Therapy (44 page)

Larsen: “Did they use the word ‘subpoena’?”

Gull: “Who remembers? The point is, they’re rooting around like truffle pigs.”

Larsen: “Rooting. That’s all it is.”

Gull: “Albin, I feel I’m not getting through to you.” He took hold of Larsen’s shoulders. Larsen didn’t move, and Gull’s hands dropped. “Why are they focusing on Sentries? Tell me the truth: What were you and Mary up to?”

Silence. Six seconds.

Larsen: “We were attempting to inject some compassion into the American criminal justice system.”

Gull: “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I mean nuts and bolts, the billing. It’s the billing they’re latching onto. They just about came out and said they suspect us of Medi-Cal fraud, Albin. Were you fooling with the billing?”

Larsen: “Why would I do that.”

Milo said, “Cagey bastard.”

Gull: “I don’t know. But they suspect something. Before this thing spins out of control, I need to know if there’s any truth to their suspicions. Even if it was some kind of mistake, some paperwork thing. Did you—or Mary—do anything—anything at all—that would give them fuel? Because I think they’re after blood, Albin. I really do. I think Mary’s death got them thinking in a whole bizarre direction. Obsessive. Like that patient of Mary’s who died—you know I treated him. Gavin Quick. Kid was four-plus OCD in addition to all his other problems. I was happy to dump him on Mary but I swear, Albin, dealing with them I started to feel I was being forced into some OCD soap opera. The same questions, over and over and over. As if they’re trying to break me down.”

Eighteen seconds.

Gull: “You’re not saying anything.”

Larsen: “I’m listening.”

“Fine . . . you know how it is with obsession. The patient gets into something and keeps going at it. Which is okay when you’re the therapist and can establish boundaries. But being on the receiving end—these are not sophisticated people, Albin, but they are persistent. They perceive the world in hunter-prey terms and have no respect for our profession. I’m feeling like I’m set up to be the prey, and I don’t want that. And I shouldn’t think you’d want it, either.”

Larsen: “Who would?”

Milo said, “Such empathy.”

Sam Diaz said, “If
this
guy was hooked up to the poly, the needles wouldn’t even be quivering. Gull, he’d make the machine explode.”

Gull waved his hands. Diaz backed the camera several feet farther, establishing postural context.

Larsen just sat there.

Thirty-two seconds of silence passed before Gull said, “I have to say, I’m feeling a little . . . dismissed, Albin. I asked you substantive questions, and you’ve given me nothing but bland reassurance.”

Larsen placed a hand on Gull’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing for me to tell you, my friend.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Three seconds. “Nothing to lose sleep over.”

Gull: “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’s being—”

Larsen: “Would it make you feel better if I spoke to them?”

Gull: “To the police?”

Larsen: “To the police, to the Medi-Cal people. Anyone you like. Would it make you feel better?”

Gull glanced back toward the truck, then he returned his attention to Larsen. Larsen was watching the children, again.

Gull: “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. It would make me feel substantially better, Albin.”

Larsen: “Then I will do that.”

Six seconds.

Gull: “What will you tell them?”

Larsen: “That nothing . . . untoward has gone on.”

Gull: “And that’s true?”

Larsen gave Gull’s shoulder another pat. “I’m not worried, Franco.”

Gull: “You really think you can clear things up.”

Larsen: “There’s nothing to clear up.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing.”

Milo said, “Cold bastard. He’s not gonna spill, so much for this.”

Sam Diaz’s chair squeaked. He said, “Want another drumstick?”

“No, thanks.”

“Maybe I’ll try one of those orange bars, the vanilla half looks pretty creamy.”

On the monitor, Franco Gull ran his hands through his curls. “Okay, I sure hope so. Thanks, Albin.”

He rose to go.

“No, no, no,” said Milo. “Stay put, you idiot.”

The remaining maid collected her young charges and left.

Larsen stayed Gull with a hand on Gull’s cuff. “Let’s sit for a while, Franco.”

Gull: “Why?”

Larsen: “Enjoy the air. This beautiful park. Enjoy life.”

Gull: “You’re finished with patients for the day?”

Larsen: “I am, indeed.”

Ninety seconds. Neither of them talked.

At a hundred thirty-nine seconds, Sam Diaz said, “Approaching male. From the Roxbury side, again.”

Another figure, well in the distance, was crossing the park diagonally, from the east. Striding across the lawn, passing just north of the play area, and continuing into the shadow of the Chinese elms.

Diaz aimed the camera at him, zoomed in.

