Therapy

CHAPTER 23

“Sweaty fellow,” Milo murmured, as he called DMV.

It didn’t take long to get the data. Three vehicles were registered to Franco Arthur Gull on Club Drive. A two-year-old Mercedes, a ’63 Corvette, and a 1999 Ford Aerostar.

“Well, well, well.”

He pulled the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, found a map, and jabbed his index finger. “Gull’s house is only a few blocks from Koppel’s, so on the face of it, one of his cars in the neighborhood isn’t weird. But the witness said the van drove away from his street. Seemed to be looking for something.”

I said, “Cruising back and forth at 2 A.M. isn’t neighborly. It’s the kind of thing stalkers do.”

“A shrink with problems in that area. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“A shrink the court refers stalkers to. Maybe Gavin found out somehow, and that’s why he dropped Gull and switched to Koppel.”

“Gull driving by Koppel’s house,” he said. “She wouldn’t have stood for that. Gavin tells her, he’s lighting a tinderbox.”

“On the other hand,” I said.

“What?”

“Three vehicles in the Gull family. The Mercedes for him and a vintage Vette for weekend fun. That leaves the Aerostar for the wife.”

“Suspicious wife,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Gull and Koppel were having a fling.”

“When you talked about evidence, Gull asked about fingerprints. It struck me as out of context. That could be because he knows his prints are in that batch you dusted at Koppel’s house.”

“More than partners. More than neighbors. She finds him a house close by, all the easier for drop-in fun. Mrs. G suspects and drives by at 2 A.M. Checking up. No wonder the guy’s perspiring like a marathon runner.”

I said, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s got a state license, so his prints are in the system.

He flipped the little blue phone open. “I’ll call the techs right now. Meanwhile, let’s visit the wife.”

“What about excavating Gavin’s room?”

“That, too,” he said. “but later.” Big grin. “All of a sudden, I’m busy.”

The Gull residence was a Tudor, not unlike Mary Lou Koppel’s, a bit less imposing on a flat lot with no view. Ballpark-quality lawn, the usual luxuriant beds of impatiens, a liquidambar sapling just beginning to turn color, staked in the crater vacated by a larger tree.

The Aerostar van was parked in the driveway. Deep blue. Two bumper stickers: MY CHILD’S AN HONOR STUDENT AT WILD ROSE SCHOOL. And GO LAKERS!

An Hispanic maid answered Milo’s knock. He asked for “La señora, por favor,” and she said “Un momento,” and closed the door. When it opened again, a petite, very slim blond-ponytailed woman in her thirties stood there, looking distracted. Milo’s badge changed nothing. She continued to look through us.

White-blond, ice-blue eyes, small bones, beautiful features. Even standing still, she seemed graceful. But dangerously slim; her skin bordered on translucence, and her black velvet sweats bagged. She’d done a fine job with her makeup, but the red rims around her eyes were impossible to conceal.

Milo said, “Mrs. Gull.”

“I’m Patty.”

“May we come in?”

“Why?”

“This is about a recent crime in the neighborhood.”

One slender hand drummed the other. “What,” she said, “another mugging in Rancho Park?”

“Something more serious, ma’am. And I’m afraid the victim’s someone you know.”

“Her,” said Patty Gull. Her voice had gone deeper, and any trace of distraction had vanished. Her hands separated, dropped, clamped on her hips. Her lower jaw slung forward. As fine-featured and aquiline as she was, her face took on a mastiff scowl.

“Sure, come in,” she said.

The living room was wood-shuttered and paneled in oak stained so dark it was nearly black. The decor looked as if it had been assembled in one day by someone with respect for convention, a tight deadline, and a nervous budget: middling antique copies, equine prints under glass, the kind of still-life paintings you can pick up at sidewalk sales. Further stabs at re-creating manor living were accomplished by a riot of floral chintz, too-shiny brass gewgaws, and artificially distressed surfaces. Just beyond the room was a hallway filled with toys and other child clutter.

Patty Gull perched on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, and we faced her from matching wing chairs. She took hold of a tasseled cushion, held it over her abdomen, like a hot-water bottle.

Milo said, “I noticed your bumper sticker. Someone a Lakers fan?”

“Me,” she said. “I used to be a Lakers Girl. Back when I was young and cute.”

