"Love the company," I said.
She got the pot and another cup. Sitting down opposite me, cigarette fuming, she poured for both of us.
"It's been real nice working here," she said. "So close to the ocean."
"How're things in Ventura?"
"Dying. Who knows, maybe I'll move. Got two grown boys, both in the army. One's in Germany, the other's near Seattle. Or Nevada. I like Nevada; things are booming there."
"Your rich friend can't help you find anything?"
"Nah, like I said, she's out of it. She and her husband own a surf shop- nothing for me to do there."
"Shooting the Curl?"
"Yeah, you know it?"
"I've passed by. Doesn't look like a big business."
"Believe me, it is. They've got a place right on the sand at La Costa – own, not rent- and that ain't Spam salad."
She took a deep drag as her eyes swung toward the window. "Here we go again."
I followed her eyes to the beach. A camera crew was setting up, sound trucks and vans were parked in the background, and a couple dozen people were standing around.
"Commercials," she said. "They come here all the time: suntan lotion, cars, Coca-Cola, you name it. Pay Marvin so much he doesn't have to raise his prices- speaking of the devil."
She looked out toward the front of the restaurant. The white-bearded man was coming toward us, head down, scowling, arms swinging.
She stood and held out a hand to him, smiling and muttering, "Hold your horses, Marvin." He stared at her, then at me, finally turned around and returned to his booth.
"Back to base," she said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Nice talking to you."
"Nice talking to you too."
"Doris," she said, touching her badge. "Ask for me the next time you come in. I'll get you a beach seat…"
Catering jobs, contracted by Gwen Shea.
For anyone who wanted them.
All those chefs… contacts.
Had Karen Best gotten a job at the Sanctum party?
Gone up early to set up and never come back?
I sat in the car and had another look at Best's data sheet.
Felix Barnard, the private eye, hadn't noted anything about moonlighting.
The others not telling him in order to hide it from Marvin?
Or maybe Barnard just hadn't asked the right questions.
Best had said the detective was slow-moving, too laid back.
Flipping through the Rostale directory, I looked for his name in both the yellow pages and the personal listings but found nothing.
House of cards.
But what Doris had just told me tightened the connection between Karen Best and Sanctum one tiny notch.
Maybe Sherrell Best's intuition about the Sheas was right on target.
Doris was an eager conversationalist. There'd been no way to bring up Karen's disappearance with her, but it was worth another try.
No telling what a little positive reinforcement could accomplish.
16
The names of the other Sand Dollar people:
Sue Billings
Mary Andreas
Leonard Korcik
I got home and looked them up. Neither of the women was in the book, but Korcik, L. T., was listed in Encinal Canyon.
A man answered. "Tree farm."
"Leonard Korcik, please."
"This is Len."
"Are you the same Leonard Korcik who used to work at the Sand Dollar?"
"No, that's my dad. Who's this?"
"I'm working with the police clearing some old missing persons cases. A girl named Karen Best disappeared a number of years ago. Your dad was questioned about it, and I just wanted to check a few things out."
"My dad died three years ago."
"I'm sorry. Did he ever mention Karen Best?"
"Who?"
"Karen Best."
"How long ago was this?"
"Twenty-one years."
He laughed. "I was seven years old, then. I never heard nothing."
"What did your dad do at the restaurant?"
"Worked the bar part time and cleaned up. We got a tree farm. You need any trees, call me."
Click.
Wendy Embrey phoned just before five. "Can't be sure, but my bet is she'll be back in your court."
"Why's that?"
"The minute I told her I was authorizing her release, she closed up- friendly but clearly nothing to say."
"What makes you think she'll want to see me?"
"I asked her if you'd visited and she lit up. If I were you, I'd be checking my transference meter regularly." Straining for graciousness, but an edge had come into her voice.
"I'm not so sure," I said. "When I was there she said something about not needing any therapy at all."
"Great," she said. "There's some A-plus reality testing for you. Well, you can only lead them to water- lack of insight isn't grounds for extending the seventy-two. Anyway, her father called me. Since I'm probably out of the picture, I thought I'd pass that along."
"When did he call?"
"This morning." She read off a number very quickly.
"Was there a message?" I said, copying.
"Nope, just to call him. Good luck. She's getting out tonight."
A woman answered. "Yes?"
"Dr. Delaware returning Mr. Lowell's call."
"Who?"
"I'm his daughter's psychologist."
"I thought she was seeing Dr.-"
"Embrey. She's off the case."
"Oh… Well, if you're the doctor, Mr. Lowell will have a meeting with you."
"About what?"
"Lucretia, I assume."
"I couldn't do that without Lucy's permission."
"Hold on."
A few seconds passed; then a very loud, deep voice said, "Lowell. Who're you?"
"Alex Delaware."
"Delaware. The first state, an ignoble little backwater. What are you, French Canadian? Acadian? Coon-ass?"
"How can I help you, Mr. Lowell?"
"You can't help me at all. Maybe I can help you. My boy snitched on the girl's attempt to snuff herself, the implication being, of course, that it was my damned fault, nammer, nammer, nammer. I doubt she's changed much, the constipated squall, basic character never does, so I can give you some piercing insights. Unless you're one of those biopsychiatric Frankenmaniacs who believes character is all a matter of serotonin and dopamines."
"Which of your sons called you?"
"The opium fiend, who else?"
"Peter?"
"Selfsame."
"Where'd he call from?"
"How would I know? My girl took it. And don't try arraigning me at the Tribunal of Ruined Progeny. Guilt may be your stock in trade, but it's not my currency. I'll see you not tomorrow but the day after. An hour at the most, significantly less if you annoy me. You'll come to me; I don't travel."
"Sorry," I said. "I can't talk to you without Lucy's permission."
"What?" He laughed so loud I had to move the phone away from my ear. "Bedlam is the New Olympus? The lunatics rule the asylum? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Confidentiality, Mr. Lowell."
"There are no secrets, boy. Not in the massage-message age. McLuhan's books are a shitbin- furor loquendi-but it's true we're all staring up each other's assholes… Very well, you've lost your chance. Salaam, as the Arabs say, to hell with everyone."
"If Lucy does consent, I would like the opportunity to talk to you. May I call you back?"
"May you?" He laughed again. "At your own risk. You may also pass Go or eat raw fish with the Japs or take three baby steps or fuck yourself with a garden tool."