Therapy (22 page)

I said, “Criminal burnout. Get to a certain age, and it’s too pooped to pop.”

“Wanna guess how old he is?”

“Fifty?”

“Thirty-eight.”

*

No one sat in the waiting room. Dr. Larsen’s session light was off. Dr. Gull’s shone red.

“It’s three-forty,” I said. “If he does the forty-five-minute hour, he’ll be out shortly.”

“I love your profession,” said Milo. “Imagine if surgeons could do that. Cutting out three-quarters of the appendix and billing.”

“Hey,” I said, “we use the time to chart and to reflect.”

“Or if you’re Dr. Gull, to put back all the stuff you swept off your desk when you decided to reflectively hump your patient all over it.”

“Cynical.”

“Thank you.”

At three-forty-six the door to the waiting room opened and a flushed, attractive woman in her forties backed out, still chattering to Franco Gull.

He was close behind her, holding her by the elbow. When he saw us, he dropped his hand. The woman sensed his tension, and her cheeks pinkened.

I waited for Gull to start sweating, but he recovered his composure and ushered the woman toward the door, saying, “Next week, then.”

The woman was brunette and well padded, swimming in a sea of gray cashmere. She brushed at her hair, favored us with a brittle smile, and left.

Gull said, “Again? Now what?”

Milo said, “We met your wife.”

Long silence. “I see.”

Milo smiled.

Gull said, “Patty’s going through a rough patch. She’ll be fine.”

“She didn’t sound fine.”

Gull smoothed back his hair. “Why don’t you come in? I’m free for the next hour.”

“Or at least forty-five minutes of it,” said Milo, under his breath.

Gull didn’t hear. He’d turned and was striding toward the trio of inner offices. Albin Larsen’s and Mary Lou Koppel’s doors were closed.

Gull’s was open. He stopped before entering.

“My wife—has got problems.”

“Bet she does,” said Milo. “Maybe she could use some therapy.”

CHAPTER

25

G
ull’s office was two-thirds the size of Mary Lou Koppel’s and set up surprisingly simply. No bird’s-eye maple paneling, just beige paint on the walls. Thin, beige carpeting blurred the room’s boundaries. Off-white leather couches and armchairs were loosely arranged. Koppel had displayed crystal eggs and Indian pottery. Franco Gull’s sole nod to decoration were cheaply framed photographic prints of animals and their young.

I found myself sniffing for the aroma of sex, smelled only a syrupy mélange of perfumes.

Gull sprawled on a sofa and invited us to sit. Before our butts hit the leather, he said, “The thing you need to know about Patty is that she’s dealing with some very serious issues.”

“Marital infidelity?” said Milo.

Gull’s lips produced a pained semicolon. “Her problems go way beyond that. Her father was extremely abusive.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “Ah” was a running joke between us. The old therapist’s dodge. He turned his head so Gull couldn’t see him wink. “All this talk about Mrs. Gull. Guess wives don’t get confidentiality.”

Gull’s eyes sparked. A fleck of moisture appeared from under the shade of a wavy, salt-and-pepper forelock.

I’d been right: Losing the power rule played havoc with his adrenals.

“I’m telling you about Patty because you need to put her in context.”

“Meaning I shouldn’t believe anything she tells me.”

“That depends on what she told you.”

“For one thing,” said Milo, “she thinks you didn’t kill Dr. Koppel.”

Gull had been primed to protest. He regrouped, shifted position. “There you go, even someone who’s not feeling kindly toward me knows I’d never do anything like that. I don’t even own a—”

“You hate guns,” said Milo. “She told us that, too.”

“Guns are an abomination.”

“Mrs. Gull feels she’s provided you with an alibi for the night Dr. Koppel was killed.”

“There you go,” Gull repeated, sitting a bit straighter.

“Yeah, I’m going strong,” said Milo. “The thing is, Doctor, what your wife considers an alibi, we don’t.”

“
What?
Oh, come on, you’ve got to be kidding.” Sweat beads popped at Gull’s hairline. “Why would I need an alibi?”

“Don’t you want to know what Mrs. Gull told us?”

“Not really.” Theatrical sigh, then: “Fine, tell me.”

“Mrs. Gull drove by Dr. Koppel’s house around 2 A.M., searching for your car. She didn’t see it—”

“She did that?” said Gull. “How . . . sad. As I told you, Patty’s got serious trust issues.”

“You blame her?” said Milo.

“Why did you speak to Patty in the first place? Why would you even consider something so far-fetched—”

“Let’s get back to the alibi, Doctor. Your car not being parked on McConnell. That really doesn’t mean much. You could’ve parked somewhere else in the neighborhood. Or taken a cab from the hotel you stayed at—which was . . . ?”

Gull didn’t answer.

“Dr. Gull?”