Good-sized man, broad-shouldered, barrel chest. Blue silk shirt turned teal green by the monitor, worn untucked over blue jeans.

Dark hair combed straight back. Graying mustache, but Raymond Degussa had shaved off his soul patch.

Milo said, “Bad guy, get ready for anything, Sam.”

He unsnapped his holster but didn’t remove his gun. Unlatching one of the ice-cream truck’s rear doors, he got out, closed the door quietly.

I turned back to the monitor. Gull and Larsen remained silent. Gull’s back was to Degussa as Degussa made his way over to the picnic table. Larsen saw Degussa, but didn’t react.

Then Franco Gull turned, and said, “What’s
he
doing here?”

No answer from Larsen.

Gull: “What’s going on, Albin—hey, let go of my sleeve, why are you holding me back, let go, what the hell’s going on—”

Degussa made a beeline for the table. Was six feet away, reaching under his shirt, when Gull broke free from Larsen’s grasp.

Larsen just sat there.

Degussa pulled out a small gun, toylike, pointed it in Gull’s direction. Probably a cheap .22, you could throw them away and buy another on the street for chump change.

Five feet from Gull, nice clean target. I thought about Jack Ruby picking off Oswald. Where was Milo?

Gull ducked and shoved Larsen in the path of Degussa’s gun and screamed, “Help!” as he dropped to the grass and rolled away. Diaz’s camera remained narrowly focused.

Degussa circled around Larsen to get a good shot at Gull. Larsen ducked, helping him along. Gull had tried to get up, but he was caught—legs stuck under the picnic bench, torso twisted.

He placed his hands atop his head, creating a useless shield.

Degussa leaned over the bench.

Aimed.

Crack.
The sound of a single pair of hands clapping once.

A hole appeared on Degussa’s forehead—black tinted deep brown by the monitor, the same shade as Degussa’s customized Lincoln. His mouth dropped open. He frowned. Annoyed.

He lifted his gun arm, still trying to shoot. Let it drop. Tumbled face-first onto the table. The .22 flew out of his hands and landed on the dirt. Albin Larsen dove for it. The man could mobilize when needed.

Sam Diaz said, “Oh, man, I should be out there.”

“Where’s Milo?”

“Don’t see him—I’m calling for backup, then I’m outta here, Doc. You stay inside.”

He got on the police radio. I watched Albin Larsen bend and retrieve Degussa’s gun. Gull had freed his legs, and he swung them at Larsen, missed, sprang up, turned to run.

Larsen examined the gun, then aimed it, turning his back to the camera.

Crack. Crack.
Two bursts of applause. Two holes materialized on the back of Larsen’s sport coat, within an inch of each other, just right of the center seam.

Diaz was saying, “Another one just went down, this is Code Three Plus, friend.”

Larsen straightened. Stretched his neck, as if plagued by a sudden pinch. The spot on his jacket became a brown stain. His right hand reached back, scratching an itch.

He changed his mind. Rotated, showed the camera a partial profile.

Expressionless. More dreadful applause, and something puffed in the center of Larsen’s neck. At the juncture of ruddy neck flesh with tan shirt.

Larsen reached for that, too. His arms shot out spastically and flopped to his sides.

His body lurched forward, onto the grass.

Gull was twenty feet away, staring, screaming.

Birdsongs on the speaker.

Still life on the monitor.

The Starbucks cup hadn’t even moved.

*

The truck’s rear door burst open, and Milo threw himself in.

Ghostly white, breathing hard. “Someone’s up there,” he panted. “Has to be one of the houses on Spalding, a backyard. Has to be a rifle, I was pinned next to the van.”

Diaz returned to the cab, slid the partition open. “Backup’s on its way. Gotta be a long-range scope. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Seconds later—seventeen seconds, according to the monitor—came the sirens.

CHAPTER

45

B
ennett Hacker folded easily.

Faced with a mountain of evidence compiled by Medi-Cal fraud investigator Dwight Zevonsky—a twenty-nine-year-old with the look of a hippie grad student and the manner of a grand inquisitor—the parole officer traded full disclosure for a guilty plea to fraud and grand larceny that brought him a six-year sentence in a federal prison. Out of California, under protective isolation because Hacker had once been a Barstow patrolman and former cops didn’t fare well behind bars, even those who’d befriended cons.

The scam had gone just as we’d theorized: Hacker and Degussa trolling for halfway-house residents whose names could be registered as Sentries patients. Compensating the parolees with small cash payments or drugs, or sometimes nothing at all. At first the cons showed up for sign-in sessions and one follow-up, in the unoccupied suite on the ground floor. Later even that pretext was dropped.

