Therapy

CHAPTER 22

When I awoke the next morning at 6 A.M., Allison was next to me, and Spike lay curled on the floor, at the foot of the bed. She’d let him in. For the next two days, he wouldn’t even be faking civil.

I left her sleeping and took him outside to do his business. The morning was moist and gray and oddly fragrant. Mustaches of haze coiled down from the mountains. The trees were black sentries. Too early for the birds.

I watched him waddle around the yard, sniffing and searching. He nuzzled a garden snail, decided escargot was an element of his Gallic heritage that he preferred to forget, and disappeared behind a bush. As I stood there in my bathrobe, shivering, head clearing, I wondered who’d been threatened to the point of murder by Gavin Quick and Mary Lou Koppel. Or maybe there was no threat at all, and this was all about pleasure killing.

Then I recalled Gavin’s journalistic fantasies, and my questions took off in a different direction.

At breakfast, I said nothing about the murders to Allison. By eight-thirty she’d left for her office, and I was doing some work around the house. Spike remained still in front of the cold TV. He’s always been a devotee of the blank screen; maybe he’s got something there. I headed for my office and cleared paper. Spike padded in and stared until I got up, went to the kitchen, and fetched him a scrap of turkey. That kept him happy for the rest of the morning, and by 10 A.M. he was sleeping in the kitchen.

When Milo called soon after and asked me to pick him up at noon for the meeting with Drs. Gull and Larsen, I was glad to hear his voice.

I idled the Seville in front of the station. Milo was late to come down, and I was warned twice by uniforms not to loiter. Milo’s name meant nothing to the second cop, who threatened to ticket. I drove around the block a couple of times and found Milo waiting by the curb.

“Sorry. Sean Binchy grabbed me as I was leaving.”

He closed his eyes and put his head back. His clothes were rumpled, and I wondered when he’d last slept.

I took side streets to Ohio, aimed the Seville east, fought the snarl at Sepulveda, and continued to Overland, where I could finally outpace a skateboard.

Roxbury Park was fifteen minutes away, on Olympic, less than a mile west of Mary Lou Koppel’s office. Even closer to the Quick house on Camden Drive. I considered the constricted world that had become Gavin’s after his accident. Until he’d driven a pretty blond girl up to Mulholland Drive.

Milo opened his eyes. “I like this chauffering stuff. You ever put in for mileage, the department takes a big hit.”

“Saint Alex. What did Binchy want?”

“He found a neighbor of Koppel’s, some kid living seven houses up McConnell, who spotted a van cruising the street the night of the murder. Kid was coming home late, around 2 A.M., and the van passed him, heading north, away from Koppel’s house and toward his. He locked his doors, stayed in his car, watched it turn around and return. Going really slowly, like the driver was looking for an address. The kid waited until the taillights had disappeared for a while. He can’t say if the van parked or just drove out of sight, but it didn’t make another pass.”

“Vigilant kid,” I said.

“There was a follow-home mugging over on the other side of Motor a few weeks ago, and his parents made a big deal about being observant.”

“Two o’clock fits the coroner’s estimate. Any look at the driver?”

“Too dark. Kid thought maybe the windows were tinted.”

“How old a kid?”

“Seventeen. Binchy says he’s an honor student at Harvard-Westlake, seems solid. He’s into cars, too, was pretty sure the van was a Ford Aerostar. Black or gray or navy blue, no customization he could spot. He didn’t get a peek at the plate, that would be too much to hope for. It’s not much, but if we turn up some suspect with an Aerostar, it’ll be a nice bit of something.”

“Any progress getting access to Koppel’s files?”

“I asked three ADAs, and each told me the same thing. Without overt violent behavior or threats by a specific patient against a specific person, forget it.”

“Maybe there’s another way to learn about Gavin’s private life,” I said. “He fancied himself a budding journalist, and journalists take notes.”

“Oh, man.” He sat up, pressed the dashboard with both hands, as if protecting himself from falling forward. “That sty he called a room. All that paper piled up, maybe he wrote something down. And I never checked. Shit.”

“It was only a suggestion-”

“The night we notified Sheila Quick, she showed us the room. I felt bad for her, seeing how embarrassed she was. I never bothered to toss.” He dug his thumbs into his temples. “Oh, that was brilliant.”

“That night we notified Sheila,” I said, “it presented as a lover’s lane sex murder. No one suspected Gavin might’ve played a role in his own death. We still don’t know that he did.”

“Yeah, yeah, I appreciate the therapy, Alex, but the fact is, I should’ve tossed the damn room right away. Maybe I’m losing it… I have to write things down or they leak outta my brain. Okay, no more whining. Proactive, proactive. After Gull and Larsen, I head back to the Quick house. Mrs. Q’s gonna love my excavating her dead boy’s personal effects.” He grimaced. “Hopefully, she didn’t throw stuff out.”

