Self-Defense (21 page)

Or maybe Barnard just hadn’t asked the
right questions.

Best had said the detective was
slow-moving, too laid back.

Flipping through the Rostale directory, I
looked for his name in both the yellow pages and the personal listings but
found nothing.

House of cards.

But what Doris had just told me tightened
the connection between Karen Best and Sanctum one tiny notch.

Maybe Sherrell Best’s intuition about the
Sheas was right on target.

Doris was an eager conversationalist.
There’d been no way to bring up Karen’s disappearance with her, but it was
worth another try.

No telling what a little positive
reinforcement could accomplish.

The names of the other Sand Dollar people:

Sue Billings

Mary Andreas

Leonard Korcik

I got home and looked them up. Neither of
the women was in the book, but Korcik, L. T., was listed in Encinal Canyon.

A man answered. “Tree farm.”

“Leonard Korcik, please.”

“This is Len.”

“Are you the same Leonard Korcik who used
to work at the Sand Dollar?”

“No, that’s my dad. Who’s this?”

“I’m working with the police clearing some
old missing persons cases. A girl named Karen Best disappeared a number of
years ago. Your dad was questioned about it, and I just wanted to check a few
things out.”

“My dad died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Did he ever mention Karen
Best?”

“Who?”

“Karen Best.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Twenty-one years.”

He laughed. “I was seven years old, then.
I never heard nothing.”

“What did your dad do at the restaurant?”

“Worked the bar part time and cleaned up.
We got a tree farm. You need any trees, call me.”

Click.

Wendy Embrey phoned just before five.
“Can’t be sure, but my bet is she’ll be back in your court.”

“Why’s that?”

“The minute I told her I was authorizing
her release, she closed up—friendly but clearly nothing to say.”

“What makes you think she’ll want to see
me?”

“I asked her if you’d visited and she lit
up. If I were you, I’d be checking my transference meter regularly.” Straining
for graciousness, but an edge had come into her voice.

“I’m not so sure,” I said. “When I was
there she said something about not needing any therapy at all.”

“Great,” she said. “There’s some A-plus
reality testing for you. Well, you can only lead them to water—lack of insight
isn’t grounds for extending the seventy-two. Anyway, her father called me.
Since I’m probably out of the picture, I thought I’d pass that along.”

“When did he call?”

“This morning.” She read off a number very
quickly.

“Was there a message?” I said, copying.

“Nope, just to call him. Good luck. She’s
getting out tonight.”

A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Dr. Delaware returning Mr. Lowell’s
call.”

“Who?”

“I’m his daughter’s psychologist.”

“I thought she was seeing Dr.—”

“Embrey. She’s off the case.”

“Oh.... Well, if you’re the doctor, Mr.
Lowell will have a meeting with
you.”

“About what?”

“Lucretia, I assume.”

“I couldn’t do that without Lucy’s
permission.”

“Hold on.”

A few seconds passed; then a very loud,
deep voice said, “Lowell. Who’re you?”

“Alex Delaware.”

“Delaware. The first state, an ignoble
little backwater. What are you, French Canadian? Acadian? Coon-ass?”

“How can I help you, Mr. Lowell?”

“You can’t help me at all. Maybe I can
help you. My boy snitched on the girl’s attempt to snuff herself, the
implication being, of course, that it was my damned fault, nammer, nammer,
nammer. I doubt she’s changed much, the constipated squall, basic character
never does, so I can give you some piercing insights. Unless you’re one of
those biopsychiatric Frankenmaniacs who believes character is all a matter of
serotonin and dopamines.”

“Which of your sons called you?”

“The opium fiend, who else?”

“Peter?”

“Selfsame.”

“Where’d he call from?”

“How would I know? My girl took it. And
don’t try arraigning me at the Tribunal of Ruined Progeny. Guilt may be your
stock in trade, but it’s not my currency. I’ll see you not tomorrow but the day
after. An hour at the most, significantly less if you annoy me. You’ll come to
me; I don’t travel.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t talk to you
without Lucy’s permission.”

“What?” He laughed so loud I had to move
the phone away from my ear. “
Bedlam
is the New Olympus? The
lunatics
rule the asylum? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Confidentiality, Mr. Lowell.”

“There
are
no secrets, boy. Not in
the massage-message age. McLuhan’s books are a shitbin
—furor loquendi—
but
it’s true we’re all staring up each other’s assholes.... Very well, you’ve lost
your chance.
Salaam,
as the Arabs say, to hell with everyone.”

“If Lucy does consent, I would like the
opportunity to talk to you. May I call you back?”

“
May
you?” He laughed again. “At
your own risk. You may also pass Go or eat raw fish with the Japs or take three
baby steps or fuck yourself with a garden tool.”

Robin and I had dinner out on the deck.
The tide had whipped the sand like cream, and the beach at twilight was a
graying plane of peaks and troughs. I couldn’t stop thinking of my conversation
with Lowell.

Had he missed a dose of lithium, or was he
cultivating nuttiness for attention?

He probably didn’t get much attention
anymore.

Why had he called? His offer to provide
insights was almost comical.

The opium eater.
The hunch about Peter confirmed.

Maybe a shattered career and old age had
finally caused Lowell to survey the ruins of his family.

One child dead, the other three estranged.

An addict, an attempted suicide....

Ken seemed a nice enough fellow, but his
antipathy for his father was right on the surface.

“What’s on your mind, honey?” said Robin.