“This is my personal life, Detective.”

“Not any longer, sir.”

“Why?” said Gull. “Why are you doing this?”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Which hotel, sir? We’ll find out anyway.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. The Crowne Plaza.”

“Pico and Beverly Drive.”

Gull nodded.

“You stay there often?”

“Why would I?”

“It’s close to your office, for when you and the missus have a spat.”

“We don’t have
spats
that often.”

Milo’s pencil tapped the pad. “Same question, Doctor.”

“I’ve lost track of your questions.”

“Do you stay there often?”

“Occasionally.”

“When your wife throws you out.”

Gull flushed. His hands tightened. His fists were enormous. “My marital issues are of no concern to—”

“What I’m getting at,” said Milo, “is do they know you at the Crowne Plaza?”

“I don’t know . . . those places.”

“What about them?”

“Businesslike, anonymous. It’s not exactly the wayfarer’s inn,” said Gull. “And I’m really not there that often.”

“How often is not that often?” said Milo.

“I couldn’t quantify.”

“Your credit card records could.”

“My—this is absolutely—”

“You don’t consider the hotel a home away from home? Being so close to the office.”

“I don’t need a home—I paid cash.”

“Why?”

“It seemed simpler.”

“For when you bring women there.”

Gull shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ever bring Dr. Koppel there?”

“No.”

“No need to, I guess,” said Milo. “What with her living so close to the office. And to your house. Make a stopover after work, then continue on to the missus and kids.”

Gull’s brow was slick and pale. “I don’t see what your point is—”

“How far would you say it is, from the office to Dr. Koppel’s? A mile?”

Gull rolled his shoulders. “Closer to two.”

“Think so?”

“All the way up Pico to Motor and then south to Cheviot.”

“Let’s split the difference,” said Milo. “Mile and a half.”

Gull shook his head. “I really think it’s closer to two.”

“Sounds like maybe you’ve clocked it, Doctor.”

“No,” said Gull. “I’m just—forget it. This is pointless.”

“You look in pretty good shape, Doctor. Work out?”

“I’ve got a treadmill at home.”

“A little mile and a half walk on a cool June night wouldn’t challenge you, would it?”

“That never happened.”

“You never walked from the Crowne Plaza to Dr. Koppel’s house.”

“Never.”

“The night she was killed,” said Milo. “Where were you?”

“At the hotel.”

“Did you call up for food?”

“No, I had dinner before I checked in.”

“Where?”

“My house.”

“Before the tiff.”

“Yes,” said Gull. He knuckled an eye. Sleeved his brow.

“You stayed in the hotel all night,” said Milo.

Gull rubbed his jaw. “I rented a movie. That’ll be on record.”

“What time?”

“Elevenish. Check.”

“I will,” said Milo, “but all that proves is you pushed a button on your remote, not that you stayed to watch.”

Gull stared at him. “This is absurd, I didn’t kill Mary.”

“What was the title of the movie?”

Gull looked away and didn’t answer.

“Doctor?”

“It was an adult film. I don’t remember the title.”

“I guess,” said Milo, “it wouldn’t help asking you to recap the plot.”

Gull managed a sickly smile.

Milo said, “When did you see Dr. Koppel last?”

“That afternoon,” said Gull. “Both of us were walking patients out to the waiting room, and we said hi. That was the last time.”

“No tryst later that evening?”

“No. That was over.”

“What was?”

“Mary and I.”

“Who broke it off?”

“It was mutual,” said Gull.

“Because?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

Milo flipped his pad open, scanned his notes. “Alternatively,” he said, “if you didn’t walk to her house, you could’ve called a cab.”

“I didn’t.”

“It can be verified, Doctor.”

“Verify to your heart’s content.”

Milo slapped the pad shut. Gull gave a start and wiped his brow with his sleeve again.

“Doctor, why did Gavin Quick dump you as a therapist?”

“He didn’t
dump
me. I transferred him to Mary.”

“Why?”

“That’s confidential.”

“No it’s not,” barked Milo. “Gavin lost his privilege when someone shot him. Why’d he
transfer
away from you, Doctor?”

Gull’s arms had gone rigid, and his palms pressed against the seat cushions, as if bracing himself for takeoff.

“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” he said. “Not without a lawyer.”

“You’re aware of how that makes you look.”

“I assert my rights, and it makes me look bad?”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, why have concern about rights?”

“Because,” said Gull, “I don’t want to live in a police state. With
all
that implies.” He forced a smile. Perspiration glazed his face and his neck. “Did you know, Detective, that of all the professions who joined the Nazi party, the police were the most enthusiastic recruits?”

“Really? I heard it was doctors.”

Gull’s smile faltered. He burned some calories restoring it. “That’s it. Not another word.” He drew a finger across his lips.

