Self-Defense (18 page)

“Memories? Do you have children, doctor?”

“No.”

His lips puckered and his eyes closed for
a moment. “Here.” Reaching for the box. “Let me show you what I’ve got, and you
tell me if any of it helps you.”

Standing, he shoved his hands deep into
the carton, like a surgeon rearranging viscera. What little space was left on
the table quickly filled with spiral notebooks, bound stacks of newspaper
clippings, and other papers.

He untied the clippings first and passed
them to me. The newsprint was brittle and dry, the color of weak tea. The
cutouts were twenty-one years old, all from a beachside throwaway called the
Shoreline Shopper.

Best ate a cookie, then another, as he
watched me read.

The first pages were taken from the
classifieds. Two months’ worth of a Personals ad, circled in blue:

Lost. Reward. Karen Denise Best, 19 y.o.,
5-7, 117, blond hair maybe dyed brown, blue eyes, speaks with a New England
accent, appendectomy scar. Our daughter was last seen walking up the road to
PCH at the Sand Dollar Restaurant in Paradise Cove. We love her very much and
miss her and we are worried. Please call collect, any hour, to 508-555-4532.
Any information leading to finding her will be $$$ rewarded.

“Did anyone ever call?” I said.

“Lots of people called. Liars and
practical jokers, and some well-meaning people who thought they’d seen her. I
paid out eighteen hundred and fifty-five dollars.” He poked a finger under his
glasses, rubbing his eye.

I turned back to the clippings. The last
was an article from the op-ed page, written by the editor of the paper, a woman
named Marian Sonner, and surrounded by ads for local shops. A poor-quality
photo of a beautiful fair-haired girl was set in the middle of the text. Even
the blurred reproduction couldn’t hide the innocence and enthusiasm on the
heart-shaped face.

FATHER TRAVELS FROM EAST

IN QUEST FOR MISSING DAUGHTER

MALIBU.
Special to the Shopper.

Sherrell Best is a determined man. Maybe
even stubborn, but who’s to blame him? Isn’t stubbornness part of the American
Dream, Malibuites?

Raised in the midst of the Great
Depression, he fought in World War II, rising to the rank of sergeant, came
back and married his high school sweetheart, the lovely Eleanor, and built up a
plumbing supplies business from scratch. To top it off, he and Eleanor had two
young’uns: beautiful blond Karen and, two years later, freckle-faced Craig.

So far so good. Then it crumbled.

Out here, no less. In golden So Cal, where
the waves are blue and the sky is too, and sometimes what happens to people
isn’t all sun and prettiness.

Malibu. The golden heart of a golden
state. Where peace and freedom and love are the bywords of a new generation
that’s never experienced the hardships of its forebears.

Karen, beauty of face and form and heart.
Prom queen and volleyball player and lover of dogs, left vying suitors in New
Bedford, Mass., to chase the Dream.

Hollywood. The Silver Screen.

She came on Greyhound and learned that the
Dream was played out in Beverly Hills. And Malibu. To some of us, those places
are just home. But to Karen they were Glamour and Excitement. The Dream.

Like so many others, she ended up slinging
hash—or should I say Catch of the Day—sorry, Marv and Barb D’Amato of Sand
Dollar fame.

Like so many others.

But then
... unlike
so many others...
she disappeared.

Vanished.

Like the smog when the beach breeze hits
it.

She was last seen six months ago. Leaving
Marv and Barb’s S.D. on foot after the night shift.

And that’s the last anyone saw of her.

Vanished.

The sheriffs looked for her. They did
their best, we’re proud of our men in tan.

But they didn’t find her.

Neither did a gumshoe hired by Sherrell and
his beloved Eleanor.

So Sherrell’s out here from Massachusetts.
Staying at the Beachrider Motel and living off savings.

Trying to find his princess.

This is her picture.

Karen Best. Her hair might be dark. She
wrote home that she was dying it.

To look more exotic.

Vanished.

Sherrell’s a determined man.

He’s not rich, but he’ll pay a hefty
reward to anyone who can find Karen.

Maybe you’ve seen him, handing out flyers
in the parking lot at Alexander’s market. Or in front of Bill and Sandy
Levinger’s Shell Shack or the Frostee Kup, down by Cross Creek.

Asking his questions.

“Have you seen this girl?”

Maybe you’ve walked right by him.

Maybe you just shook your head and said,
Poor guy.

No matter. He’s a determined man. He won’t
give up.

Help him, Malibuites.

If you can.

Maybe this story can have a happy ending.

Maybe this really is a generation of peace
and freedom and love.

Maybe...

I put the page down.

Best said, “She meant well. She was a
sweet old woman, died a few months later and the paper went out of business.”

“Did you pay for the article?”

“I paid for many things. No regrets.”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his
eyes some more.

“More coffee?”

“No, thanks. Did the sheriffs do a
thorough job?”

“I suppose they did their job. Asking
questions of the same people I’d spoken to. Finally, they mounted a real
search. For one day, in the canyons and gullies. Then they flew a helicopter
over the coastline for an hour or so. They said the layout made it impossible
to do much more. Too much brush, places that were hard to get to. I don’t think
they really believed she’d be found there. They were convinced she’d run away
with a boy.”

“Was any of this in the major newspapers?”
I said.

“The papers weren’t interested. I phoned
all of them, over and over. They never returned my calls. Part of it was the
way things were, back then. All those hippie boys and girls dropping out. But
Karen wasn’t like that. I’m not saying she was a perfect angel. But she was no
hippie.”

“When did you hire the private detective?”

“After the sheriffs stopped returning my
calls. I hired two of them, really. It’s all here.”

He handed me a white sheet of paper,
perfectly typed.

