Self-Defense (17 page)

Silence.

“Who
is
this?”

Her voice had ratcheted tight. A phony
story wouldn’t work.

“My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m a
psychologist who sometimes works with the Los Angeles police. Karen’s name came
up in a review of missing persons cases that I’ve been following up.”

“Following them up how?”

“Checking whether or not the person ever
showed up.”

“Why?” More tension. My gut was tight,
too.

“Because they may relate to a current
case. I’m sorry, but I can’t say any more, Mrs.—”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Delaware. You can call Detective Milo
Sturgis at the West Los Angeles Substation for verification.”

I started to recite Milo’s number.

She broke in. “Hold on.”

The phone clanged down.

Moments later, a man said, “This is Craig
Best. Karen was my sister. What’s going on?”

I repeated what I’d told his wife.

“No, she was never found. What is this,
some sort of a research project?”

“Your sister’s name came up in
relationship to another case.”

“What kind of case?”

“An individual here in L.A.’s having
memories of seeing a young woman abducted at a certain time and place. We’ve
been reviewing missing persons cases that might be related.”

“Memories? What, some kind of psychic?
’Cause we went through all that.”

“No. This is a possible witness, but I
have to emphasize it’s very tenta—”

“What time and place are you talking
about?”

“The Malibu area. Mid-August. Your sister
was working as a waitress at a place called—”

“The Sand Dollar. Before that she worked
in Beverly Hills.”

“Waitressing?”

“Yeah, a Chinese place, Ah Loo. She got
jobs in the fancy neighborhoods because she wanted to be an actress and thought
she’d run into movie stars. God knows who she
did
run into. What makes
you think it was Karen this witness saw?”

“We don’t think anything of the sort, Mr.
Best. The investigation’s still at a very early stage, and I’m sorry if this—”

“Investigation?” he said. “We could never
get Malibu Sheriffs to do a serious one. So what are
you
investigating?”

“Would you mind verifying a few things for
me?” I read off Karen’s height and weight.

He said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Blond hair—”

“Jesus,”
he said. “I can’t believe that’s still on there. We
told them she dyed it brunette that summer. Brilliant!”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d she go from blond to brunette? It’s
usually the other way around.”

“That was her point.
Everyone
in
L.A. was blond. She wanted to stand out. Her natural hair was gorgeous; my
parents thought it was—what color hair did this supposed witness see?”

“It’s by no means a clear memory, but the
girl’s described as having long dark hair and long legs.”

Silence.

“Karen had
really
long legs;
everyone said she should model—Lord Jesus, are you telling me we might finally
get
something here?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “Everything’s
very tentative.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course. Sure. No
reason to start hoping now. Nothing to hope for anyway. She’s dead. I accepted
that years ago, haven’t thought of her as alive in a long time. But my father...
it was him you were calling, wasn’t it? He’ll freak out.”

“He still thinks she’s alive?”

“At this point, I don’t know what he
thinks. Let’s just say he’s not the type to let go. Looking for Karen wiped him
out financially. We bought the house from him as a favor, after my mother died
and he moved to California.”

“He lives out here?”

“Highland Park.”

An hour and a half drive from Malibu. I
said, “Did he move in order to look for Karen?”

“That was the official reason, but he’s...
what can I say? He’s my dad. Speak to him, see for yourself.”

“I don’t want to upset him.”

“Don’t worry—you couldn’t. Here’s the
address and number.”

I thanked him.

He said, “Now what do you mean by
abducted? Kidnapped, something worse?”

“The witness remembers seeing a girl being
carried off by some men, but the witness was very young at the time, so the
details may not be accurate. It may not even have been Karen. I’m sorry for
having to make this call without giving you something more concrete. We’re a long
way from hard evidence.”

“Very young. You mean a
kid
?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. So this really
is
pretty weak.
Are there other girls involved, too? Because I can’t believe you’d go to the
trouble just for Karen. Is this some sort of serial killer thing?”

“There’s no reason to believe that, Mr.
Best. I promise to let you know if anything comes up.”

“I hope you mean that. Karen was my only
sibling. I’ve got six kids of my own... don’t know what that has to do with
anything.”

I did. Replacement.

“Is there anything else,” I said, “that
you want to tell me about her?”

“What’s to tell? She was beautiful, sweet,
a real good kid. She’d be forty next month. I thought about that when I turned
thirty-eight. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I’m not in any—”

“Bottom line,” he said sadly. “She has to
be. I knew something bad happened when she stopped calling—she always called,
at least once a week on Sunday, usually other days too. She’d never have let us
dangle all these years. If she was alive, we’d have heard from her. She got
involved with something terrible out there. If you find out what, no matter how
bad it is, call me. Don’t rely on my dad to tell me. Give me your number.”

I did, along with Milo’s.

Before I hung up, he thanked me, and that
made me feel low.

Twenty-one years of grief.

Sherrell Best’s number stared up at me. It
wasn’t going to get easier.

A woman’s taped voice answered.

“Welcome to the Church of the Outstretched
Hand. If you’re calling about food donations, our warehouse is located on
Sixteen-seventy-eight North Cahuenga Boulevard, between Melrose and Santa
Monica. Our drop-off chute is open twenty-four hours a day—”

Figuring it for a wrong number, I hung up,
redialed, and got the same tape. This time I listened to the end.

