Therapy (33 page)

“A pro,” said Milo.

Bumaya extracted the lime wedge from his glass, sucked on it, put it back. “The school was a guarded, secure facility, Detective, and there were no signs of forced entry. The case remains unsolved.”

“And Albin Larsen—”

“Was a psychological consultant to the school, though seldom on the premises. However, one week before the boys were slaughtered, he arrived in Lagos and took a room in the faculty wing. The alleged reason for his visit was a U.N. site certification. While he was there, he engaged in other local activities, as well.”

“Such as—”

“Allow me to finish. Please,” said Bumaya. “It has been learned that Larsen was not due to inspect the school for several months and chose to step up the schedule.”

“You think he killed the two kids?” said Milo.

Bumaya’s brow creased. “I have learned nothing to indicate that Larsen has ever acted violently. However, he is known to have associated with violent people and to facilitate their actions. What would you, as a detective, say about the following confluence of facts: Larsen’s friendship with Laurent Nzabakaza, the threat the boys represented to Nzabakaza, Larsen’s unexpected presence at the school.”

Milo picked up the photo, studied the smiling faces.

Protais Bumaya said, “I’m certain Larsen hired someone to slaughter those children. Am I able to prove it? Not yet.”

“You were sent here to prove it?”

“Among other assignments.”

“Such as?”

“Fact-finding.”

“Find any facts?” said Milo.

Bumaya sat back and exhaled. “So far, I have not accomplished much. That is why when I saw you observing Larsen I thought, ‘Aha, this is my opportunity.’ ” He flattened his hands on the table. His knuckles were gray. “Would there be any way for you to share information with me?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Long silence.

Bumaya said, “I see.”

“What else do you know about Larsen?” said Milo.

“In terms of?”

“What were his other ‘local activities.’ ”

“Professor Larsen is a man of far-reaching interests,” said Bumaya, “but for my purposes, they are not relevant.”

“I care about my purposes,” said Milo.

“He was involved in
programs
.” Bumaya uttered the word as if it were a curse. “U.N. sponsored programs, private humanitarian programs. Larsen affixes himself to programs for personal gain.”

“Misery pimp,” said Milo.

Bumaya smiled faintly. “I have never heard of that expression. I like it. Yes, that is an apt description.”

“Are we talking big money?”

Bumaya’s smile stretched wider. “One would think, that with all the paperwork bureaucracies require, someone would ascertain that there are only so many hours in a week.”

I said, “Larsen pads his bills.”

“Consultant here, consultant there. To believe his vouchers, he is the busiest man in the world.”

Milo said, “What kind of programs are we talking about?”

“I am familiar only with those in my country and in Lagos. For the most part, we are talking about schools and welfare societies. At least a dozen. When one examines the paperwork
in toto,
one finds that Larsen was working 150 hours per week.”

“Any of those programs involve prison rehabilitation?” said Milo.

Bumaya smiled.

“What?” said Milo.

“Prison work is how Larsen came to know Laurent Nzabakaza. He obtained Lutheran church funding for a psychological training program to help prisoners in Nzabakaza’s prison overcome their criminal tendencies. Sentries for Justice. Substantial payments to Nzabakaza helped . . . is the expression, ‘grease the runway’?”

“The skids,” said Milo. “Grease the skids.”

“Ah,” said Bumaya. “In any event, the prisoners treated by Sentries for Justice were the exact group armed by Nzabakanza and aimed at Butare. Larsen had already begun an identical program in Lagos, and when the genocide ended his Rwandan activities he began concentrating more on the Nigerian branch.”

One big, dark hand closed around his glass. “I believe I will take another drink.”

Milo took the glass, went to the bar, brought it back, filled high.

Bumaya drank half. “Thank you . . . Larsen attempted to latch himself onto the Bosnian crisis but failed because of too much competition. Recently, he’s expressed considerable interest in the Palestinian issue. Was one of the foreigners who traveled to Jenin to express support for Arafat during the Israeli siege. He supplied the U.N. with stories about the Jenin massacre.”

“The one that never occurred,” said Milo.

