Self-Defense (16 page)

Another pause. “Different things, over the
years.”

She turned around, brown eyes hot. “Right
now, he’s not doing anything. He has three years of college with a major in
history. Try to find something decent with that. Well, I’m sure he’ll be back
soon and we’ll straighten it out. I’ve got lots of things to straighten out.
Thank God I’m getting out soon.”

I left the hospital parking lot and got
onto the freeway. I agreed with Embrey: Lucy really believed she hadn’t tried
to kill herself.

Had
the walk to the oven occurred during sleepwalking?

Not impossible, I supposed. For some
people, slumber could be a shadow life. Some sleepwalkers denied walking; lots
of snorers claimed they were silent. I’d seen patients experience shrieking
night terrors only to wake up the next morning claiming they’d had sweet
dreams. The man who’d tried to strangle his wife in his sleep refused to
believe it until confronted by videotape.

And Lucy did have a history of fractured
sleep.

So maybe it all boiled down to a
physiological quirk.

But what of her newly expressed belief
that someone had stolen her underwear?

The hang-up calls... delusional thinking?

Embrey had found no psychosis or major
personality disorder, and neither had I.

Both of us wanting to believe the best?

Even Milo had put aside his cop cynicism and
gotten more involved with her than anyone he’d met on the job before.

I remembered his guilt as he aired his
doubts about her credibility.

My quick response that she was needy,
rather than manipulative.

I thought about the way she’d just gotten
me to promise not to collude in locking her up.

My
gut
was telling me she was
sincere, but was that worth as much as I wanted to believe?

Should I have tried to convince her to
stick with Embrey?

Maybe Embrey could handle that on her own.

“Who knows, maybe I don’t even need a
therapist.”

Had I let that go by too easily?

Should haves, could haves....

Tomorrow night she’d sleep in her own bed.

I hoped I hadn’t made a terrible call.

I hoped freedom wouldn’t kill her.

Milo phoned the next day, just after noon,
and I recounted my visit to Woodbridge and Lucy’s feelings about Wendy Embrey.

“What’s Embrey like?”

“Personable, bright, motivated.”

“But she ain’t you.”

“I’m not sure Lucy’ll want me either. Last
night she made noises about dropping out of therapy completely. A moment later,
she’s telling me she’s scared someone’s out to get her.”

I told him about the underwear.

“All of a sudden, she
remembers
this?”

“She passed it off as absentmindedness,
same way she dismissed the phone calls as technical problems. Like I said,
she’s not one to play victim. Has a hard time being dependent. She talks about
her brother, Peter, as being her sole protector, but he’s not exactly coming
through. Out of town on urgent business, even though he hasn’t worked for
years. And he took the time to phone Ken and Embrey but not Lucy.”

“Avoiding her?”

“Looks like it. Lucy insists they’re
close, but he’s an odd one. I met him once when he came with her to a session.
Refused to come in and sat in the car the whole time. Kind of withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn as in schizo?”

“It was only a brief encounter and I
didn’t pick up anything bizarre—more like intensely shy. He was protective
enough to shield her from meeting Ken right away, but when I asked Lucy what he
did for a living she got very defensive and started making excuses for his
being unemployed. As if she’s used to protecting
him.
Now that she’s in
crisis, his failing to come through for her could be traumatic. Another
abandonment’s the last thing she needs.”

“Should I visit her?”

“Embrey suggested you take a low profile
for now, and I agree.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t volunteer, but if she
approaches you, don’t turn her away.”

“When’s she getting out?”

“Tomorrow.”

“All right, you’re the doctors.... Anyway,
what I was calling about is I talked to Malibu Sheriffs and they faxed me—if
you’re still interested in the dream.”

“One way or the other, it’s relevant to
Lucy’s mental state.”

“Well, nothing juicy. No homicides or
attempted homicides of females in the entire beach area from June to November
of that year. And of the eight rapes they’ve got, seven were up in Oxnard, no
victim matches to the long-haired girl. Two of them were probable
domestics—middle-aged women—two were little kids, and the other three were
Mexican bar scenes with hookers, all charges dropped. The eighth one
was
Malibu, but nowhere near Topanga. Ranch up in Decker Canyon, some cowboys
getting drunk and assaulting a lady horse groom.”

“Did the lady have long hair?”

“The lady was fifty-five, two hundred
pounds and gray-haired. No Topanga missing females, either, during that time
span. They did send me paper on four missing persons cases in the area that
never got closed, but once again they were all north, Oxnard and Malibu. Given
the flavor of the times—flower children hitchhiking—four doesn’t seem like a
lot.”

“Do any of the four match the girl in the
dream?”

“I didn’t really study them, Alex. Hold
on, let me pull them out.... Number one is Jessica Martina Gallegos, Oxnard.
Sixteen years old, high school sophomore, black hair, brown eyes, five one,
hundred and fifty—doesn’t sound long and leggy to me—last seen waiting for a
bus at ten
P.M. in front of the Teatro Carnival on
Oxnard Boulevard. The pictures came through the fax pretty grainy, but I can
see enough to tell you she doesn’t have long flowing hair. Short and curly and
light with dark roots.

“Number two, Iris Mae Jenrette,
thirty-two, five-four, one-ten, blond and green, last seen at the Beachrider
Motel, Point Dume.... Apparently this one was out from Idaho on a honeymoon,
had a fight with hubby, took the car, and split, didn’t come home.... Long
hair, but it’s ultra-platinum and teased. Want the other two?”

“Why not.”

