“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.”
CHAPTER
19
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.