“Yes, a brief, but inflammatory international fraud ensued, and Larsen was paid for his consulting. His entrée to that region is likely because a cousin of his—Torvil Larsen—is an official with UNRWA in Gaza. When international conflict arises, Larsen will always be there to make a few dollars. If he is not stopped.”

“You aiming to stop him?” said Milo.

“I,” said Bumaya patting his chest, “am a fact-seeker, not a man of action.”

Milo looked at the photo of the smiling boys. “Where in L.A. are you staying?”

“At the house of a friend.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Name, address, and phone number.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Why,” said Milo, “would you have a problem telling me?”

Bumaya lowered his eyes. Finished his drink. “I’m staying with Charlotte and David Kabanda.” He spelled the surname slowly. “They are physicians, medical residents at the Veterans Hospital in Westwood.”

“Address?” said Milo.

“Charlotte and David know me as a university classmate. I studied law. They believe I’m a lawyer.”

Milo tapped his pad. “Address.”

Bumaya recited an apartment number on Ohio.

“Phone?”

Bumaya rattled off seven digits. “If you call Charlotte and David and divulge what I’ve told you, they will be confused. They believe I am conducting legal research.”

“Their apartment your sole place of residence?” said Milo.

“Yes, Detective.”

“You’re an envoy but you don’t get hotel chits?”

“We are a very poor country, Detective, struggling to reunify. Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, our de facto consul, serves us at a discount rate. A genuine humanitarian.”

Milo said, “What else can you tell me about Larsen?”

“I have told you much.”

“Shall I repeat the question?”

“A one-way avenue,” said Bumaya.

“Uh-huh.”

Bumaya showed two rows of even, pearly teeth. “That is all I have to say about the matter.”

“Okay,” said Milo, closing the pad.

“Sir,” said Bumaya, “it is in both our interests to cooperate.”

“Sir,” said Milo, “if there’s something you need to know, I’ll inform you. Meanwhile, be careful. A foreign agent getting involved in an ongoing investigation wouldn’t be a good thing.”

“Detective, I have no intention of—”

“Then we’ll have no problem,” said Milo.

Bumaya frowned.

Milo said, “Want another drink? It’s on me.”

“No,” said Bumaya. “No, thank you.” The snapshot of the murdered boys remained on the table. He picked it up, placed it back in his snakeskin billfold.

“You pretty good with firearms, Mr. Bumaya? Being a former cop and all that.”

“I know how to shoot. However, I am not traveling armed.”

“So if I look around your friends’ apartment, no guns are going to show up?”

“Not one,” said Bumaya. His mouth moved around, covering a swath of emotional territory, until it finally settled on a small, flat smile. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Detective Sturgis. My sole purpose is to gather facts and to report back to my superiors.”

“All this trouble for Albin Larsen.”

“He and others.”

“Others here in L.A.?”

“Here, other cities. Other countries.” Bumaya’s eyes shut and fluttered open. His irises, once clear and inquisitive, had clouded. “I will be doing this for a very long time.”

*

We watched him leave the bar.

Milo said, “Think I was rough on him?”

“A bit.”

“I sympathize with the cause, but he’s all about his own goals, and I don’t need complications. If I can get Larsen off the street, I’ll be doing Bumaya and his superiors the biggest favor of all.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Does it?” He frowned. “Those two boys.” He looked away, summoned Green Shirt for a third shot.

Green Shirt looked down at me. “You, too?”

I placed my hand atop my glass and shook my head. When Milo’s refill arrived, I said, “Bumaya has his own agenda, but what he said firms things up for us. Larsen’s got a history of exactly the kind of scam we theorized about. And he uses violence when it suits him.”

“The quiet ones,” Milo muttered.

“Tonight, when he introduced Issa Qumdis, he had plenty of fire.”

“Ideology and profit,” he said.

“Misery pimp. I like that.”

He drank.

I said, “Just out of curiosity, how do you know so much about Issa Qumdis?”

“What, cops don’t read?”

“Never knew you to be political.”

He shrugged. “Rick leaves books and magazines around. I pick ’em up. One of them happened to be
The Jewish Beacon,
with the article that claimed Issa Qumdis invented himself.”