“I think it’ll be a while before she has the energy to face the job.”

“The life she leads,” he said, softly. “I looked into her hubby’s background. Ol’ Jerome has earned himself one ticket for speeding and one for failure to make a complete stop. He’s not known to our Vice unit or any other I talked to, including Santa Monica and West Hollywood. So if he hired call girls for himself or Gavin, he did it carefully. I ran him through a few search engines and his name comes up once. Reunion of Vietnam vets five years ago, in Scranton, Pennsylvania.”

At Century Park East, I stopped at a red light. A few blocks later, I passed the college-sized campus that was Beverly Hills High. Then a block-long stretch of green, clean, and orderly park, with that Potemkin village rightness that characterizes Beverly Hills’s public areas.

Milo said, “Ready to be collegial? Should I tell them who you are?”

“No, keep it low-key. I’ll just listen.”

“Ever the observer. Probably a good idea. Okay, turn here on Roxbury, keep going till you get to the south side of the park, and circle around. They said they’ll be waiting in the picnic area, off the Spalding side alley on the western edge. Near where the kids and the mommies play.”

Albin Larsen and a larger, dark-haired man in a black suit sat at a wooden table just inside the green iron fencing that marked the western border of the park. One of six tables, all shaded by a grove of old Chinese elms. Beverly Hills treats its trees like show poodles, and the elms had been clipped into towering green umbrellas. The psychologists had chosen a spot just north of a sand pit, where toddlers frolicked under the watchful eyes of mothers and maids. Their backs were to the children.

I found a parking slot facing the green fence. Most of the others were taken up by SUVs and vans. The exception was a pair of Mercedes 190s, both deep gray, positioned next to each other. Same cars I’d seen in the parking lot of Koppel’s building. Same model as Jerome Quick’s.

Milo said, “His and his Benz’s.”

“They work together but drove here separately,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning let’s see.”

Larsen and Gull were unaware of our presence and we watched them for a few moments. They sat talking to each other, and eating. Not much conversation, no obvious emotion. Milo said, “Let’s go.”

When we were ten yards away both men noticed us and put down their plastic forks. Albin Larsen’s dress was consistent with what I’d seen the day Mary Lou Koppel had failed to show up at her office: another sweater-vest, this one brown, over a tan linen shirt and a green wool tie. Franco Gull’s black suit was finely woven crepe with narrow lapels. Under it he wore a collarless white silk shirt buttoned to the neck. Gold wedding ring, gold watch.

Gull was broad-shouldered and powerful-looking, with a thick neck, a boxer’s nose, and a big, rough face that managed to be handsome. His head sported a mass of wavy, iron-flecked black hair. His chin preceded the rest of him by a half inch. Tailored eyebrows arched behind gray-lensed sunglasses, and his skin was rosy.

A bit younger than Larsen- midforties. When Milo and I reached the table, he removed the shades and exposed big, dark eyes. Sad eyes, bottomed by smudgy pouches. They added a couple of years and the suggestion of thoughtfulness.

He was eating take-out Chinese out of the carton. Shrimp swimming in red sauce and fried rice and a side of dwarf spring rolls. Albin Larsen’s lunch was mixed green salad heaped in a Styrofoam bowl. Both men sipped canned iced tea.

Larsen said, “Good day,” and gave a formal little nod. Gull held out a hand. His fingers were enormous.

Both men were in the shade, but Gull’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Spicy shrimp?

Milo and I brushed dust and leaves from the picnic bench and sat down. Larsen resumed eating. Gull smiled with uncertainty.

“Thanks for taking the time, Doctors,” said Milo. “Must be tough around the office.”

Larsen looked up from his salad. Neither man answered.

“Dr. Koppel’s patients,” said Milo. “Having to explain to them.”

“Yes,” said Larsen. “The vulnerability.”

Gull said, “Fortunately, we’re not talking about a huge number. Unlike physicians, each of us handles only forty, fifty patients at any given time. Albin and I divided up the actives and contacted each one. We’re still working on former patients, but it’s tough finding them. Mary didn’t hold on to her files for longer than a year.”

His voice was smooth and soft, but talking seemed to take the wind out of him. He wiped his forehead. The sweat kept coming.

“Is that typical?” said Milo. “Destroying files?”

“It’s something each therapist decides independently.”

“What about you and Dr. Larsen?”

“I hold on to files for two years. What about you, Albin?”

Larsen said, “It depends, but generally that’s about right.”

“No official group policy,” said Milo.

“We’re not an official group,” said Larsen. “We share an office suite.”

“So what happens to Dr. Koppel’s active patients now? In terms of treatment?”