“... specially canned goods, powdered
milk, and baby formula. If you’re calling for spiritual guidance, our
twenty-four-hour Help Line is...”

I copied that number down. The tape ended
with a quote from First Corinthians:

“Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us:
Therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, neither with the leaven
of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and
truth.”

The Help Line was answered by another
woman. I asked for Sherrell Best.

“The Reverend’s out in back with the
packages. Can I help you?”

I gave her the police psychologist
semi-truth.

“The police?” she said. “Is there some
problem?”

“It’s concerning the Reverend’s daughter.”

“Karen?” Her voice jumped an octave.

“Yes.”

“One
minute.”

Seconds later, a man said, “Sherrell Best.
What about Karen?”

I started to give him my intro.

He said,
“Please,
sir. Tell me
about
Karen.”

I repeated the story I’d told his son.
When I was finished, he said, “Praise the Lord, I knew she’d be found.”

“Reverend Best, I don’t want to—”

“Don’t worry, sir, I don’t expect her to
be restored. There was only one Rebirth. But the truth—I knew it would come
out. “In your patience possess ye your souls.’ ”

“We don’t really have the truth, Reverend.
Just—”

“This is the
beginning,
sir. What
does this witness remember?”

“Just what I told you. Sir.”

“Well, I have things for
you.
Names, dates, clues. May I show them to you? It may sound stupid, but, please,
would you humor an old maniac?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“When can we meet? I’ll come to you.”

“How about tomorrow?”

Pause. “If need be, sir, I’ll wait until
tomorrow, but today would be better.”

“I could meet you tonight,” I said.
“Around nine.”

“Nine would be perfect. Where shall it be?
The file’s at my home.”

“Your home’s fine.”

“I live in Highland Park.” Repeating the address
his son had given me. “Where are you coming from?”

“The west side.”

“If you’d like I can come to you.”

“No, it’s no problem.”

“You’re sure? All right, then. I can have
it all organized for you by the time you get there. Will you have time for
dinner? I can prepare something.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Coffee, then? Or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” he said, as if committing a menu
to memory. “I look forward to it, sir. God bless you.”

At eight-fifteen, I left Robin and Spike
in the garage workshop and drove over Malibu Canyon to the 101. Midway through
the Valley it turned into the 134, and a few miles later I connected to the
Glendale Freeway south and got off just past Eagle Rock, in Highland Park.

The streets were dark, hilly, and tilting,
crowded with small houses, duplexes, and apartment buildings on scratch lots,
suburban silence broken by a constant freeway dirge. Runt lawns hosted old cars
and trucks. The neighborhood had once been working-class white; now it was
mostly working-class Hispanic. Gangs had made some inroads. A police chief had
lived there, but that hadn’t made much difference.

Sherrell Best’s home was a single that
overlooked a dry wash and the six lanes of asphalt that paralleled it. A box
with a low-pitched tar roof. The stucco was sprayed on and looked pink in the
nightlight. The grass was split by a concrete walkway. Iron grating shielded
the windows.

Spanish music came from the place next
door. Best’s place was silent but all the lights were on—custard-colored
patches behind woven curtains. A twenty-year-old Olds 88 sat in the driveway.

He was at the front door before I got
there, a small round man with a small round head. He wore black-rimmed glasses,
a wash-and-wear white shirt, and a narrow gray clip-on tie.

“Dr. Delaware?” he said, holding the door
open, then closing it behind us and double-bolting. The house smelled of canned
vegetable soup. The front was divided between a low narrow living room and a
dining area even more pinched. The furniture was old and fussy-looking and arranged
very neatly: polished wood tables with Queen Anne legs, beaded lamps with
floral shades, overstuffed chairs sleeved with doilies. A gray hooked rug
spread on the vinyl floor like a sleeping pet. The walls were covered with
framed posters of biblical scenes. All the characters looked Nordic and on the
brink of emotional collapse.

“Here’s our coffee, sir. Please sit down.”

The dining table was bridge-sized and
metal-legged, crowded with an electric percolator, two plastic cups on saucers,
a box of sugar, a pint container of half-and-half, and a plate of Oreo cookies.
Next to that was a two-foot-square cardboard box labeled KAREN in black marker.

We sat down facing each other and Best
picked up the pitcher and started pouring. His complexion was florid and
mottled, like raw sweetbreads, and his blue eyes popped behind thick lenses.
Furrows scored his brow, as if the flesh had been plowed. The rim of his collar
bit into his neck flesh like a knife in shortening. His mouth was thin, his
nose wide and bulbous with large pores. The little hair he had was slicked and
black.

“Karen looked like her mother,” he said.
“Cream and sugar?”

“Black is fine.” I took the cup.

“Mrs. Best was beautiful,” he said. “Talk
of our town was what did she ever see in me.”

Short laugh. Wide spaces between brown
teeth, lots of silver fillings.

“My son Craig took after her too. Here,
have an Oreo—Karen used to break them apart and eat the filling first. She
could spend half an hour on one cookie.”

Behind him, against a backdrop of fruiting
trees and golden wet sheaves, a wet-eyed Ruth embraced Naomi.

He filled his own cup. “So what, exactly,
led you to Karen?”

“Just what I told you, Reverend.”