Self-Defence

'No direct involvement, so far, other than the fact that they may have hired Karen to work at the party. And we still haven't been able to verify that.'

'I can't believe that. Their evasiveness. Look what just happened. If she's innocent, why didn't she call the police on me? And their shop's been closed for two days, no sign of him. So maybe he knows something's up and has left town. Isn't flight the first sign of guilt?'

'How do you know about the shop, Reverend?'

He didn't answer.

'More surveillance?'

His smile was grim.

'What made you decide to watch them now?'

'Talking to you on the phone the other day. I could tell from your voice that you were on to something. Is your patient ready to meet me yet?'

'My patient's in mourning. Death in the family.'

'Oh, no.' He put his hands on the steering wheel and sank down. 'I'm so sorry. Was he- or she- close to the deceased? Can you at least tell me the sex of the person you've been talking to, so I can pray accordingly?'

'A woman.'

'I thought so,' he said. 'A woman's compassion… poor thing. Hopefully the time will come when she'll be able to step away from her grief.'

'Hopefully.'

'Of course you can't rush her. Those things can't be rushed.'

He turned and gripped my hand. 'When she is able to- whenever it is- call me. Maybe I can help. Maybe we can help each other.'

I nodded and got out of the car.

Through the passenger window, he said, 'You're a good man. Forgive me for not believing your intentions.'

'Nothing to forgive.'

'Are you religious, doctor?'

'In my own way.'

'What way is that?'

'I don't believe the world's random.'

'A major leap of faith,' he said. 'I try to renew it in my own mind, every day. Some days are easier than others.'

37

'Everything's surreal,' said Lucy.

It was 9 A.M. and I'd finally reached her at the Brentwood house.

'In what way?'

'One moment I'll be talking to him and it feels so real. Then I'll wake up and realize I've been dreaming and the truth hits me… I guess that's normal.'

'Very much so.'

'I've been doing nothing but sleeping. Can't help it, I feel drugged. Every time I try to get up, I just want to crawl right back. Should I force myself to stay awake?'

'No, let nature take its course.'

'God, I miss him!'

She started to cry.

'I'm not angry at him, he couldn't help it. Getting hold of such strong stuff, not knowing… When he was hungry for it, he couldn't think about anything else.'

More tears.

'Such pain… what a waste. My heart feels as if it's really breaking- I don't know if I'll ever feel totally good again.'

'Everything takes time, Lucy.'

'I can't do hypnosis, can't focus on anything- I'm sorry.'

'Nothing to be sorry for.'

'Later. We'll do it later. All I can do now is cry and sleep- I don't even want to talk. I'm sorry.'

'It's okay, Lucy.'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she mocked herself. 'Sorry for the world. For Carrie Fielding and the others. And Puck. And Karen. I haven't forgotten her. I won't forget.'

***

Three psychopaths in the forest.

Barnard learning something about it. Dead.

The Sheas, living on the sand.

Doris Reingold, alive and poor. Gambling away her payoff?

Spirited out of town by Tom Shea. Into hiding, or something more final?

I played with it some more. Barnard kept popping up in my thoughts, like one side of a loaded die.

If he'd been murdered because he was a blackmailer, the conspicuous nature of his death made sense: A corpse on a motel bed had plenty of educational value.

Who'd done the shooting? The murder had taken place a full year after Karen's disappearance. By then, Mellors- or whatever his real name was- was working for App, and Trafficant had vanished.

And M. Bayard Lowell was living in splendid isolation in Topanga Canyon.

I didn't see the Great Man risking a meeting at a sleazy motel.

And why that particular dirty-sheets dive?

Because it catered to hookers? Mo Barnard had described Felix as a womanizer. Had he been lured there with the promise of another payoff- the bigger one he'd pressed for? Happy to enjoy a quickie while he waited?

I pictured him, pants down and happily expectant, on a narrow gray bed in a darkened room, porno on video, booze on the nightstand.

A woman in hotpants and spike heels. She smiles and ducks into the bathroom with a wink and a 'One minute, honey.'

The toilet flushes. Water runs. Barnard concentrates on the movie, oblivious to the door opening.

Someone rushes to the side of the bed and begins squeezing off rounds.

Someone with a key. The clerk paid off? The hooker in on it, too?

But, still, why that motel? Three miles east, Hollywood was crammed with mattress palaces.

Maybe because the killer knew that place well enough to set up an inside job.

The police had never suspected. According to Milo, the motel was a chronic trouble spot, so one more felony- even a homicide- would be no great surprise.

Barnard had led a pathetic life, spending his days prying into other people's secrets, taking money to look into cold cases.

Twenty years later, his own file was stone cold.

An inconsequential man. Had the papers even bothered to write up his death?

***

This time I stayed closer to home and used the main Santa Monica library on 6th Street. Barnard's name wasn't