Franco Gull said, “Those who choose to continue with either Albin or me are free to do so. If they prefer a female therapist, we’re happy to refer them out.”

“Sounds pretty organized,” said Milo.

“We need to be. As Albin said, we’re dealing with extreme vulnerability. What could be worse for someone needy than to be cast adrift so abruptly?” Gull shook his head and his wavy hair shimmied. “It’s a nightmare for them and for us. Unbelievable.”

“Dr. Koppel’s murder.”

Gull’s sad eyes tightened. “Are we talking about anything else?”

Albin Larsen speared a tomato but didn’t eat it.

“It’s a major loss,” said Gull. “For her patients, for us, for… Mary was vibrant, brilliant, dynamic. She was someone I learned from, Detective. It’s hard to comprehend that she’s really gone.”

He glanced at Larsen.

Larsen toyed with a lettuce leaf, and said, “To be snuffed out like that.” He wiped his eyes. “We’ve lost a dear friend.”

Franco Gull said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

Milo placed his elbows on the picnic table. “I know you gentlemen are bound by confidentiality, but a viable threat nullifies that. Are either of you aware of any patient ever making a threat against Dr. Koppel? Any patient who resented her deeply?”

“A patient?” said Gull. “Why would you even think that?”

“I’m thinking anything, Doctor. Covering all bases.”

“No,” said Gull. “There are no patients like that. Absolutely not.” He groped for a napkin, took another swipe at his brow.

Milo glanced at Albin Larsen. Larsen shook his head.

Milo said, “Dr. Koppel dealt with troubled people. It seems a logical place to start.”

“Logical in the abstract,” said Gull, “but it doesn’t apply to our practice. Mary didn’t treat sociopaths.”

“Who did she treat?” said Milo.

“People with everyday problems of adjustment,” said Gull. “Anxiety, depression, what used to be called neurosis. And basically sound individuals facing choice points.”

“Career guidance?”

“All kinds of guidance,” said Gull.

“You don’t call ’em neurotic anymore, huh?”

“We avoid labeling, Detective. Avoid stigma. Therapy’s not treatment in the way a medical procedure is- a doctor doing something to a passive patient. It’s contractual. We see ourselves as partners with our patients.”

“Doctor and patient working as a team.”

“Exactly.”

“Problems of adjustment,” said Milo. “You’re absolutely certain there were no dangerous people in Dr. Koppel’s practice.”

Albin Larsen said, “Mary would not have enjoyed working with violent individuals.”

“And she did only what she enjoyed?”

“Mary was busy. She could choose her patients.”

“Why wouldn’t she enjoy working with violent people, Dr. Larsen?”

“Mary was committed to nonviolence.”

“We all are, Doctor, but that doesn’t mean we’re insulated from the uglier aspects of life.”

Larsen said, “Dr. Koppel was able to insulate herself.”

Milo said, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard radio tapes where Dr. Koppel talked about prison reform.”

“Ah,” said Larsen. “I’m afraid that was my influence. Was I on the tapes, as well?”

“Don’t think so, Doctor.”

Larsen’s mouth got tiny. “It was a topic I got Mary interested in. Not in a clinical sense. She was a socially aware individual, had a human as well as an academic interest in the larger social issues. But when it came to her practice, she concentrated on the everyday problems of everyday people. Women, mostly. And doesn’t that say something about the likelihood of her murderer being a patient?”

“Why’s that, Dr. Larsen?”

“Criminal violence is usually male-generated.”

“You’ve got an interest in criminal psychology?” said Milo.

“Only as part of the social rubric,” said Larsen.

Franco Gull said, “Albin’s being modest. He’s done terrific things as a human rights advocate.”

“From that to private practice,” I said.

Larsen glanced at me. “One does what one can in a given time.”

Milo said, “Human rights doesn’t pay the bills.”

Larsen turned to him. “I’m sorry to say, you’re correct, Detective.”

“So,” said Milo, “no psychopaths on Dr. Koppel’s patient roster.”

A statement, not a question, and neither psychologist responded. Albin Larsen ate a shred of lettuce. Franco Gull examined his gold watch.

Milo whipped out the picture of the blond girl. “Either of you gentlemen recognize her?”

Larsen and Gull examined the death shot. Both shook their heads.

Gull licked his lips. Sweat beaded atop his nose, and he wiped it away with irritation. “Who is she?”

“Was,” said Larsen. “She’s clearly deceased.” To Milo: “Is this related in some way to Mary’s murder?”

“Don’t know, yet, Doctor.”

“Did Mary know this girl?” said Gull.

“Don’t know that either, Doctor. So neither of you have seen her around the office.”

Gull said, “Never.”

Larsen shook his head. Tugged at a button of his sweater-vest. “Detective, is there something we need to know about? In terms of our own safety?”

“Are you worried about your safety?”