“Sure,” said Milo, rising. “No sweat.”

CHAPTER

26

A
s we left Gull’s office, he got on the phone.

Out in the hallway, Milo said, “Lawyering up.”

I said, “What did it was your question about Gavin transferring to Koppel.”

“Some deep dark secret,” he said. “Something that makes him look bad.”

“I wonder how much the Quicks know.”

“If they know, why didn’t they tell me?”

“Maybe it also reflected poorly on Gavin.”

“What, Gavin found out the guy supposed to help him with his stalking problem had outstalked him, so he decided to expose him? Why wouldn’t his parents talk about that? And how does Koppel figure in?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But everything seems to connect to this place.”

“I’ll have Binchy do a loose surveillance on Gull. See if I can get another baby D on it, too.”

“Loose?”

“This ain’t TV, unlimited gizmos and manpower. I’ll be lucky to get two shifts a day.”

We descended the stairs to the ground floor. He said, “So, how effective do you think my leaning on him was?”

“He’s lawyering up,” I said.

“And would an innocent guy do that? Yeah, I got to him . . . I really wanna know why Gavin left him.”

“The neurologist who sent Gavin to Gull might know something about it. Specialists need to stroke their referral sources, so Gull would have offered some kind of explanation.”

“Singh,” he said. He whipped out his pad, flipped pages. “Leonard Singh, over at St. John’s. You mind doing the doctor-to-doctor bit?”

“Not at all.”

“Also, if you’re still up for calling Ned Biondi, to try to get the blonde’s picture in the papers, go ahead.”

He handed me a sealed envelope stamped PHOTO, DO NOT BEND. “Here’s your chance to be an ‘anonymous source.’ ”

I ran a finger across my lips.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Roland Kristof and his vacuum cleaner were no longer in sight, and Milo gazed down the empty corridor.

“Ghost town,” he said. “ ‘Charitable Planning.’ You picking up
eau de
scam?”

“At the very least
eau de
shadow corporation,” I said. “You hassled Kristof. What about him bugged you?”

“He gave off
eau de
con in waves, and my nose is always sensitive to that.”

“I thought it might be more than that.”

“Like what?”

“A parolee hired by Koppel’s ex, working in the building where three murder victims spent some time. Flora Newsome’s job at the parole office. Before Koppel got killed, we were surmising about an ex-con.”

“Flora again,” he said, and resumed walking.

When we got outside, I said, “It doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

“Sonny Koppel hiring a junkie parolee for building maintenance. The whole con connection?”

“Everything bothers me.” When we reached the car, he said, “In terms of Flora, what we were surmising about was her
sleeping
with a con. She mighta slummed, Alex, but I don’t see her getting anywhere near a burnout like Kristof.”

“So maybe Kristof’s not the only parolee on Koppel’s payroll. Maybe Koppel’s found himself a source of cheap labor. Mary Lou was into prison rehab. There could be some connection.”

“Larsen says he gave her the idea.”

“Larsen was disappointed we didn’t hear him on the interview tapes. Everyone’s got an ego.”

“Even shrinks?”

“Especially shrinks.”

He tried to pull the car door open. I hadn’t unlocked the Seville, his arm strained, and he grunted. By the time I’d turned the key, he’d wandered back toward the alley.

When he returned, he said, “It’s time to meet Mr. Sonny Koppel. Something
else
that shoulda been done right away. Woman gets killed, go straight for the ex, it’s goddamned Detection 101.”

“You’re dealing with three cases that point in all directions.”

He threw up his hands and laughed. “Supportive therapy again.”

“Reality.”

“If I wanted reality, I wouldn’t live in L.A.”

*

As we drove off, he sank into silence. I crossed Olympic, and he announced he’d face Sheila Quick alone for the toss of Gavin’s room. I dropped him at the station and returned home. Spike was waiting for me at the door, looking forlorn.

That was new. Generally, his game was nonchalance: remaining in the service porch when I came home, waiting me out when walk time approached, feigning sleep until I lifted his limp body and set four paws on the ground.

“Hey, guy.”

He snorted, shook a drizzle of saliva my way, licked my hand.

“Lonely, huh?”

His head dropped, but his eyes remained fixed on me. One ear twitched.

“Really lonely.”

He gazed upward and let out a low, hoarse moan.

“Hey,” I said, bending on one knee and ruffling his neck, “she’ll be home tomorrow.”

In the old days, I’d have added,
I miss her, too
.

Spike snuffled and rolled over. I scratched his belly. “How about some exercise?”

He snapped to attention. Pant, pant.

I had an old leash stored in my office closet, and by the time I brought it back he was jumping and yelping and scraping at the door.

“Nice to be appreciated,” I said.

He stopped fussing. His expression said, Don’t get carried away.