“Never knew Rick to be political, either.”

“He never was. Even gay issues didn’t mobilize him.” He stretched his neck and winced. “His parents are Holocaust survivors.”

After all these years I knew little about Rick. About Milo’s life when he closed the door of his little house in West Hollywood.

He said, “They were always getting after him about it.”

“The Holocaust?”

He nodded. “They wanted him to be more aware of being Jewish. There was always baggage, the gay thing complicated it. When his folks found out, they freaked out, the Holocaust got all mixed up in it. His mother crying like someone had died. His father yelling at him and telling him he was stupid because now the Nazis would have
two
reasons to gas him.”

He drank more Scotch, swirled it around like mouthwash. “He’s an only child, it hasn’t been easy. What made it better was the passage of time and his parents getting older. Eventually, he and his old man could talk about it.”

Something Milo had never experienced before his own father died.

“Then came September 11, and Rick changed,” he said. “He took it personally. The fact that Arabs were behind it, the revisionist theories blaming the Jews. All the anti-Semitic swill coming out of Saudi Arabia and Egypt. All of a sudden, Rick got more interested in being Jewish, started reading up on Jewish history, Israel. Started giving money to Zionist causes, subscribing to magazines.”

“That you happened to pick up.”

“The Issa Qumdis thing caught my eye because the basic point was that the guy was a scamster but that it hadn’t impeded his academic career. That always fascinates me. How little reality has to do with the way life plays out—he
was
something, wasn’t he? Tenure Personified, that cultured stance, then coming out and saying people should be killed. Pretty damn hateful for a college professor.”

“Lots of hatred in academia,” I said.

“You’ve seen that, personally?”

“It’s usually more subtle, but you’d be amazed at what goes on at faculty parties when the scholarly set thinks no one’s listening.”

“Wonder if Issa Qumdis spouts off that way at Harvard. Don’t colleges have hate speech regulations?”

“The rules are enforced selectively.”

“Whose ox is being gored . . . yeah, it’s a sweet world. Enough about that, time to focus on the evil Dr. Larsen. Learn anything about any local scam?”

“Not yet. I asked Olivia to look into it. Gave her the Sentries program as a lead because I came across it surfing.”

“Sentries for Justice . . . Olivia’s as good as it gets . . . By the way, Franco Gull finally broke routine and went to a health club. Pumped iron, ignored the ladies, went home. So maybe he knows about the scam and what the stakes are. The guy tends to get emotional. Maybe he can be wedged and cracked open. Make sense?”

“You’d be showing your hand.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t make any other progress soon, what choice do I have?” He rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ll wait till you hear from Olivia, but eventually I’m gonna have to make a decision—” His cell phone beeped, he slapped it against his ear. “Sturgis . . . when? Really. Okay, give me the number.”

His pad and pen were still out and he scrawled hastily, clicked the phone shut with a strange smile on his face. “Well, well, well.”

“Who was that?”

“Detective Binchy. Obedient lad that he is, he is at his desk wrapping up his paperwork before he sets out for another look-see on Gull. A call just came in for me, and he took it. Sonny Koppel, wanting to talk. He’s
dining
. Coffee shop on Pico. I’m invited to drop by.”

“That include me?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m including you.”

CHAPTER

35

T
he coffee shop was called Gene’s, and it was one of the few bright spots on a dark, quiet block. South side of Pico, just a few yards from the traffic on La Cienega. A short stroll from the eastern border of Milo’s district.

It was ten-forty when we got there, and the place was fully lit. Long, skinny room with grubby vinyl floors, a Formica counter, and seven matching tables bleached by high wattage. A sign in front said OPEN TO MIDNIGHT. Inside, two young guys in oversized eyeglasses whispered conspiratorially over coffee, pie, and the bound screenplay placed equidistant between them. An old woman gummed an egg salad sandwich. Behind her, a muscular man in gray work clothes read old news in the morning paper and worked on a hamburger.

