Self-Defense (23 page)

He walked over to the window. “Okay, my
thoughts are provoked, but let’s not forget the only reason this came up in the
first place is Lucy’s
dream.
And we still don’t know how much of
that
is real.”

“Karen Best’s disappearance is real. And
there’d be no easy way for Lucy to know that. Unlike the party, it wasn’t
covered in the
Times.
Best said all the major papers shined him on.”

I got the copy of the
Shoreline Shopper
and handed it to him.

“He paid for this. The paper went out of
business shortly after. I doubt it’s catalogued in any library.”

He read as I looked at the gulls. “Says
here no one saw her after she left the restaurant at eleven
P.M. on Friday, never came home that night. So you’re
saying she went up to Sanctum and spent the night?”

“Maybe she had a one-night stand with a
guy. A guy who picked her up and hurt her.”

“Trafficant?”

“He was famous.”

“Then what? He offs her Friday night? Or parties
with her again on Saturday and then offs her?”

“In the dream, Lucy remembers lights and
noise. Maybe that was the staff setting up, but it sounds more like the party
itself.”

“The dream,” he said, shaking his head.
“So she’s there working on Saturday. Slinging designer hash to hundreds of
people and no one remembers her.”

“There’s no indication either the sheriffs
or Barnard made any connection to the party.”

“Maybe because Karen wasn’t there.” He
waved the clipping. “This
is
major coverage, locally. You’d think
someone around the beach area would have seen it.”

“That piece ran six months after the
disappearance. Who’s going to remember a waitress who served them half a year
ago? With Lowell and movie stars at the party, who’d notice the staff, period?
It would be nice to get hold of Felix Barnard and see if he has any of his old
records, but I can’t find a listing on him. Some background on the Sheas would
be useful too. Like, have they gotten involved in anything shaky since then? I
can pay another visit to the Sand Dollar and try to get more out of Reingold.
The chef who catered the party would be another potential source. For old time
cards or personnel records that could verify Karen’s presence. Some guy named
Nunez. Scones Restaurant.”

“Dead,” said Milo. “AIDS, couple of years
ago.”

“You knew him?”

“Rick knew him. Patched up a sliced finger
in the ER. We went to his restaurant a couple of times and got comped.
Vegetables I’d never seen before and the portions were too small.” He tapped
the glass lightly.

“Have you punched Trafficant into the
computer yet?”

He nodded. “Nothing on NCIC. Haven’t had a
chance to look into his tax returns. Have you called his publisher?”

“No, too late to do it now, I’ll try
tomorrow. I may also get a chance to sound out his patron.”

I described my conversation with Lowell.

He said, “Sounds like the asshole Lucy
says he is. Why his sudden interest?”

“Good question. Peter phoned him from New
Mexico, too, and told him about Lucy’s suicide attempt. Lowell implied it was
an attempted guilt trip that didn’t work. He claims he has insights to offer on
Lucy, though his tone was more contemptuous than concerned.”

“Insights? After all these years?”

“He’s sure she hasn’t changed much. The
only thing I can think of is he’s trying, in a bizarre way, to get some kind of
relationship going.”

“By being contemptuous?”

“He’s a real piece of work, Milo. Spews
out words nonstop. He made such a point about not feeling guilty, it could mean
on some level he
does
feel responsible.”

“Weird,” he said. “So old Pucko continues
to call everyone but Lucy. Guy gives me
a
definite
bad feeling—like
that picture on her TV. She’s smiling, but he looks like he can’t wait to get
the hell out of there and jam a spike in his arm. And he’s more than a
penny-ante addict. Three arrests for possession of heroin and two for selling,
all within the last six years. There’s also a sealed juvenile record back in
Massachusetts and some misdemeanor stuff with Boston PD. The biggest bust was
three years ago. He tried to peddle thirty grand worth of smack to an
undercover cop. Got off on technicalities, case dismissed. Gary Mandel was his
lawyer. Ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“Ex-prosecutor, specializes in serious
dope cases, very big retainer.”

“Think Puck’s connected?”

“Thirty g doesn’t make him King Smack, but
it does make him more than a street-corner pusher. If he was playing with the
big-tentacle crowd and offended someone, that would explain the quick escape.
Whatever, Lucy ain’t winning any family values sweepstakes; hope Ken turns out
to be a good egg. When you gonna go see Daddy?”

“I’m not unless Lucy wants me to. And I’m
not going to bring it up until I’m sure it won’t agitate her.”

“Yeah.” He turned toward the tide pools. A
couple of skiffs were floating out near the kelp beds. “God, it’s gorgeous
here. You could forget what planet you’re on.”

“Sure could,” I said, but I was thinking
of log cabins and the crushing terror darkness could bring to a small child’s
mind.

The phone rang, jolting both of us. I
picked it up.

“Doctor? Ken Lowell. I’m still in Palo
Alto, but I wanted you to know I got that Brentwood place set up for Lucy. I’m
catching a seven o’clock flight, should be able to be there by eight-thirty,
nine. Do you want me to come by and pick her up or should I just meet you
there?”

I asked Milo.

“Tell him to meet us.”

I did.

“See you then,” said Ken. He gave me an
address on Rockingham Avenue. “How’s she holding up?”

“Fine.”

“Good. We Lowell’s are tough—built to take
it.”

He hung up. I gave Milo the address and he
wrote it down. He returned to the table, glanced at the
Shoreline Shopper
piece, and headed for the door. “I’ll see what I can do about locating the PI.
Regards to Beauty and the Beast.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Get Lucy some dinner, and then we’ll
drive over to Brentwood, get her set up. I’m glad he came through.”

“Finally someone in the family does.”

“Yeah.... I was planning to spend the
night with her. Rented a suite—two separate bedrooms and all.”