“Not that long ago-”

“Don’t stroke me,” said Patty Gull. “I like to think I’ve held up pretty well, but I’m going to be forty in two years, and I screwed up my body giving my husband two gorgeous children. He pays me back by fucking other women whenever he can.”

We said nothing.

She said, “He’s a pussy hound, Detective. For that, I could’ve hooked up with a basketball player. Even one on the bench.” Her laughter was brittle. “I was a good Lakers Girl, went home after the games, didn’t party, held on to my morals. Nice Catholic girl, told to marry well. I married a psychologist, figured I’d be getting some stability.” She punched the tasseled pillow. Flung it to one side and hugged herself.

“Mrs. Gull-”

“Patty. I’ve had it, he’s history.”

“You’re getting divorced?”

“Maybe,” she said. “You take stock of your life, and say ‘This is what I have to do,’ and it seems so obvious. Then you step back and all the complications rain down on you. Kids, money- it’s always the woman who gets screwed moneywise. I’ve stayed out of Franco’s business affairs. He could hide everything, and I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer?”

“Not officially. I have a friend who’s a lawyer. She was a Lakers Girl, too, but unlike me, she was smart enough to go all the way with her education. I always wanted to get an MBA, do something in the corporate world. Maybe in sports, I love sports. Instead…” She threw up her hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re here about her.”

“Dr. Koppel.”

“Dr. Mary Lou fuck-another-woman’s-husband Koppel. You think Franco killed her?”

Patty Gull examined her fingernails.

“Should I think that, Mrs. Gull?”

“Probably not. The papers said she was shot, and Franco doesn’t own a gun, wouldn’t have a clue how to use one. Also, he wasn’t with her that night. I know because I got up in the middle of the night and drove by her house looking for his car, and it wasn’t there.”

“What time was this, ma’am?”

“Must’ve been close to two in the morning. I went to bed at ten, like I always do. Big swinging life and all that. Franco came in before I could fall asleep and we had another fight and he left and I went to sleep. When I woke up and he wasn’t there and it was nearly two, I really lost it.”

“Because he hadn’t come home.”

“Because,” said Patty Gull, “he wasn’t being penitent. You’re having serious problems and you claim you’re penitent and then you have another fight. What do you do? You approach your wife on bended knees and beg her forgiveness. That’s the constructive thing to do. The caring, giving thing. Franco would tell a patient to do that. What does he do? Stalk out, turn off his car phone, and stay away.”

“So you went looking for him.”

“Damn straight.”

“Figuring Dr. Gull would be with Dr. Koppel.”

“Doctor this, Doctor that. You’re making it sound like a medical convention. He was fucking her. I found them together before.” She grabbed for the same pillow, snatched it up, bounced it on a bony knee. “Bastard and bitch didn’t even try to be subtle. We live four blocks apart. I mean, rent a room for God’s sake, don’t soil your own nest.”

“You found them at her house.”

“You bet.”

“When?”

“A month ago. This is after Franco promised he’d finally deal with his problem.”

“Being a pussy hound.”

Hearing her own words repeated seemed to shock her. She said, “Uh, yes. He’s always been… it’s always been difficult. I’ve been more patient than Mother Teresa, they should canonize me. And then I find him with her- that was too much- she wasn’t even attractive. Now we’re talking another level of shoving it in my face.”

“How’d you find them?” said Milo.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” said Patty Gull. “This is great. Franco gave me the old b.s. about working late. Then he had his answering service call me just before nine to let me know he was still tied up, it would be even later. I knew right away something was up. Franco doesn’t see emergency patients. Most of what he does is hand-hold bored Beverly Hills bitches. So I decided to drive over to the office and confront him. Enough is enough, right? So I tell Maria to watch the kids and I start driving to the office and something, I still don’t know what it was, makes me take McConnell. ’Cause it’s north, it’s basically on the way. And I pass her house, and there’s his car. Parked in front, parked right in front. Is that gall, or what?”

“Pretty blatant.”

“I parked, ran up those stairs all the way to her backyard, and there they were in the back room. She’s got this big-screen TV and on it was a porn video and apparently the bitch and the bastard were feeling playful, decided to imitate whatever filth they were watching.”

“Wow,” said Milo.

