Therapy

CHAPTER 21

“Alex, I’m glad I caught you.”

It’d been months since I’d heard Robin’s voice, and it threw me. No rapid heartbeat; I was pleased about that.

I said. “Hi, how’ve you been?”

“Well. You?”

“Great.”

So civil.

“Alex, I’m calling for a favor, but if you can’t do it, please just say so.”

“What is it?”

“Tim was just asked to fly to Aspen to work with Udo Pisano- the tenor. There’s a concert tomorrow, and the guy’s voice is freezing up. They want Tim there yesterday, are flying him on a chartered jet. I’ve never been to Aspen and would like to go along. We’re talking one, maybe two nights. Would you be able to babysit Spike? You know how he is with kenneling.”

“Sure,” I said, “if Spike can handle being here.”

A few years back, on a sweltering summer day, a little French bulldog had made his way across the murderous traffic of Sunset Boulevard and up into the Glen. He wandered onto my property, gasping, stumbling, dangerously dehydrated. I watered and fed him, searched for his owner. She turned out to be an old woman dying in a Holmby Hills manor. Her sole heir, a daughter, was allergic to dogs.

He’d been saddled with an unwieldy pedigree moniker; I renamed him Spike and learned about kibble. He reacted to his new surroundings with élan, promptly fell in love with Robin, and began viewing me as competition.

When Robin and I broke up, custody wasn’t an issue. She got him, his leash, his food bowls, the short hairs he shed all over the furniture, his snoring, snuffling, arrogant table manners. I was awarded an echoing house.

I considered finding a dog of my own, had never gotten around to it. I didn’t see Spike much because I didn’t see Robin much. He’d taken ownership of the small house in Venice that she shared with Tim Plachette, and his regard for Tim seemed no higher than for me.

Robin said, “Thanks so much, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Down deep he loves you.”

“Must be extremely deep. When do you want to bring him over?”

“The plane leaves from Santa Monica as soon as we’re ready, so I was thinking soon.”

“Come on over.”

This is not your typical dog.

His flat face implies as much frog DNA as canine heritage, his ears are oversized, upright, batlike, and they flex and pivot and fold in response to a wide range of emotions. He doesn’t take up much more space than a Pomeranian but manages to pack twenty-six pounds into that cubic area, most of it lead-bone and rippling muscle, clothed in a black brindle coat. His neck is twenty-one and three-quarter inches around, and his knobby head is three handbreadths wide. His huge brown eyes shine with confidence and he allows himself the barest, patronizing interest in the lives of others. His worldview is simple: Life is a cabaret, and it’s all about him.

When I used to take him out alone, women flocked. “Oh, that’s the most beautiful ugly dog I’ve ever seen!” was the operative phrase.

This afternoon, he had as much interest in leaving Robin’s side as in snarfing a bowl of lint.

I held out a chew stick. He shot Robin a mournful gaze. She sighed and stooped. “It’ll be fine, handsome.”

The Saran-wrapped nugget of hamburger I’d concealed in my shirt pocket perked his radar and brought him over, but once he gobbled it, he raced back and hid behind Robin’s legs. Great legs.

She said, “Look at this, he’s guilt-tripping me.”

“The joys of parenthood.”

Spike nuzzled her jeans. Tight jeans above suede boots. She wore a black silk T-shirt under a tapestry vest. Her auburn curls were loose, her face was scrubbed and fresh. Those big, liquid brown eyes. The clean sweep of jaw and thin, straight nose.

Those lips; the oversized incisors.

I said, “Let me take him, and you go. He’ll fuss, then he’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” she said. She took Spike’s face in both her hands. “Listen, you rascal. Daddy will take good care of you, you know that.”

What did she call Tim? Stepdaddy?

Spike’s trapdoor mouth dropped open, teeth flashed, a purplish tongue flapped.

Beseeching the heavens, he bayed.

I swooped him into my arms, held his taut little body tight against my chest as he sniveled and writhed and hyperventilated. It was like restraining a bowling ball with legs.

“Oh dear,” said Robin.

I said, “Bon voyage, Rob.”

She hesitated, headed for her truck, changed her mind, and came back. Throwing her arm around my shoulder, she kissed Spike full on the snout.

She was kissing me on the cheek just as Allison drove up in her black Jaguar XJS.

The convertible top was down and her black hair blew like something out of a crème rinse commercial. She wore blue-tinted sunglasses and cream-colored knits with an aqua scarf. Glints punctuated her ears, neck, fingers, wrists; Allison is unafraid of adornment.

She switched off the engine and Robin’s arm dropped. Spike tried to leap out of my arms and reacted to his failure with a heart-wrenching howl.

“Hey, everyone,” said Allison.

“Hi,” said Robin, smiling.

Spike tried his I’m-strangling-do-the-Heimlich bit.

“Well, look who’s here.” Allison patted Spike’s head, then she kissed my lips. Robin backed away a few steps.

Spike froze; his head shifted from woman to woman.

It can get like that, buddy.

He moaned.

After Robin drove away, I trailed Allison up the stairs to the terrace, carrying a still-shuddering dog. When we reached the landing, she looked at me- no, at him. Touched his whiskered flews tentatively. “Look at this little guy. I forget how cute he is.”

Spike licked her hand.

“You are very, very cute!”

Spike began panting heavily, and she petted him some more. He wriggled, twisted his head back and managed to make eye contact with me.

A knowing look, rich with triumph.