Later, the patient population had stretched beyond the halfway houses, with Degussa charged with finding new recruits.

“Sometimes we used dope, sometimes Ray just scared the junkies,” Hacker said. “Ray gives you a look, that can be enough.”

He smiled and smoked. Knowing he’d made a good deal. Probably working out six years of angles.

Milo and Zevonsky sat across from him in the interview room. I watched through the one-way mirror. Before being booked, Hacker’s contact lenses had been removed, and he’d been issued cheap jail eyeglasses with clear plastic frames. A size too large, they slid down his nose and made his chin appear even skimpier. The gestalt was creepy: malicious nerd in County blues.

Hacker tried to tell the story as if he wasn’t a protagonist. Degussa and “his partner” receiving two-thirds of the billings filed under Franco Gull’s name—splitting slightly over two hundred thousand dollars during a sixteen-month period.

“Ray was unhappy,” said Hacker. “He figured the others were making millions, he should be getting more.”

“What did he do about it?” said Milo.

“He was planning to talk to them about it.”

“Them,” said Zevonsky, “being . . .”

“The shrinks—Koppel and Larsen.”

“They were in charge.”

“It was all them. They cooked it up, came to me.”

“How’d you know them?”

“Koppel used to see me at the halfway house she owned. Checking up on my charges.”

“She came to you,” said Zevonsky.

“That’s right.”

“And your job was to . . .”

“Sign my name to some therapy forms. Also, to pinpoint good candidates.”

“Meaning?”

“Druggies, losers, guys who wouldn’t give problems.” Hacker smiled. “She was a businesswoman.”

Milo said, “She owned the halfway houses in partnership, with her ex.”

“So?”

“What about him?”

“Fat boy? He owned the houses, but he had nothing to do with it.”

Zevonsky said, “You’re sure you want to go on record saying that?”

“I’m on record because it’s true. Why would I lie to you?” Puff puff. “Hell, if I could bring someone else into this, I would. Spread the wealth, do myself some more good.”

“Maybe you’d lie just for the fun of it?” said Milo.

“This isn’t fun,” said Hacker. “This isn’t anything near fun.”

“What about Jerome Quick?” said Milo.

“Again with that? The only Quick I know is Gavin, and I already told you about him. Who’s Jerry, the kid’s brother?”

I already told you about him.

Recounting it coldly. Gavin snooping around the building after hours, seeing scruffy men filing in and out for five-minute visits, overhearing things. Conversations about billing.

Gavin, the brain-injured would-be investigative reporter, stumbling upon a real story. And dying because of it.

“Crazy idiot,” said Hacker.

“Crazy idiot because he snooped,” said Milo.

“And opened up his big yap. He went and told Koppel about his suspicions. During therapy. He’d never seen her with the cons, so I guess he assumed she wasn’t in on it. She told Larsen, said she’d handle it. Larsen didn’t believe her, had Ray handle it.”

Confidentiality.

Milo said, “Who did Gavin see with the cons?”

“Ray and Larsen.”

“Aren’t you leaving something out?” said Dwight Zevonsky.

Hacker smoked and nodded. “I was occasionally there. Mostly, my job was getting names, making sure the cons were stable.”

“Passing out bribes,” said Zevonsky.

“Whatever.”

Milo said, “Did Koppel know Gavin was going to be whacked?”

“No,” said Hacker. “Like I said, she thought she could handle it.”

“Larsen didn’t believe her.”

“Larsen didn’t want to wait.”

“So he called Ray.”

“Ray had done it before.”

“Killed for Larsen?”

“No, for himself.”

“Who?”

“Guys in prison.”

“What about another woman?”

Pause. “Maybe that, too.”

“Maybe?” said Milo.

“I don’t know for sure. Ray implied it. Said when women put him down they were gonna get stuck with the tab. When he said it, he was playing with a knife. Cleaning his nails.”

“Get stuck. He used those words.”

“It was a . . . figure of speech with him. When someone went down they were stuck with the tab. Ray could be generous. When we partied, he’d give women whatever they wanted. Long as they didn’t disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him, how?”

“By not doing what he wanted.”

“Bossy fellow,” said Milo.

“He could be,” said Hacker.

“So Koppel wasn’t in on Gavin’s murder.”

