Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"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.

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.