*

His stubby little legs and attenuated palate could handle a half mile up the Glen and back. Not bad for a ten-year-old pooch—in bulldog years, he was well past retirement. When we returned, he was famished and parched, and I filled his bowls.

While he ate, I called the most current number I had for Ned Biondi. Ned had retired as a senior writer for the
Times
years ago, talked about moving to Oregon, so when I got a no-longer-in-service message, I wasn’t surprised. I tried Oregon information, but he wasn’t listed.

I’d treated Ned’s daughter years ago, a brilliant girl with too-high standards who’d starved herself and nearly died. I supposed the fact that Ned hadn’t bothered to leave his forwarding was encouraging. The family didn’t need me anymore. How old would Anne Marie be, now—nearly thirty. Over the years, Ned had phoned to fill me in and I knew she’d gotten married, had a child, was still waffling about a career.

The information always came from Ned. I’d never achieved much rapport with his wife, who’d barely spoken to me during therapy. Once treatment was over, Anne Marie didn’t speak to me either, not even to return follow-up calls. I mentioned it once to Ned, and he grew apologetic and embarassed, so I dropped it. A year after discharge, Anne Marie wrote me an elegant letter of thanks on pink, perfume-scented stationery. The tone was gracious, the message clear:
I’m okay. Back off.

No way could I call her to locate Ned. Someone at the paper would know where he was.

As I started to punch in the
Times
’s main number, call waiting clicked in.

Allison said, “Hi, baby.”

“Hey.”

“How’s your day been?”

“Not bad,” I said. “Yours?”

“The usual . . . do you have a minute?”

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. I was just—yesterday, when I came by—Alex, you know I like Robin, we’ve always gotten along. But when I drove up . . . seeing you two . . .”

“I know what it looked like, but she was just thanking me for taking Spike.”

“I know.” Her laugh was flimsy. “I called to tell you I know. Because maybe I let out a little jealous vibe. I was a little bugged. Seeing her kissing you.”

“Chastely,” I said. “On the cheek.”

She laughed again, then grew silent.

“Ally?”

“I couldn’t ascertain the site,” she said. “All I saw was two people who . . . you looked like a
couple
—you looked
comfortable
with each other. That’s when it hit me. All the history you have with her. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just started contrasting it with—it just seems as if we’re a ways off from that . . .”

“Allison—”

“I know, I know, I’m being neurotic and insecure,” she said. “I’m allowed to do that, once in a while, right?”

“Sure you are, honey, but in this case it’s not warranted. The only reason she was there was to hand off Spike. Period.”

“Just a peck on the cheek.”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t want you to think I’ve turned into some possessive, paranoid chick—oh, listen to me.”

“Hey,” I said, “if the situation were reversed, I’d react the same way. Robin has no interest in me, she’s happy with Tim. And I’m thrilled to be with
you
.”

“I’m your main squeeze.”

“You are.”

“Okay, I got my self-esteem injection,” she said. “Sorry for bugging you in the middle of the day.”

“You’re my girl, Dr. Gwynn. I find you smooching some dude, it won’t be a pretty sight.”

“Right. You, Mr. Civilized.”

“Don’t test me.”

She laughed, this time with heart. “I can’t believe I made this call. The last thing I want is to be possessive.” Her voice caught.

“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s nice to be possessed.”

“It is . . . okay, no more Ms. Mawkish. I’ve got three more patients coming and each needs to perceive me as all-knowing. Then, it’s over to the hospice.”

“Any free time at all?”

“I wish. The hospice is having a potluck dinner for all the volunteers, so I’m eating there. The only breathing time I have is right now, last-minute cancellation. What I
should
be doing is charting and returning calls, not whining to you.”

“I’ll be over in twenty.”

“What?” she said.

“I’m coming over. I want to see you.”

“Alex, my next patient’s due in forty. The drive, alone, will eat up—”

“I want to kiss you,” I said. “That won’t take long.”

“Alex, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m okay; you don’t have to indulge my—”

“This is for me. I’m going to be in the neighborhood, anyway. Talking to a doctor at St. John’s.” Though I hadn’t made the appointment.

“Baby,” she said, “I can assure you that whatever it was that tweaked my anxiety has passed.”

“I want to see you,” I said.

Dead air.

“Ally?”

“I want to see you, too.”

*

While driving to Santa Monica, I got Dr. Leonard Singh’s number from Information, found out he was on rounds, would be back in an hour. I told his secretary I’d be stopping by and hung up before she could ask why.

When I reached Allison’s office building, she was waiting out on the sidewalk, dressed in a sky-blue cashmere cowl neck sweater and a long, wine-colored skirt, drinking something from a cardboard cup and kicking the heel of one boot. Her black hair was tied back with a clip, and she looked young and nervous.