Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"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."

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." Another 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.

A few girls in their late teens browsed the poster bin, giggling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the swimwear, fascinated by the neoprene bathing suits. No one worked the clothing counter, but a man in his forties sat behind the surfboard register, eating a fast-food breakfast from a Styrofoam box and looking down at something. Above him a pink banner screamed SEX WAX!

Without glancing up, he said, "What can I do for you?"

"Just browsing."

He forked something into his mouth, and I noticed the sports section in his other hand. His hair was longish, very thin, minnow-silver, combed across his forehead but unable to hide the sunburnt skin of his brow. He had well-proportioned features, except for light-brown eyes that were set too close. His skin had loosened its hold on the bones below. The eyes were bloodshot and bagged and, though he was lean, a second chin tugged at his first. He wore a lime-colored polo shirt with sleeves that reached his elbows. His shoulders were broad, his forearms chunky and furred with gray hair that nearly obscured an anchor tattoo.