“I told you. No. When she found out, figured out what happened, she went nuts. Threatened to shut the whole thing down. Larsen tried to calm her down, but she was pretty upset. I think what bugged her the most was that one of her patients had been whacked. She took that personally.”

“So Ray whacked her, too.”

Hacker nodded.

“He told you he was gonna do it. Told you about Gavin, too.”

“Uh-uh, no way. If he told me, I would’ve tried to stop it.”

“Being an upright guy and all that,” said Milo.

“Hey,” said Hacker, winking. “I used to be his PO.”

“What about Christina Marsh?”

“She partied with us, a slut, Ray was fucking her. She was a stripper, and he liked her ’cause she was stupid and had a tight body. He bought her expensive stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Clothes, perfume. Like I said, Ray could be generous.”

“All the money you were making, he could afford to be.”

“It ran through his fingers,” said Hacker. “Typical con.”

“Ray buy Christina shoes?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“He liked her.”

“He liked what she
did
for him.”

“Until . . .”

“Until what?” said Hacker.

“She was also up there on Mulholland, Bennett.”

“True,” said Hacker.

“This is full disclosure? The deal can be turned around.”

Hacker pushed his glasses up his nose. “The deal’s already inked.”

“You keep twisting things to put yourself out of the picture, we’ll tear up the papers and send you over for a 187 prosecution.”

“I’m putting myself out of the picture because I wasn’t in that picture,” said Hacker. “In the Sentries picture, yes. The help-with-the-paperwork picture, yes. But not the up-on-Mulholland picture.”

“You knew Ray was going to whack Gavin.”

“He never came out and said so.”

“He hinted,” said Milo. “Said someone was gonna get stuck with the tab.”

Hacker hesitated. Nodded.

“He told you about it, afterward.”

“Who says?”

“You were roommates.”

“We weren’t asshole buddies.”

Milo mimed tearing up a sheet of paper.

Hacker said, “What he said was, ‘I solved our problem.’ I didn’t ask. Later, a couple of days later, we were getting high in the apartment and he was feeling good and he told me the details. Said it went down easy, the kid was surprised, he didn’t put up any resistance.”

“Why’d he kill Christina Marsh?”

“ ’Cause she was there.”

“Any other motivation?”

“He said she irritated him by being with the kid.”

“Irritated.”

“That’s the word he used. Ray had a way . . . using little words for big feelings. I know for a fact that Christi irritated him other times, too, because he told me.”

“What’d she do?”

“It’s what she didn’t do. Not being there when Ray wanted her to be. One time, he scored some high-class coke, wanted to party with her, and she wasn’t available. Then she did that again. Said she was busy. Ray didn’t like being told no.”

“How’d Ray meet Christi?”

“Some bar,” said Hacker. “He picked her up.”

“A bar where?”

“Playa Del Rey. The Whale Watch. It’s a place we went a lot.”

“Christi was there,” said Milo.

“Right there,” said Hacker. “Ripe for the picking—Ray’s words.”

“You party with her, too?”

Hacker laughed and smoked, shoved his glasses up again, took them off, and said, “I need a smaller size of these.”

Milo said, “You party with Christi Marsh, Bennett?”

“Not quite.”

“Why’s that?”

“Ray wasn’t into sharing.”

“Ray ever talk about someone named Flora Newsome?”

“Her?” said Hacker, surprised. “Yeah, I knew Flora; she temped at an office where I worked.”

“Ray come into that office?”

“Yeah,” said Hacker. “As a matter of fact, Ray knew her, too. They dated for a while.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Milo.

“Why? What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She got stuck with the check.”

Hacker’s myopic eyes bugged. “You’re kidding.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I transferred out of that office—it was a satellite—after maybe two weeks. Flora? I liked her. Nice girl, quiet. I thought about dating her myself, but then Ray started with her.”

“And Ray didn’t like to share.”

“He
did
her?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Milo.

“Too bad,” said Hacker. His voice had dropped; he looked as if he meant it.

“Something bother you, Bennett?”

“What’d she do to piss Ray off?”

“You don’t know?”

“I swear I don’t.”

“You said Ray implied he’d done women.”

“Yeah, but like I said he just hinted around—you’re saying that was her? Flora? Shit.”

“That bother you, Bennett?”

“Sure it does. I liked her. Nice girl. After Ray said he wasn’t dating her anymore, I told him maybe I’d give her a try. He got irritated with me, told me sloppy seconds was for losers.” Hacker licked his lips. “I thought about doing it anyway, I liked Flora. But you didn’t want Ray irritated at you. Was it in the papers?”