“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 . . . unbelievable.”
“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.”
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.
CHAPTER
14
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 dropoff 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.”
“Memories? Do you have children, doctor?”
“No.”
His lips puckered and h
is eyes closed for a moment. “Here.” Reaching for the box. “Let me show you what I’ve got, and you tell me if any of it helps you.”
Standing, he shoved his hands deep into the carton, like a surgeon rearranging viscera. What little space was left on the table quickly filled with spiral notebooks, bound stacks of newspaper clippings, and other papers.
He untied the clippings first and passed them to me. The newsprint was brittle and dry, the color of weak tea. The cutouts were twenty-one years old, all from a beachside throwaway called the Shoreline Shopper.
Best ate a cookie, then another, as he watched me read.
The first pages were taken from the classifieds. Two months’ worth of a Personals ad, circled in blue:
Lost. Reward. Karen Denise Best, 19 y.o., 5-7, 117, blond hair maybe dyed brown, blue eyes, speaks with a New England accent, appendectomy scar. Our daughter was last seen walking up the road to PCH at the Sand Dollar Restaurant in Paradise Cove. We love her very much and miss her and we are worried. Please call collect, any hour, to 508-555-4532. Any in formation leading to finding her will be $$$ rewarded.
“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.
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