Self-Defence

'The only one I have,' said the operator, 'is a Dr. Winston Mullins, but that's in Englewood.'

At that number, a man with an elderly, cultured voice said, 'Hello?'

'Dr. Mullins?'

'Yes. Who's this?'

I gave him the biography story.

No reply.

'Dr. Mullins?'

'I'm afraid I can't help you. Darnel's been dead for a long time.'

'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'Yes,' he said. 'A little over twenty years. I guess I never called Columbia to notify them.'

'Was he ill?'

'No, he was murdered.'

'Oh, no!'

'Out where you are, matter of fact. He had an apartment in Hollywood. Surprised a burglar, and the burglar shot him. They never caught the man. I'm sure Darnel would have liked to talk to you. He always wanted to be a writer.'

'Yes, I know, I've got one of his articles here with me.'

'Really?'

'Something from the Manhattan Book Review. He used a pen name. Denton-'

'Mellors,' he said. 'After a character in a dirty book. He did that because I didn't approve of that paper- too left-wing. After that, he kept using it, maybe to prove something to me, though I don't know what.'

He sounded very sad.

'It says here he was working on a novel,' I said.

'The Bride. He never finished it, I've got the manuscript. I tried to read it. Not my type of thing but not bad at all. Maybe he could have gotten it published… sorry I couldn't help you.'

'What kind of a book is it?'

'Well,' he said, 'that's hard to say. There's some romance in it- a young man's book, I guess. Learning the ropes, falling in love. A coming-of-age novel, I suppose you'd call it.'

Feeling like dirt, I said, 'Would it be possible to send me a copy? Maybe I can quote from it in my book.'

'Don't see why not. It's just sitting in a drawer here.'

I gave him my address.

'Malibu,' he said. 'You must be a successful writer. Darnel said that's where the successful people live.'

***

Literary critic to aspiring novelist to motel manager.

Working for some guys from Reno.

The Advent Group. Why was that name familiar?

Even while managing the motel, he'd held on to his ambition.

Kicking Sylvester out of the office to use the typewriter from time to time.

From the way Sylvester had reacted to my questions, I was sure one of those times had been the night of the Barnard hit.

Mullins setting up the hit, maybe even pulling the trigger.

Finished off, himself, a few months later.

A light-skinned black man. Blond, blue eyes.

Light, fuzzy mustache, not the dark scimitar Lucy remembered, but as I'd told Lucy, dreams play fast and loose with reality.

Something else didn't fit. Dr. Mullins's description of The Bride bore no similarity to the trash App had given me. Had Mullins used the same title for two disparate works?

Or had App given me the script summary as a diversion? Directing my attention to Mullins because he had something to hide?

I remembered my initial scenario of Karen's disappearance: a man in a fancy car picking her up on the road to Topanga. It didn't get much fancier than a red Ferrari.

Still, there was nothing connecting App to Karen, and Mullins wasn't coming across like some innocent shill.

I thought of the way his career had dived after Karen's disappearance.

Lowell distancing himself from co-conspirators?

Eliminating the undependable ones?

Karen, Felix Barnard, Mullins. And where was Trafficant?

But the Sheas still lived on the beach.

***

I left a note for Robin and hit the highway once more. Gwen's van was parked in front of her house. Cars were lined up all along the beach side. No space for the Seville, but the land side was nearly empty. I pulled over and was about to chance a run across the highway as soon as northbound traffic thinned when I saw the van's headlights go on. It sat there idling, then pulled out.

It took a minute or so to get into the center turn lane, another few to pull off a three-point and head south. I put on as much speed as the traffic could bear and finally saw the van, eight or nine lengths up. It stopped at the light at the bottom of the ramp up to Ocean Front Avenue. By the time it was heading east on Colorado, I was three lengths behind and maintaining that distance.

I followed it to Lincoln Boulevard, where it headed south again, through Santa Monica and Venice, then over to Sepulveda, where it continued at a steady pace, making more lights than it missed.

We crossed into Inglewood, a mixture of Eisenhower-era suburbs and new Asian businesses. Fifteen minutes later, we were approaching Century Boulevard.

The airport.

The van entered the Departure lanes and continued to the parking lot opposite the Bradley International Terminal. It rode around a while, trying to find a ground-floor space, though the upper levels were less crowded. I parked on the third level, took the stairs down, and was waiting behind a hedge when Gwen emerged, ten minutes later, pushing Travis in his wheelchair, her purse over her shoulder.

No baggage.

Jets thundered overhead. Cars sped along the road, which snaked through the airport like a freeway.

Gwen walked to an intersection. A red light stopped her before she could cross the street to the terminal. Travis twisted his head, moved his mouth, and rolled his eyes. Gwen looked around nervously. I hung back and kept my head down.

She wore an expensive-looking white linen dress and white flats. A string of pearls glimmered around her neck. Her short dark hair shone, but even at this distance her eyes were old.

Short hair. Somber look. The grumpy baby-sitter Ken remembered?

Abandoning her post, then returning to discover Lucy gone?

Going to look for her and finding her sleepwalking?

Seeing and hearing what Lucy had would have been grounds for a payoff.

The light turned green and she entered the terminal's big, bright, green-glassed atrium. A dozen airlines flew out of here. She headed for the Aeromexico desk. Waiting in the First Class line, she moved up quickly to the clerk. He smiled at her, then listened to what she had to say. Travis was twisting and turning in the chair. People stared. The terminal was crowded. Phony nuns panhandled. I picked up an abandoned newspaper and pretended to read it, looking, instead, at a TV screen filled with flight information.

Aeromexico 546, leaving in one hour for Mexico City.

The clerk was shaking his head.

Gwen looked at her watch, then turned and pointed at Travis.