No one had called by ten the next morning,
so I phoned the Brentwood house. Ken answered, yawning.

“Oh, hi. We didn’t get to sleep till late.
Hold on, I’ll get Lucy.”

Seconds later: “Morning, Dr. Delaware.”

“How’s everything?”

“Fine. I just got up. Ken and I were up
late, talking. Hold on, please—’Bye, Ken—he just left to buy some groceries.
He’s nice.... I keep thinking about Puck—I’m sure he’ll be back any day but...
I guess the last few days are a jumble. It’s hard to believe any of this is
really happening.”

She managed a brief, tight laugh.

“Would you like to come in?” I said.

“I would, but my car’s still back at my
place. I need to get it towed here.”

“I can come out.”

“No, I don’t want to put you through any
more bother.”

“No bother.”

“No, Dr. Delaware, I can’t keep imposing.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lucy. How about
noon?”

“Sure,” she said. “Noon’s fine.” Another
small laugh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Just as I was getting ready to leave,
Sherrell Best phoned. “I’m sure there’s nothing new, doctor, but—”

“Nothing yet, Reverend, though the police
are interested in speaking with Felix Barnard. He’s not in Malibu anymore. Any
idea where he went?”

“Why do they want to speak to him?”

“Normal follow-up.”

“Oh. Of course. No, I’m sorry, I don’t
know where he is. Probably retired. He was in his sixties back then, and he
closed up shop right after he mailed me his report.”

“Your case was his last?”

“The very last—at least that’s what he
told me. I thought his age meant experience, but maybe a young man would have
done better. Some people get to a certain age, it’s hard for them to feel
inspired.”

I got on the highway at eleven. The beach
was placid, the land-side hills upholstered with yellow poppies. Reaching the
pier and passing it, I spied the fat white letters of Shooting the Curl’s
facade and turned left, impulsively, into the shopping center.

Up close the painted sign was cartoonish,
the surfer hyper-muscular with a massive head topped by brass-colored hair and
a grinning mouth big enough to swallow a shark. He balanced on a swirl of foam
while giving the thumbs-up sign with a swollen red digit. The white letters had
been touched up recently, and they sparkled in the sun.

I found a parking space in front of the
shop, next to a charcoal-gray BMW coupe with chromed wheels and a rear spoiler.
Despite the customization, the car hadn’t been washed in a while and the marine
air had done its job on the paint. The license plate read
SHT CRL. A bumper sticker said SAVE THE COAST, and a
blue handicapped-parking permit rested atop the dashboard.

A cement ramp with metal railing led to
the entrance of the store. Brass wind chimes tinkled as I stepped in; then I
was assaulted by the drum solo from
Wipeout.
The store was double-width,
with one half devoted to surfboards, custom wet suits, and surfing
paraphernalia, the other to beachwear, suntan lotion, and posters, mostly
variations on the tiny-man-rides-monster-wave theme or flesh-in-your-face shots
of overripe women in micro-bikinis. Logos filled the rest of the wall space:
BODY GLOVE. ONE WAVE. NO FEAR.

A few girls in their late teens browsed
the poster bin, giggling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the swimwear,
fascinated by the neoprene bathing suits. No one worked the clothing counter,
but a man in his forties sat behind the surfboard register, eating a fast-food breakfast
from a Styrofoam box and looking down at something. Above him a pink banner
screamed
SEX WAX!

Without glancing up, he said, “What can I
do for you?”

“Just browsing.”

He forked something into his mouth, and I
noticed the sports section in his other hand. His hair was longish, very thin,
minnow-silver, combed across his forehead but unable to hide the sunburnt skin
of his brow. He had well-proportioned features, except for light-brown eyes
that were set too close. His skin had loosened its hold on the bones below. The
eyes were bloodshot and bagged and, though he was lean, a second chin tugged at
his first. He wore a lime-colored polo shirt with sleeves that reached his
elbows. His shoulders were broad, his forearms chunky and furred with gray hair
that nearly obscured an anchor tattoo.

The music switched to the Beach Boys’ “In
My Room.” One of the browsing girls brought a rolled poster over to the clothes
counter and looked around as she fished money out of her jeans.

The man said, “I’ll take that here.”

He put down his paper. The girl came up
and paid for her poster and left with her friends, laughing.

The man swallowed a mouthful of egg-muffin
and watched the girls wiggle the glass doors.

“Having fun,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “You see what she bought?
Stud poster—centerfold from
Pretty Boy.
It’s meant for gays, but they
put out a calendar and it sold so well to women, they decided to market the
months separately.” He grinned. “In our day, girls weren’t like that, huh?”

“Not the ones I knew.”

“So what is it for you?” he said.
“Reincarnation, or just passing through from Chicago?”

“Reincarnation?”

“Second childhood. Second chance at the
big wave. That’s what it usually is when a guy your age comes in. Or a tourist
wanting to bring home a little piece of California for Aunt Ethel.”

I laughed. “I’m looking for bathing
trunks.”

He hit his forehead and gave another grin.
“Wrong again. Good thing I don’t gamble. Suits are over there.”

I went over to a rack marked DUDES and
flipped through the merchandise. A pair of baggy black trunks caught my eye
because of a square patch with a Saint Bernard over the pocket bearing the
legend BIG DOG. The mutt’s tongue was out and he looked mischievous. Clearly a
spiritual brother to Spike. I pulled the shorts off the rack and brought them
up.

The man said, “Cool baggies,” and rang up
the sale.

I said, “What do the guys having a second
childhood usually buy?”

“The works: board, board cover, leash, wet
suit, wax, sport sandals, zinc, hair dye. We have the suits custom-cut for us;
usually they’re freaked out to see what size they take now. Plus all the
changes in board technology. A guy your age might have rode something as big as
a tree trunk. Name of the game now is minimum weight.”