“Karen Denise Best, nineteen, five-seven,
one-seventeen, blond and blue.... Waitress at The Sand Dollar Restaurant in Paradise
Cove, last seen working the dinner shift... reported missing by parents from
New Bedford, Mass.; they didn’t get their weekly phone call....

And number four, Christine no-middle-name
Faylen, also nineteen, five-five, one-twenty, brown and brown, freshman at
Colorado State... another tourist, traveling with two friends, staying at a
rented place in Venice. Says here she went for a Coke on the beach at Zuma and
didn’t return to her buddies. Both of those have long straight hair, but only
Faylen’s is dark.”

“Five-five, one-twenty,” I said. “Slender.
She could be leggy. And the circumstances are interesting. Going for a drink in
broad daylight and not coming back?”

“And what? She ends up in Topanga, ten,
fifteen miles away, at a party? For all we know, she showed up the next day and
the friends never bothered to let the sheriff know. Missing persons cases are
like that. And no red flags on any of these. My vote is Lucy never witnessed
any crime, Alex. Either she saw people having sex, and misconstrued it, or
Daddy and/or Scumbag Trafficant did something to
her.
Or the whole
thing’s total fantasy.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“There’s a “but’ in your voice.”

“Would you mind if I did a little
follow-up?”

“What kind of follow-up?”

“Calling the families of the four missing
girls. Especially Faylen.”

“Why, Alex?”

“To eliminate as many variables as
possible for whoever ends up doing therapy with Lucy. For Lucy herself. She’s
sounding more and more confused. The clearer the information we have, the more
likely we are to get close to the truth.”

“What if no one ends up doing therapy with
Lucy? You said she wanted to drop out.”

“Then I wasted a few phone calls. Let’s
say she ends up on
your
doorstep. Wouldn’t you want to know as much as
possible if she starts convincing herself she witnessed a murder?”

“Guess so.... Okay, here’re the numbers, I
hope for your sake all of them did show up. Twenty-one years of grief ain’t a
pleasant thing to dig up.”

I’d copied down:

Jessica Gallegos. Last Seen: 7/2. Parents,
M/M Ernesto Gallegos.

Iris Jenrette. 7/29. Husband, James
Jenrette.

Karen Best. 8/14. Parents, M/M Sherrell
Best.

Christine Faylen. 8/21. Shelley Anne
Daniels, Lisa Joanne Constantino. Parents, M/M David Faylen.

I sat for a long time trying to figure out
how to cushion the shock of each call.

Then I punched buttons.

The Gallegos home number was now Our Lady
of Mercy Thrift Shop. The Ventura/Oxnard directory listed a couple of dozen
Gallegoses, none of them Ernesto or Jessica. The high school student would be
close to forty now, maybe married, maybe with kids of her own....

I turned to the next number. Iris
Jenrette. Boise. A woman answered.

“Is James Jenrette there?”

“He’s at work. Who’s this?”

“I’m calling about some information he
requested on homeowner’s insurance.”

“He never mentioned anything about that.
We’re already insured up the hilt.”

“Is this Mrs. Jenrette?”

“Iris,” she said impatiently. “I don’t
know what he’s up to now. You’ll have to call him back after nine. He’s working
late at the store.”

“Sure,” I said.

Dial tone.

The Best family’s number in Massachusetts
was busy, and at the Faylen household I got a recorded message: an older
woman’s voice softened by an undertone of laughter.

“Hi, you’ve reached the home of Cynthia
and Dave, we’re not in or maybe we are and are just too darn lazy to get off
our butts and come to the phone. So if you’re one of those persistent types,
wait for the proverbial beep and speak your proverbial piece.”

I tried Denver Information for a listing
on Christine Faylen and got one immediately.

“Law offices.”

“Christine Faylen, please.”

“The office is closed, this is the
exchange.”

“I’d like to reach Ms. Faylen. It’s
important.”

“One moment.”

A few minutes later a woman came on.

“Chris Faylen.”

“Ms. Faylen, I’m calling from the Records
Department at the City of Malibu. We’re going through our old files, and your
name came up as the subject of a missing persons report twenty-one years ago.”

“What?”

I gave her the exact date and time. “A
Christine Faylen was reported missing from the Zuma Beach by Shelley Anne
Daniels and Lisa Joanne Constan—”

“Shelley and Lisa, sure, sure, what a
hoot. You’re kidding, that’s still on the
books
?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She broke into loud, hearty laughter.
“Unbelievable. Well, I can assure you I’m not missing—maybe a little mentally,
but the bod’s right here, safe and sound. Ha-ha.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“All this time... no one’s been looking
for me, have they? God, this is so—” Guffaws.

“Not recently, it’s just a matter of—”

“Unbelievable,” she repeated. “What a
scream. Do I have to fill out any forms or anything?”

“No, your verbal assurance is—”

“You’re sure, now? Because I’m an
attorney, it wouldn’t do to be a nonentity. And I’ve seen all sorts of
screw-ups when the paperwork’s not complete—for all I know I haven’t been
accruing my Social Security all this time... unbe
liev
able.”

“None of our records are sent to the
federal government.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Giggles. “Missing persons. Ha ha ha. I was
only gone for three
days,
met a—ha ha, no need to get into that. Anyway,
thanks for calling.”

“Pleasure, Ms. Faylen.”

“Back from the Land of the Missing. Ha ha
ha.”

I tried Karen Best’s number again. This
time the phone rang three times before a woman said, “Hello.”

“Mrs. Best?”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Sherrell Best?”

“No, this is Taffy. Who is this?”

“I’m calling from California, trying to
locate Karen Best.”