Shrouded in a limp, gray raincoat, Sonny Koppel sat at the counter forking bacon and eggs into his mouth. The counterman ignored Koppel, as he scrubbed a deep fryer. When we approached, he turned briefly then returned to his chore.

Koppel wiped his mouth, got off his stool, and carried his plate, his napkin, and his utensils to a front table. Near the door but away from the other diners. Under his raincoat, he wore mocha brown sweats with white piping. Loosely laced tennis shoes covered smallish, wide feet. He’d shaved recently, had nicked himself several times.

His coffee cup remained behind, and Milo brought it over to the table. The counterman turned, and said, “Anything for you guys?”

“No, thanks.”

Koppel was still on his feet when Milo brought the coffee cup over.

“Thanks,” he said. “One sec.” Returning to the counter, he snagged ketchup and Tabasco sauce. Finally, he pulled out a chair, sat, wiped his lips. Bounced a fork tine against the rim of his plate and smiled at his plate. “Breakfast food. I like it for dinner.”

“To each his own,” said Milo. “What can we do for you?”

“That photograph—of that girl. Do you still have it with you?”

Milo reached into his jacket pocket, produced the death shot, and handed it to Koppel.

Koppel studied it and nodded. “When you first showed it to me, there was something about it. But I couldn’t place it, really had nothing I could tell you, so I said I’d never seen her. I really wasn’t sure I had.” He licked his lips. “But it stuck in my mind.”

“Now you think you know her,” said Milo.

“I can’t be certain,” said Koppel. “If it is her, I only saw her a couple of times—literally. Two times.” He glanced at the photo again. “The way she is here, it’s hard to say . . .”

“Death’ll do that to you.”

Koppel swallowed air. Forked a strip of bacon, lost it midair, and watched it land just shy of his plate. He picked it up between his fingers, set it back next to the mound of eggs, kissed the grease on his fingertips.

“Where do you think you might’ve seen her, Mr. Koppel?” said Milo.

“She might be a girl I saw at Jerry Quick’s office. Hanging around with Jerry’s secretary.”

“Jerry’s secretary . . .”

“Angie Paul.”

“You know Angie personally?”

“I know her from coming over to talk to Jerry about the rent.” Koppel scratched the side of his nose. “You’re interested in her, as well? She always made me wonder.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t seem to do much. She wasn’t who I’d pick as a secretary. Then again, she probably didn’t have to make much of an impression.”

“Why’s that?”

“Not much traffic at Jerry’s office. I’ve never seen anyone there but the two of them.”

“And possibly this girl?”

“Maybe,” said Koppel. “Only maybe.”

Milo said, “You don’t drop in very often at Mr. Quick’s office, but this girl was there twice.”

Koppel flushed. “I don’t . . . all I’m saying—what do I know? If I wasted your time, I’m sorry.”

Milo placed an index finger on a corner of the death shot.

Sonny Koppel said, “This must seem strange to you. First I say I don’t know her, then I call you.”

Milo smiled.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing, Lieutenant.”

“We appreciate that, sir. What else can you tell us about this girl?”

“Just that,” said Koppel, peering at the death shot for several more seconds. “It could be her.”

“A girl hanging around with Angie in Mr. Quick’s front office.”

“That was the first time. Two, three months ago. The second time was more recent—six weeks ago. I saw the two of them—her and Angie—as they left the building together. It was lunchtime, I assumed they were going out to lunch.”

“Where’d they go to eat?”

“I didn’t follow them, Lieutenant. I was there to see Jerry.”

“About the rent.”

“Yes.” Koppel scratched behind his ear. “I’m getting the feeling that by trying to do what’s right I’m complicating my life.”

“In what way, sir?”

“Like I said, it must seem funny to you.” Koppel pushed the photo toward Milo. “Anyway, that’s all I know.”

Milo passed the shot from hand to hand, like a three-card monte artist. “Hanging around with Angie.”

“Talking. Like girls do.”

“Girls just wanna have fun,” said Milo.

“They didn’t seem to be having fun,” said Koppel. “What I mean is they weren’t laughing or giggling. In fact, the time I saw them leaving together I figured it for some sort of serious discussion because when they saw me they shut up fast.”

