as we swung right on Balboa Boulevard, a newsbreak came on the radio.

McKenzie turned up the sound.  “Have you been following this?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

I leaned forward to hear.

“. . . disappearance of Jordan French, teenaged star of the popular TV series,
Brandy
,” the announcer’s voice was saying.  “Miss French was reported missing from her Pacific Palisades home over a week ago.  Authorities still have no clue regarding her whereabouts.  Although no ransom demand has been received, investigators are not ruling out an abduction.  A spokesperson for Paramount Studios, where Jordan was shooting a feature film, announced today that work on the project will continue in the hopes of her speedy return.  In other news—”

McKenzie twisted off the radio.  “Weird, huh?  A newspaper I saw in the supermarket says she was recently spotted in Europe with an Italian movie star.  Another said she’s in rehab at Betty Ford.”

“I wouldn’t call those rags you read at the checkout stand newspapers.”

“Good point.  Anyway, the
tabloids
are probably exaggerating, but something’s going on,” McKenzie maintained stubbornly.  “You ever watch Jordan’s show?”

“
Brandy
?  Occasionally,” I confessed.  Jordan’s fictional TV series centered on the life of Ambassador Harold Wilkenson, a widowed American living in England with his adolescent daughter Brandy, played by Jordan.  Every week as regular as clockwork, Ambassador Wilkenson ran afoul of some convoluted, ill-conceived but well-meaning attempt by Brandy to assist him in various affairs of state—not to mention her occasional schemes to find him a wife.  Despite its pedestrian premise, the show worked surprisingly well thanks to imaginative writing, and it was one of the few TV shows that I followed.  “I watch it when I have time,” I added with an embarrassed shrug.

McKenzie grinned.  “Yeah, sure.  So what do you think happened to Jordan?”

Again, I lifted my shoulders.

Noting something in my manner, McKenzie looked over questioningly.  “You know something, don’t you?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet your dad’s got something to do with the case.  C’mon, spill it.”

My father, LAPD Detective Daniel Kane, had for the past several years served as the West Los Angeles Division’s supervising homicide detective, and his jurisdictional boundaries included the Pacific Palisades area where Jordan had vanished.  “It’s not a murder investigation, so my dad’s not on it,” I said.

“But I’ll bet he knows who’s running the case, and I’ll also bet he has an inside track on what’s going on,” McKenzie insisted.  “C’mon, Ali.  I can keep a secret.”

“Well . . . my dad
does
know the MAC detective in charge,” I admitted.

“MAC?”

“Major assault crimes.  A detective named Carl Peyron is investigating Jordan’s case.  Dad’s known Carl for years.”

“And?”

“And I heard Dad talking on the phone to Detective Peyron about the investigation.  There
are
a couple of things that haven’t been released to the press.”

McKenzie frowned.  “Jeez, this is like pulling teeth.  Are you going to tell me or not?”