“Wow, indeed. They didn’t even bother to lock the door, and I just walked in, walked right past them and they were so into what they were doing that they didn’t even hear me. It wasn’t until I switched off the TV that they opened their eyes.”

She closed her own. Remembering.

“That was delicious,” she said. “The expressions on their faces. The way they looked at me.”

“Shock,” said Milo.

“Beyond shock.” Patty Gull smiled. “It was like someone from another planet- another galaxy- had landed a UFO in that room. And I just stood there, let them know with my stare that they were busted scum and there was nothing they could do to change that. Then I walked out and drove back home. Twenty minutes later, Franco showed up, looking like he had cancer. I bolted the door and didn’t let him in and told him if he tried to trespass, I’d call the police. He left, I knew he would, he always leaves. I didn’t see him until the next day. He went to work and was a good little psychologist and came home and tried to talk to me using his psychologist voice. The only reason I let him in was by that time I’d spoken to my friend the lawyer, and she’d slowed me down.”

“She advised you not to file.”

“I was ready to do it, I really was, but she said life would get really complicated faster than I could imagine. So I allowed the bastard to come home, but he’s not allowed to touch me, and I don’t talk to him unless the kids are present.”

Milo said, “That was a month ago. Between then and the night Dr. Koppel was killed, have you driven past her house?”

“All the time.”

“How often?”

“Every other day,” said Patty Gull. “At least. Sometimes every day. It’s on my way to go shopping, whatever, so why not? I figure if I do serve Franco, I might as well pile up the evidence. My friend says even with no-fault divorce, the more you can get, the better.”

“Have you seen his car there, since?”

“No,” she said. “Unfortunately. Maybe they’re doing it in the office. Or at some motel.”

She clenched her eyes shut.

Milo said, “You do think they continued their affair after you discovered them.”

Her eyes flipped open. “That’s what Franco does. Fucks and fucks and fucks. He’s sick.”

“How many other women has he-”

“No,” said Patty Gull. “I don’t want to go there. Some things are private.”

“Were any of them his patients?” said Milo.

“I don’t know about that. Franco’s business was his domain. That was the deal.”

“The deal.”

“The marriage deal. I gave up my career and my entire life for him and had kids, and he went out and provided.”

“He provide pretty well?”

She waved a languid hand around the dark, floral room. “He did okay.”

“Nice place.”

“I conceived it myself. I’m thinking of going back and studying decorating.”

“Mrs. Gull, in terms of the other women-”

“I said I don’t want to go there, okay? What’s the difference? I don’t know if he fucked his patients. I do know he fucked her. But he didn’t kill the bitch. I told you, he wasn’t there that night. And he doesn’t have the guts.”

“Where was he that night?”

“Some hotel, I forget- ask him which one.”

“How do you know he was there?”

“Because he called me and left his room number, and I called him back and he was there- the place on Beverly and Pico, used to be a Ramada, I don’t know what it is now.”

“What’d you guys talk about?”

“Nothing pretty,” she said. “Now please leave. I have things to do.”

“Don’t be offended by this question, ma’am, but where were you-”

“I didn’t kill the bitch either. Guns scare me, I’ve never even touched one. That’s one thing Franco and I have in common. We’re for outlawing guns, just despise what guns have done to our country. Besides, that night Franco wasn’t there with her, so why would I bother paying the bitch a visit?”

“You had reason to resent Dr. Koppel. Why not have a chat?”

“At that hour?”

“You were out driving at that hour.”

“Five minutes, back and forth,” said Patty Gull. “Just to see. I looked for his Benz, didn’t see it, drove back home, took an Ambien, and slept like a baby.”

Milo said nothing.

“Detective, if resentment was enough of a motive, I’d be killing tons of women, not just her.” She laughed, this time with genuine glee. “I’d be one of those serial killers.”

Out came the picture of the dead girl. “Know her, ma’am?”

Patty Gull’s bravado crumbled. Her mouth opened and her jaw shook. “Is she- she is, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

“No, no, of course not- is she one of Franco’s- did he-”

“Right now, we don’t know who she is.”

“So why are you showing it to me- take it away, it’s horrible.”

Milo began to comply, but her hand shot out and held the photo in place.

“She looks like me. Not as pretty as I was at that age. But pretty enough, she’s a pretty girl.” She placed the photo in her lap, continued to stare.

“She looks like me. It’s horrible.”