KAREN: PEOPLE INVOLVED

I.  LAW ENFORCEMENT

A.  L.A. County Sheriffs Dept.,
Malibu Station.

1. Deputy Shockley (took the call but
nothing else)

2. Dep. Lester (took report)

3. Sgt. Concannon—in charge of
search. His superior: Lt. Maarten, but never met him.

4. Various eagle scouts under Sgt.
Concannon, along with other deputies, whose names weren’t given.

B. PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS

1. Felix Barnard, 25603 Pacific Coast
Highway, Malibu, CA.

(October–November. Spoke to staff at Sand
Dollar: Sue Billings, Tom Shea, Gwen Peet, Doris Reingold, Mary Andreas,
Leonard Korcik. Karen’s landlady: Mrs. Hilda Johansen, 13457 Paso de Oro, Pacific
Palisades.)

2. Charles D. Napoli, 6654 Hollywood
Boulevard, Hollywood, CA.

(December–Jan. Re-interviewed F. Barnard’s
subjects, met with sheriffs, brokered purchase of membership in PeopleFinders.)

“What’s PeopleFinders?” I said.

“Napoli told me there was a national
network of detectives who specialized in looking for missing children.
Subscription was a thousand dollars for the first year, five hundred every year
after that. The money was supposed to buy access to hundreds of files and
contacts. No such outfit existed. Napoli took the money, and another thousand I
paid him for investigation, and left town.”

He smiled. “I don’t regret my foolishness.
“Hope maketh not ashamed.’ After Napoli swindled me, I went to a third firm,
one that advertised finding missing people within forty-eight hours. They took
a consultation fee and said all that could be done, had been.”

“After the first one, why’d you hire
someone out in Hollywood?”

“I was hoping someone from the outside
could see clearer. Barnard was slow. Very easygoing. All of Malibu seemed that
way, people smiling but moving very slowly. I’d never been to California,
wasn’t used to it.”

“When did you move out here?”

“Two years later. Permanently, that is.
Before that, I was coming out every two months for a couple of weeks at a time.
I stayed in motels or lived in a rented car, driving up and down the coast
every day, from Manhattan Beach to Santa Barbara. Once I went as far north as
San Simeon. Every canyon or state park I’d pass, I’d drive through, walk around,
talking to the rangers, ground crews, campers, anyone. It became my job. My
business suffered. Then Mrs. Best developed an aneurysm and died and I sold
what was left of the business and came here to settle. Craig and Taffy were
starting out, and I let them live in the house. A few years later, they bought
it. It was a good time for me to leave—they needed their own life and I wanted
to devote myself to looking for Karen. I spent ten hours a day in the car.
Hoping one day I’d run into her somewhere. Maybe she’d lost her memory and was...
somewhere.”

He pushed the cookies away. “What does
your witness remember?”

“Just what I told you, Reverend.”

“A young girl being carried away by some
men. That’s vague.”

“Yes, it is, and I’m sorry I can’t promise
you it means anything.”

I tried to return the data sheet.

“No, that’s a copy. Take it, I’ve got
plenty.”

I folded it and put it in my pocket.

“A young girl,” he said. “Long dark hair,
long legs—when Karen was a little girl we used to call her Storkie. For Stork.
Where does your witness—is it a man or a woman?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

He frowned. “Where does this witness think
this
abduction
occurred?”

“Some sort of rustic site. Maybe a log
cabin. Trees all around.”

He pressed his belly against the table edge.
“You’re a police psychologist. You could hypnotize this person, couldn’t you?
That helps with memory.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Why not a probability?”

“The witness is in a fragile state of
mind.”

“How fragile?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t say any more.”

“Yes, yes, of course, sorry... but you
are
going to follow up.”

“I’ll do whatever I can, Reverend.”

“You work
for
the police
department?”

“I’m a private consultant. The witness is
a patient of mine. A police detective is aware of what I’m doing, but it’s not
official yet.”

The bulging eyes narrowed. “Why are you
going to all this trouble?”

“To help my patient.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“You’re a devoted fellow.”

I shrugged.

He fiddled with his glasses, looked at his
coffee, but didn’t touch it.

“I highly advise that you find some way to
talk to Gwen and Tom Shea. On the sheet she’s listed by her maiden name, Peet,
but they’re married now. They worked with Karen at the Sand Dollar. Worked with
her that last shift. I’ve always felt they knew more than they let on.”

“Why’s that?”

“The way they acted when I spoke to
them—shifty, nervous. Felix Barnard said they seemed innocent to him. So did
the sheriffs. They were both local kids, good reputations, neither had any sort
of criminal record. But I’ll tell you one thing: When I asked them about Karen,
they couldn’t look me in the eye. They’d been friends with her; Gwen waited
tables, Tom tended bar. Why would talking about her make them uncomfortable?
And they left the restaurant just a few minutes after Karen did. Karen was
walking, but they were in a car. Doesn’t it make sense that they would have
overtaken her?”

“Maybe someone picked her up.”

“Who would she have allowed to pick her
up? She wasn’t dating anyone, had no close friends. And she never would have
hitchhiked. We talked about that before she left Massachusetts.”

His voice remained low, but his eyes
bulged even more and the ridges in his forehead were wet.

“I’m sure they’re hiding something. I know
what guilt looks like.”

I pulled the paper out of my jacket,
unfolded it, and circled the two names.

“I kept going back to them,” said Best,
“offered them money—the last of my cash before I started selling off the stocks
and bonds. They wouldn’t even talk to me. Finally Tom called the sheriff,
complained I was harassing them. I returned a few days later anyway, wanting to
catch Gwen alone. She wouldn’t open the door, and the next day Tom came to my
motel and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t leave them alone.”