“Nothing much.”

She smiled and let her hand rest on my
bicep. I tried to chase away clinical thoughts and turned to her. A trace of
color remained in the sky—a paint smear of salmon, capping the sinking sun. It
played on the auburn in her hair and made her eyes coppery and catlike.

“Still at work?” she said, stroking.

“No more.”

I drew her to me and kissed her deeply.
Her tongue lingered in my mouth.

“Carpe foxum,”
I said.

“What’s that?”

“Seize the babe.”

Despite a decent night’s sleep, my first
thought upon waking was: Lucy’s out of the hospital.

I wasn’t happy with the idea of her trying
to make it on her own. But if I pushed she’d probably back away, so I decided
to give her till noon before calling.

In the meantime, I’d catch Milo up on what
Doris Reingold had told me.

He hadn’t come into the station yet and no
one picked up at his home. I called the business number he used for his private
moonlighting and the tape answered: “Blue Investigations.” I left a message.

It was just after nine; Robin and Spike
had been gone for over an hour. I drove to the market at Trancas and bought
groceries, thinking about all the places off the highway where a girl could
disappear. Just as I got home, Milo phoned.

“I’m at Lucy’s place. Can you come out
right now?”

“Is she okay?”

“Physically, she’s fine. Just come out;
we’ll talk once you get here. Here’s the address.”

The street was three blocks north of
Ventura Boulevard. The block was treeless and sun-fried, all apartments, mostly
mega-units with underground parking and security gates that would give an
experienced burglar pause for about twenty seconds. FOR RENT banners and real
estate brokerage signs on most of them. Promises of “move-in incentives.”

Lucy’s building was older and smaller, a
two-story quadriplex of flesh-tone stucco and dark red wood. Two units on top,
two below, each open to the street, with individual entrances set back from a
covered walkway. Another FOR RENT sign staked in the lawn near the ground-level
mailbox.

Her apartment was number 4, upstairs.
Number 3 was vacant. Her welcome mat featured a chipmunk saying “Hi!” The
windows through which Ken had seen her kneeling in the kitchen were masked by
shades. The doorjamb around the hinges was splintered a bit and nailed
together—Ken’s breaking in to save her—but the door was locked. I rang the bell
and Milo parted the shades, then let me in.

The front of the apartment was divided
into living and dining areas. The kitchen was a cubby with avocado cabinets and
white appliances. Barely enough room to kneel. All the walls were off-white,
not that different from the Psych unit at Woodbridge.

The oven was a squat little two-burner
Kenmore, maybe fifteen years old. The dining room table was fake oak surrounded
by three folding chairs. In the living room were a tufted blue velvet love seat
and two matching chairs, a glass-topped coffee table, and a 14-inch television
and a VCR on a rolling stand.

On top of the TV was a single photo, of
Lucy and Peter. Head shots, no identifying background. She was smiling, he was
trying to.

Lucy sat on the blue couch, barefoot,
wearing jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt that said
L.A.’s
the One.
Her hands
gripped each other, and she looked up and gave me a struggling smile. Milo went
and stood behind her. His jacket was over a chair. He wore his revolver in a
waist holster.

He looked at the coffee table. “Look, but
please don’t touch.”

A short stack of magazines had been pushed
to one side. Next to it was a sheet of yellow ruled legal paper; next to that,
a white envelope.

On the paper was a note, typed off-center,
crowding the left margin and the top of the page:

FUCK YOU BITCH IN HELL

JOBE DIES, YOU DIE TWICE

Below that was something affixed to the
page with transparent strips of cellophane tape.

Dark shriveled things, the size and shape
of olive pits.

“Rat turds,” said Milo. “Pending lab
analysis. But I don’t need a tech to tell me.”

“Mailed or delivered?”

“Delivered.”

“Delivered right inside,” said Lucy. “I
found it on the table when I got home last night.”

“What time was that?”

“Three in the morning. They let me out at
one, but then there was paperwork and I left some clothes up in my room and had
to go back. When I got here, the door was unlocked, but I just figured Ken or
the paramedics had forgotten to lock it.” Trying to be calm. Her hands were
white.

“You came home alone?”

She nodded. “I didn’t notice it because I
was tired, just wanted to sleep. I fell off, then I woke up around five to get
a glass of water and saw it.”

“Who has keys to the apartment?”

“Just Peter and myself. And the landlord,
I guess.”

“Who’s the landlord?”

“Some old woman who lives in Port
Hueneme,” said Milo. “Her handyman patched the jamb. I just spoke to him, and
he claims he locked it when he was through.”

“Anything weird about him?”

“Mr. Gonsalvez?” said Lucy. “No, he’s a
sweetie—and he couldn’t have written that, he barely speaks English.”

Milo nodded. Lucy hugged herself.

I found his eye. “Is the lab on its way?”

“Not yet.” To Lucy: “Why don’t you pack
those few things.”

“Can I take a shower? I really don’t think
anyone was in the bathroom.”

“Sure.”

She left. A door closed and a few moments
later the sound of the shower filtered through, like heavy distant rain.

Milo sat down where she’d been. He pointed
to the chair without the jacket, and I took it.

“What do you think?” he said softly.

“The timing is pretty convenient,” I said.
“Out of the hospital a few hours and she gets you right back here. But what
about our theory about Peter’s loan sharks?”

“Loan sharks tend to escalate the
violence. Why would they gas her, than regress to this?”