“You’ve just showed us a picture of a dead girl. I assume you feel her death is related to Mary’s. What’s really going on here?”

Milo put the photo back in his pocket. “All I can advise you is to exercise normal caution. Should either of you come up with a threatening patient- or anyone else from Dr. Koppel’s life who seems suspicious- you’d do best to let me know.”

He crossed his legs, looked over at the frolicking children. An ice-cream truck cruised through the alley and rang its bell. Some of the kids began pointing and jumping.

Franco Gull said, “Is there anything else? I’ve got a totally booked afternoon.”

“Just a few more questions,” said Milo. “About the structure of your partnership with Dr. Koppel.”

“Albin told you, it’s not a formal partnership,” said Gull. “We share office space.”

“A purely financial arrangement?”

“Well,” said Gull, “I wouldn’t reduce it to just that. Mary was our dear friend.”

“What happens, now that Dr. Koppel’s dead, in terms of the lease?”

Gull stared at him.

Milo said, “I need to ask.”

“Albin and I haven’t talked about that, Detective. It’s all we can do to take care of Mary’s patients.” He looked at Larsen.

Larsen said, “I’d be in favor of you and I picking up Mary’s share of the rent, Franco.”

“Sure,” said Gull. To us: “It’s no big deal. The rent’s reasonable, and Mary’s share was smaller than ours.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Because,” said Gull, “she found the building for us, arranged an excellent lease, oversaw the entire renovation.”

“Good negotiator,” said Milo.

“She was,” said Larsen. “Her skills were facilitated by the fact that her ex-husband owns the building.”

“Ed Koppel?”

Franco Gull said, “Everyone calls him Sonny.”

Milo said, “Renting from the ex.”

“Mary and Sonny got along well,” said Gull. “The divorce was years ago. Amicable.”

“No problems at all?”

“He gave us a sweetheart lease, Detective. Doesn’t that speak volumes?”

“Guess so,” said Milo.

Gull said, “You won’t find anyone who knew Mary well who’s going to bad-mouth her. She was a fabulous woman. This is really hard for us.”

His chin trembled. He put his sunshades back on.

“Gotta be rough,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”

He made no move to leave.

Larsen said, “Is there anything else?”

“This is just a formality, Doctors, but where was each of you the night Dr. Koppel was killed?”

“I was home,” said Gull. “With my wife and kids.”

“How many kids?”

“Two.”

Out came the notepad. “And where do you live, Doctor?”

“Club Drive.”

“Cheviot Hills?”

“Yes.”

“So you and Dr. Koppel were neighbors?”

“Mary helped us find the house.”

“Through Mr. Koppel?”

“No,” said Gull. “As far as I know Sonny’s only into commercial. Mary knew we were looking to upgrade. She was taking a walk and noticed the FOR SALE sign and thought it might meet our needs.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A year- fourteen months.”

“Before that you lived…”

“In Studio City,” said Gull. “Why is this relevant?”

Milo turned to Larsen. “And you, sir. Where were you that night?”

“Also at home,” said Larsen. “I live in an apartment on Harvard Street in Santa Monica, north of Wilshire.” He recited the address in a soft, weary voice.

“Live by yourself?”

“I do.” Larsen smiled. “I read and went to bed. I’m afraid there’s no one to verify that.”

Milo smiled back. “What’d you read?”

“Sartre. Transcendence of the Ego.”

“Light stuff.”

“Sometimes a challenge is good.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Milo. “I’ll tell you, this case is a challenge.”

Larsen didn’t answer.

Franco Gull checked his watch again. “I really need to head back to the office.”

“One more question,” said Milo. “I know you can’t tell me about any deep dark patient secrets because of ethical restraints. But I do have a question that I think you are allowed to answer. Do any of your patients drive a dark Ford Aerostar minivan? Black, dark blue, maybe gray?”

Above us, the elm canopy rustled and the high, gleeful sounds of childhood play drifted over. The ice-cream truck rang its bell and drove off.

Albin Larsen said, “A patient? No, I’ve never seen that.” His eyes drifted toward Gull.

Franco Gull said, “I agree. No patients I’m aware of drive a car like that. Not that I’d notice. I’m in the office when they park their cars, don’t know what any of them drive- unless it comes up in therapy.”

His brow was slick with sweat.

Milo scribbled in his pad and closed it. “Thanks, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”

“There’ll be more?” said Gull.

“Depends upon what we find in the way of evidence.”

“Fingerprints?” said Gull. “That kind of thing?”

“That kind of thing.”

Gull stood so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Makes sense.” Larsen got to his feet, too. Gull was a head taller and a foot and a half broader at the shoulders. High school football, maybe college.

We watched the two of them walk to their Mercedeses.

Milo said, “Now wasn’t that interesting?”