“Serious discussion on the way to lunch.”

“Maybe they weren’t going to eat. I’m assuming because it was lunchtime.”

“Did Angie call the other girl by name?”

“No.”

“What else can you tell me about her? Physically.”

“She wasn’t tall—average. Slim. She had a good figure. But she was a bit . . . she didn’t look like someone who’d grown up with money.”

“Nouveau riche?” said Milo.

“No,” said Koppel. “More . . . her clothes were nice but maybe a little too . . . obvious? Like she wanted to be noticed? Maybe she wore a bit too much makeup, I can’t really remember—I don’t want to tell you things that aren’t accurate.”

“A little flashy.”

Koppel shook his head. “That wasn’t it. I don’t want to be cruel . . . she looked . . . a little trashy. Like her hair. No hair is that blond naturally, unless you’re five years old, right?”

“Sounds like you had a good look at her.”

“I noticed her,” said Koppel. “She was pretty. And shapely. I’m a guy, you know how it is.”

Milo smiled faintly. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” Koppel picked up his fork. The eggs had hardened. He speared a big clot and shoved it into his mouth. The two guys with the screenplay got up from their table, looking vexed, and left the coffee shop in silence.

Milo said, “Last time we spoke, you mentioned your ex-wife wanting to use the bottom floor of her building for group therapy.”

“She was supposed to give me a final answer before she . . . before her death.”

“She give you any details about the nature of the therapy?”

“No,” said Koppel. “Why would she?”

“No particular reason,” said Milo. “Still gathering facts.”

“Have you made any progress at all?”

Milo shrugged.

Sonny Koppel said, “Whatever the group therapy thing was, it’s not going to happen. Albin Larsen called me yesterday, said it was okay to rent out the bottom floor. Mary was the glue that held them together. With her gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if Larsen and Gull tried to break their lease.”

“They don’t like the building?”

“I’m not sure they’ll be willing to take on the financial burden. Mary got a sweetheart rent deal from me. There’s no lease, it’s month to month.”

“You’re gonna raise it?”

“Hey,” said Koppel, “business is business.”

“You have a problem with them?”

“I had very little to do with them. Like I said, Mary held things together. Whenever there was some business to discuss—a repair, whatever—Mary was the one who’d call.” Koppel smiled. “I didn’t mind. It was a chance for us to talk. Now . . .”

He threw up his hands.

Milo said, “She was the business person, but it was Larsen who got her interested in halfway houses.”

“He struck me as an idea guy,” said Koppel. “But when it came to the nuts and bolts, it was all Mary.”

“Mary and you.”

“I had nothing to do with the day-to-day operations. I just know something about real estate.”

“Like getting government funding,” said Milo.

Koppel nodded. No blink, no tremble, not a single errant muscle.

“Did your ex-wife ever ask for help getting some sort of government funding for the group therapy she planned downstairs?”

“Why would she? What would I know about therapy?”

“You’re a savvy person.”

“In my limited sphere,” said Koppel. “I already told you, Mary never consulted me on professional matters.” He twirled his fork. “It’s getting to me. Mary’s death. Pretty stupid, huh? We hadn’t been together for years, how often did we talk, once a month, tops. But I find myself thinking about it. For someone you know to go like that.” He caressed his voluminous belly. “This is my second dinner. I do that—add meals—when things pile up.”

As if to illustrate, he ingested two bacon strips.

“Mary was a powerful person,” he said, between mouthfuls. “It’s a big loss.”

*

Milo waltzed around the prison rehab issue, but Koppel wasn’t biting. When Koppel called over to the counterman for a double order of rye toast and jelly and tea with honey, we left him opening marmalade packets and returned to the Seville.

Milo said, “So what’s his game?”

“Sounding you out. And letting you know he knew nothing about Mary Lou’s professional dealings.”

“Nudging us closer to the blonde.”

“Closer to Jerry Quick,” I said. “Deflecting attention from himself.”

“A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space—think they’re pulling up the tents?”

“Probably.”

“The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”

“One way to find out,” I said.

*

Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.

The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade—painted-over graffiti.

No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.