Moments later, he was lying at Allison’s feet, nibbling on his second chew stick in as many minutes, damning my approach with a jaundiced eye.

Some guys have all the luck.

Mary Lou Koppel’s murder had shaken Allison, and that seemed to be why she’d dropped by. As I made coffee for both of us, she pressed for details.

I told her the little I knew.

“So it could be a patient,” she said.

“At this point anything’s possible.”

Her hands were tight around her mug.

I said, “You’re upset.”

“Not on a personal level.” She took a sip. “I have had patients- mostly husbands of patients- who made me uneasy. But that was mostly years ago, when I was taking more referrals from agencies… I guess Mary Lou’s death hits close to home. Thinking we know what we’re doing and maybe we get overconfident. It’s not just me. I’ve gotten calls from three other psychologists who just wanted to talk about it.”

“People who knew Mary Lou?”

“People who know I’m seeing you and thought they could get some inside information. Don’t worry, I was discreet.”

“What was on their minds?”

“Our line of work, the unpredictablity of human beings. I guess they want to convince themselves that Mary Lou was different, and that’s why it happened to her.”

I said, “They’re hoping she ticked off some talk-show nut, and it had nothing to do with her practice.”

“Bingo. But from what you’re telling me, it could be a patient. Someone who met the Quick boy in the waiting room.”

“Given the Quick boy’s impulsiveness- his behavior with women- the suspect pool has grown beyond the waiting room.”

“But Mary Lou’s murder,” she said. “It has to be something related to her work.”

“Any idea about gaining access to her patient files?” I said. “I can’t figure out a way to get around confidentiality.”

She thought about that. “Not without some kind of clear and present danger- documentation of a threat.”

“There was nothing like that in Gavin’s chart. And if she was threatened by anyone, she didn’t let on to me or Milo. We’ve got a meeting with her partners tomorrow.”

“Gull and Larsen.”

“Know them?” I said.

“I’ve said hi to both of them but nothing more.”

“Any impressions?”

“Gull comes across very smooth- very much the Beverly Hills shrink. Larsen’s more the academic type.”

“Gull was Gavin’s initial therapist,” I said. “It didn’t work out, and Gavin was transferred to Koppel. Now that Gavin’s dead, maybe he can tell us why.”

“What a troubled kid,” she said. “The stalking, putting the make on his aunt.”

“If the aunt’s to be believed, the family’s beyond dysfunctional.”

She drank more coffee, took my hand and held it. “At least you and I will never be out of work.”

“Neither will Milo.”

Spike rolled on his back and began pumping his stumpy legs.

“He looks like an upended turtle,” she said. “What are you doing, cutie? Practicing for the upside-down bike race?”

“That’s the signal to scratch his belly,” I said.

She grinned and complied. “Thanks for decoding, I’m not fluent in dog.”

She stopped scratching and made a move for her coffee mug. Spike protested, and she bent down again.

I said, “One-trial learning. Consider yourself conditioned.”

She laughed, took the mug, managed to sip and rub. Spike burped, then purred like a cat. Allison cracked up. “He’s a sound effects machine.”

“He’s got all sorts of talents.”

“How long’s he staying?”

“Couple of days.” I told her about Robin’s call.

“That was very nice of you.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said. “It was supposed to be joint custody, but he voted against it.”

“Well, that was foolish on his part. I’m sure you were a great father.” She sat up and touched my face and ran a finger over my lips.

Spike sprang to his feet and barked.

“Here we go,” I said. To Spike: “Cool it, clown.”

“Ooh, stern,” said Allison. “You do stern pretty well, my love. I’ve never seen it before.”

“He brings it out in me.”

“I always wanted a dog,” she said. “You know my mother. Way too neat for hair on the carpet. And Dad was always away on business. I did have a salamander once. It crawled out of its tank and hid under my bed and dried up. When I found it, it looked like a piece of beef jerky.”

“Poor neglected child,” I said.

“Yes, it was a tragic childhood- though, to be honest, I wasn’t very attached to Sally. Wet and slimy discourages bonding, don’t you think? But something like this.” She rubbed Spike’s head. “This I could see.”

“It gets complicated,” I said.

“How so?”

“I’ll show you.”

I got up, stood behind her, rubbed her neck and kissed it. Waited for Spike to go bonkers.

He stared. Defiant. Did nothing.

Her top was V-necked and I slipped my hand under it. She said, “Umm. As long as I’m here…”

“So you didn’t just come to talk about Mary Lou.”

“I did, but so what?” she said. I pinched her nipple lightly, and she leaned back in her chair and sucked in her breath and let it out in a soft laugh. She reached behind and ran her hand along my flank. “You have time?”

I glanced over at Spike. Impassive.

I took Allison by the hand, walked her to the bedroom. Spike trotted ten steps behind us. I closed the door. Silence. Back when it was Robin and me, he’d complained incessantly.

I drew the drapes, undressed Allison, got out of my own clothes. We stood belly to belly, blood rushing, cool flesh warming. I cupped Allison’s rear. Her hands were all over me.

Still no complaints from the other side of the door as I carried her to the bed.

We embraced and touched and kissed and I forgot about anything but Allison.

It wasn’t till I entered her that the scratching and mewling began.

Allison heard it right away. Lying there, her hands on my arms, her legs propped high on my back, she opened her blue eyes wide.

We began moving together.

The commotion on the other side of the door got louder.

“Oh,” she said, still rocking. “See… what… you… mean.”

I didn’t stop, and neither did she.

Spike kept it up.

To no avail.