“When did you speak with him?”
“Yesterday. I tried to get hold of you to tell you. I have some other stuff to talk about too, but let’s figure out what to do with Lucy first.”
“I could put her in a hotel, but any place above a fleabag is gonna eat into her money pretty damn fast.”
“What about Ken? He’s in real estate—deals with distressed properties. Even if he doesn’t have anything himself, he might know of a low-cost, short-term rental. Here or up in Palo Alto. Maybe she should go out of town for a while.”
“It’s a thought,” he said. “She talked about him a little, wanting to thank him for saving her but not knowing how to approach him. How weird it was having a brother she didn’t know. Then she changed the subject to the Puckster. Worried that he hasn’t called.”
“Worried, not angry?”
“Worried. I got the feeling she’s been worrying about him for a long time.”
“I’m sure she has,” I said. “She say anything more about him?”
“No, and I didn’t push.… Okay, can you reach Ken?”
“I’ve got his card.”
The bedroom door opened and Lucy came in the room, toweling her hair.
“Definitely nothing else missing,” she said. “My stuff’s all intact.”
“Good,” said Milo. He got up and held out a chair for her.
CHAPTER
18
“Another trial,” she said. “Carrie’s poor parents going through it again—all the families. You really think those horrible girls could be behind this?”
“We don’t know,” said Milo. “But publicity’s their meat. That’s why we want to keep you safe and do it quietly.”
“My—” She bit her lip.
“What, Lucy?” I said.
“The … oven. I’d been starting to wonder if I really—but do you think someone could have done that to me? Drugged me somehow? Remember how I mentioned feeling drugged to you, a couple of sessions ago?”
I nodded.
“I thought I was just tired,” she said. “Too much work, not enough sleep. But—could it be?”
“Anything’s possible,” I said.
She raised her knees to her chin. Her arms were around her legs and her body looked very small. “Well, do what you need to get to the bottom of it. Don’t worry about me, I’ll handle whatever comes along.”
“Publicity would mean more than just a new trial,” I said. “Instant celebrity, including the three days you spent at Woodbridge.”
That made her flinch. “Oh … the crazy juror … oh, boy.”
Looking at Milo.
He said, “I’m going to fingerprint your apartment myself instead of calling in the lab. It’ll take longer, but I’ll be able to keep it under wraps. Depending upon what I find, we’ll take it from there. Has anyone visited you recently?”
“No. No one.”
“I’ll also find you a temporary place for the next day or so. After that, we thought we’d ask Ken to look into something ’cause he’s in real estate. You okay with that?”
“Guess so. Sure.” To me: “Would he want to?”
“At the hospital he mentioned wanting to meet you. Though I’m sure he’s a little nervous about it.”
She smiled. “Like I’m really scary.”
“The unknown is scary.”
The smile faded.
She began packing, and I returned to Malibu and called Ken’s office. No secretary. I spoke to his answering-machine tape, and he came on the line as soon as I mentioned my name.
“Hi, doc, what’s up?”
I told him.
“Someone broke in?”
“Lucy said she found the door open when she came home.”
“Shit. I bet I left it open. I was in such a hurry to get her to the hospital—”
“No, the lock was fixed after that, and the handyman claims the door was locked. So either he was careless or someone jimmied it.”
“Why would—maybe someone was casing the neighborhood, knew she was out. Did they take anything?”
“No, they just left the note. Detective Sturgis is looking into it, but we need to keep it quiet. To avoid publicity that might hurt Lucy and give Shwandt a retrial.”
“Hurt her how?”
“If the story gets out, someone could do some checking and find out about her seventy-two hours at Woodbridge.”
“Oh. Yeah, I see what you mean. That would be terrible.”
“In the meantime, we’re trying to find a safe place for her to stay. Your brother’s still out of town, and we wondered if you could put her up in Palo Alto.”
“That’s okay with Lucy?”
“She’s a bit nervous about meeting you, but you’d be doing her a great favor.”
“Then, sure. But she doesn’t even need to come up here. The company’s got lots of vacant properties in L.A. Most are low-income, but some are pretty nice.… I think there’s a really good one in Brentwood, totally furnished. I was planning to fly down tonight anyway; let me check—unless you think she should leave town.”
“No,” I said. “A secure place down here would be fine.”
“I could stay with her, if that’ll help. I couldn’t stick with her every moment, but I’d be home most nights.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Ken.”
“Sure, no problem. Glad to be useful.”
Milo called at three-thirty to say he was on the way over. He arrived just after four.
“Got her over at the Ramada on Beverly Drive and Pico, registered under my name.” He gave me the room and the phone number.
“She okay by herself?”
“Seems to be. I gave her all the usual precautions, though I can’t see how anyone could possibly find her there.”
“After spending more time with her, any new thoughts about her credibility?”
“She seems goddamn credible, nothing shaky or flaky. If she’s lying, she’s either totally nuts or a stone psychopath, and I can’t believe I’m that gullible.”
“It’s not a matter of gullible. All of us are like locks. No matter how strong the bolt, there’s always a key out there that opens it.”
“So what’re you saying? I’m a sucker for her? You think she’s lying?”
“I think she’s a very confused young woman. The dream, now this. I’m having trouble sorting out reality, so I imagine it’s pretty tough for her.”
“You only answered one question.”
“Do I think you’re a sucker for her? I’d term it emotionally susceptible, and, yeah, you sure are. Do I think it’s bad? No. She needs help and you’re providing it. Like you said, the worst that can happen is you get snookered. Any more discussion about your being gay?”
“Nope, it didn’t come up.” He looked burdened.
“What?” I said.
“What’s the other stuff you said you wanted to talk to me about?”
“The Karen Best scenario looks a little less theoretical. I was over at the Sand Dollar yesterday and happened to get served by a waitress named Doris Reingold. She was on Best’s list—been working there all this time. She told me Gwen Shea recruited staffers regularly for nighttime catering gigs. Karen’s name didn’t come up—there was no way to work it into the conversation. But Best did say Karen was friendly with the Sheas. It’s logical they’d have thrown some work her way. So maybe she worked the Sanctum party.”
“Why didn’t the private eye find any of this out?”
“Maybe he was incompetent and didn’t ask the right questions. The staff kept catering gigs quiet. The Dollar’s owner didn’t approve.”
He pushed back from the table and stretched his legs. “You just happened to get served by her, huh?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“And you just happened to be eating there.”
“Place has a great view,” I said.
He looked at the glass doors. “Like you need to go somewhere for that.”
“I didn’t tu
rn any rocks over,” I said. “Doris thinks I’m just a friendly guy who tips big. And it’s at least thought-provoking, isn’t it? Karen fits the girl in Lucy’s dream, she disappears the night before the party. Big bash like that could have taken a couple of days to set up. Maybe she went up early. If the Sheas hired her and something happened to her, that would be a fine reason for them to act evasive with her father. Throw in Trafficant and his disappearance, and it’s a little more than random numbers, wouldn’t you say?”
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 Lowells 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.”
CHAPTER
19
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.” An
other 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.
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