Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“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—”

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