“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.”
“Was that the end of it?”
He sighed. “I did drive by their house, once or twice a week. Then they upped and left—moved out of Malibu. If that isn’t guilt, I don’t know what is. I called up the restaurant, pretending to be a friend, and was told they’d gone to Aspen. But they’ve been back in Malibu for over sixteen years. Own a place called Shooting the Curl—surfing supplies shop, near the pier. Doing very well, I might add. Tom drives one of those BMWs and Gwen has a fancy van.”
“You still drive by.”
“Only once a year, Dr. Delaware. On the anniversary of Karen’s disappearance.”
“Do you do anything else?”
“Do I try to talk to them? No, what would be the use? For me, it’s a day of reflection. I drive from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara. If I see a homeless person, I stop and give them food. Sometimes I pull over at a campsite, but I don’t talk to anyone or show Karen’s picture. What would be the sense showing the picture of a nineteen-year-old girl?”
He looked down. Hooked his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes again. “She’s almost forty by now, but I still think of her as nineteen.… Don’t worry, doctor, I don’t bother the Sheas. Whatever they did, they have to live with. And they have their own troubles now: a crippled child. Maybe one day they’ll come to see that Providence and Fate emanate from the same place. When you approach them, don’t mention my name, I’m sure they think of me as a raving lunatic.”
“How long was Karen out in California before she disappeared?”
“Five months.”
“How often did she write?”
“She never wrote. She phoned. Always on Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday and Friday. That’s why we were alarmed that first Sunday. She was like clockwork when it came to those Sunday phone calls. We phoned the restaurant, and they said she hadn’t shown up for work.”
“I assume she never said anything on a previous call that hinted at her disappearance.”
“Nothing. She was happy, enjoying the weather, enjoying her job, everything was fine. She was trying to earn enough money to enroll in acting school.”
“Did she say which school?”
“No, it never got that far.”
“How did you feel about her becoming an actress?”
“We didn’t really think she’d become one. We thought she’d try awhile and come back, go to college, meet someone nice.”
His lip quivered.
“My wife took most of the calls. I was usually at the store. After Karen disappeared, I grew to hate the store. Gave it to Craig, but he sold it and got a job with the state. Building and Safety. After I moved here, my first year was taken up completely by looking for Karen. The second year too, but nothing was turning up. I had time on my hands and started to read the Bible. Till then I wasn’t a religious man—I’d gone to church but I thought about profits and losses while pretending to worship. This time, the Bible started to mean something to me. I found a seminary in Eagle Rock and enrolled. Got ordained five years later and started the church. Do you know what we do?”
“Distribute food to poor people.”
“To anyone, we don’t ask questions. No one gets paid. I live off my Social Security and the few bonds I have left, and the others are all volunteers. Restaurants donate the food. It’s a good life. I only wish Karen were here to see it.”
He gobbled a cookie and swallowed coffee that had to be cold.
I looked at the cardboard box.
He emptied the rest of the contents onto the table. “I’m going to clean up.”
Clearing the dishes, he began washing them.
I opened the first of four photograph albums covering Karen Best’s development from infancy to young womanhood. Taped to the second was a tiny envelope labeled First haircut.
Holding the packet up to the light I saw several curly snippets inside.
Grade school graduation program. Karen, the winner of a Good Citizenship award.
High school yearbook, Karen in French Club and Song Girls. Karrie. Her eyes speak volumes.
A prom shot: Karen beautiful and mature-looking by now, her blond hair long and silky and curled at the ends. On the arm of a gawky boy with a dark Beatles do and a struggling mustache.
A dessicated orchid corsage in a stiff plastic packet embossed with the name of a N
ew Bedford florist.
A hundred or so copies of the sheet Best had given me, bound by rubber bands.
A copy of the Lord’s Prayer.
I put it all back. Best was standing over the kitchen sink, hands in plastic gloves, the water full blast and steaming.
I went in.
As he washed, he stared at something over the faucet.
Another Bible picture, this one a black-and-white etching.
A young woman being dragged by her hair.
Dinah’s Abduction by Shechem.
Best’s gloved hands were clenched. The steam had fogged his glasses and his lips moved rapidly.
Praying.
CHAPTER
15
When I got back, I read the Bible. What I learned made it hard for me to fall asleep.
The next morning, Robin and I had breakfast in town; then I drove back to the library and had a second look at the newspaper account of the Sanctum party. August 15. Karen Best had been last seen the night before.
After xeroxing the article, I called Milo. He was out but Del Hardy picked up. The black detective was Milo’s occasional partner, but they hadn’t worked together recently.
“Hey, doc, how’s it going?”
“Pretty good. How’s the guitar?”
“Sitting in a closet, no time to play. Listen, Bigfoot’s finishing up a robbery at the Smart Shop on Palms, maybe you can catch him.”
He gave me the number, and I talked to a female officer who finally put me through to Milo.
“Morning salutations.” He sounded distracted.
“Don’t want to bug you but—”
“Nah, I’m finished here. What’s up?”
I told him.
“The Best girl,” he said. “Wasn’t she a blonde?”
“She dyed her hair that summer. And according to her brother she had very long legs. It may turn out to be nothing, but I just—”
“It—uh-oh, TV crew just drove up, gotta split. Where are you?”
“Westwood.”
“Meet me at Rancho Park, on the north end, past the baseball diamond—take the first entrance past the golf course and go as far as you can. You’ll know me ’cause I won’t be feeding the ducks.”
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