Therapy

CHAPTER 28

A block up from Sonny Koppel’s corporate headquarters was a coffee shop with a forties-era starship poised for takeoff atop an aqua metal roof. Milo and I sat at the empty counter, sucked in the aroma of eggs crackling in grease, and ordered coffee from a waitress old enough to be our mother.

He cell-phoned DMV. The address on Edward Albert Koppel’s driver’s license was the building we’d just visited. He’d registered four cars: the Buick, a five-year-old Cutlass, a seven-year-old Chevy, and an eleven-year-old Dodge.

“Buys American,” I said.

“You saw him,” he said. “You figure Mary Lou would go for a guy like that?”

“They were married years ago, when he was in law school,” I said. “Maybe he looked different.”

“The Candy Man… his secretary sure seemed wholesome.” He gulped down his coffee, drummed his fingers on the counter. “Kindly boss, noble patriot, all-around unpretentious guy… if it seems too good to be true, it probably is, right? Ready to go?”

“Where to?”

“You’re going home, and I’m back to the Quicks’ for that toss of Gavin’s room. Did you have a chance to check the psych licensing board on Franco Gull?”

“Clean,” I said.

“That so? Well, maybe Gavin didn’t think so, and look what happened to him.”

It was two days before I heard from him again. Ned Biondi hadn’t called, and my thoughts had drifted away from murders.

Robin came by and picked up Spike. Despite the two days of bonding, he reverted to instant disdain for me at the sight of her Ford pickup. Running to Robin as she crouched in the driveway, leaping into her arms, making her laugh.

She thanked me for babysitting and handed me a small blue gift box.

“Not necessary.”

“I appreciate the help, Alex.”

“How was Aspen?”

“Mean-looking men with bubble blond arm candy, lots of dead animal pelts, the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.” She played with an earring. Spike sat obediently at her feet.

“Anyway,” she said.

When she moved in to kiss my cheek, I pretended not to notice, and pivoted in a way that made me unavailable.

I heard the truck door close. Robin was at the wheel, looking puzzled as she started up the engine.

I waved.

She returned the wave, hesitantly. Spike began licking her face, and she drove away.

I opened the blue box. Sterling cuff links, shaped like tiny guitars.

When Milo finally called, I was getting out of the shower. “Mr. and Mrs. Quick appear to have taken a vacation. The house is locked up tight. Her van’s there, but his car isn’t, and a neighbor said she saw them loading suitcases.”

“Taking some time off,” I said.

“I need to get into that room. I called the sister- Paxton- but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. Onward to Mr. Sonny Koppel. He may drive old cars and dress like a slob, but it’s not due to poverty. Guy has title to over two hundred parcels of real estate. Commercial and residential rentals, four counties, just like his girl said.”

“Definitely a tycoon,” I said.

“He’s also got all sorts of holding companies and limited corporations as shields. It’s taken me this long to winnow through the basics. This guy’s big-time, Alex, and from what I can tell he likes to partner with the government.”

“Federal?”

“Federal, state, county. A lot of his holdings seem to be cofinanced by public funds. We’re talking low-cost housing projects, senior citizen residences, landmark buildings, assisted care. And guess what: halfway houses for parolees. Including the one on Sixth Street where Roland Kristof crashes. The state legislature says we have to pay for the board and care of felonious individuals, and Koppel’s cleaning up.”

“Public-spirited,” I said.

“It’s a great arrangement. Find some building or construction project that’s eligible for bond money or a grant, split your costs with John Q, take all the income. In terms of Koppel’s background, all I can find is that he did his undergrad work and law school at the U. But he never practiced, and I can’t locate any record of his taking the bar. Somehow he got bankrolled and built up an empire.”

“Is the office building where Pacifica practices a government deal?”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” he said. “But not because it’s in Beverly Hoohah. Koppel owns two B.H. properties- a senior residence hotel on Crescent Drive and a shopping center on La Cienega – that were financed with tax bucks. The hotel qualifies for an HUD gift and the strip mall got a FEMA grant because the stores that stood there before were earthquake-damaged.”

“He knows how to work the system,” I said.

“He works it well. The only time his name appears on court documents is when he sues someone or someone sues him. Mostly the former- back-rent and eviction cases. Once in a while he gets tagged with a slip-and-fall by a tenant. Sometimes he settles, sometimes he fights. When he fights, he wins. He distributes his business among eight different law firms, all downtown, all white-shoe. But get this: He doesn’t even live in a house, let alone a mansion. His primary residence- and it was hard to find- is an apartment on Maple Drive in Beverly Hills. Which sounds nice, but it’s not one of the fancy condos, just an old building, kind of shabby, six units. One of Koppel’s limited partnerships owns the place, and Koppel lives in a two-bedroom at the back. The manager doesn’t even know her tenant’s really her boss, because she referred to Koppel as ‘the heavy guy, real quiet’ and said the owners were some Persians who lived in Brentwood. On several of his rentals, Koppel hires a couple named Fahrizad to serve as his front.”

“Elusive fellow,” I said.

“Let’s challenge that.”

Sonny Koppel’s stretch of Maple Drive lay between Beverly Boulevard and Civic Center Drive. Mixed-use neighborhood, the west side filled by a granite-clad behemoth that served as Mercedes Benz headquarters, a high-profile, extravagantly landscaped office complex that catered to entertainment lawyers and film agents, and construction dust from a fulminating high-rise.

Across the street were two-story apartment buildings, souvenirs of the postwar building boom. Koppel’s was one of the dingiest examples, an off-gray traditional with a cheap composite roof. Three upstairs units, three down, a scratchy lawn, struggling shrubs.

Koppel’s Buick was parked in back, squeezed into one of the half dozen slots in the open carport. We cruised and found each of Koppel’s other cars parked within two blocks, each with Beverly Hills street parking permits that were up-to-date.

An Olds, a Chevy, a Dodge. Gray, gray, dark green. Lots of dust on the first two. The Dodge had been washed recently. I idled the Seville as Milo got out and examined each vehicle. Empty.

I parked, and we headed for Koppel’s building.

Sonny Koppel answered the door palming popcorn out of a chartreuse plastic bowl. The fragrance brought to mind the theater-lobby smell of Pacifica’s building. Before Milo had his badge out, Koppel nodded as if he’d been expecting us and beckoned us in. He wore a royal blue U. sweatshirt over plaid pajama bottoms and fuzzy brown slippers.

Five-eight, 270 at least, with a melon gut and thinning reddish brown hair that frizzed above a high, glossy pate. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his stubble looked like dandruff. Saggy blue eyes, pendulous lips, short, thick limbs, beefy hands with stubby nails.

Behind him, an old nineteen-inch RCA TV blared financial news from a cable station. Koppel lowered the volume.

“My girls told me you were by,” he said, in a sleepy basso. “It’s about Mary, right? I was wondering if you’d get in touch- here, sit, sit.”

He stopped to study a stock quotation on the tube, switched off the set, cleared a massive pile of newspapers off a plaid sofa, and brought them over to a metal-legged dinette table. Four red vinyl chairs ringed the table. Hardback ledgers filled two of them. Half the table surface was taken up by more ledgers and legal pads, pens, pencils, a hand calculator, cans of Diet 7-Up, snack bags of assorted carbohydrates.

The apartment was basic: white walls, low ceilings, a front space that served as the living room-eating area, a kitchenette, the bathroom and bedrooms beyond a stucco arch. Nothing on the walls. The kitchen was cluttered but clean. A few feet from the counter, a PC setup was perched on a rolling cart. Aquarium screen saver. An air conditioner rattled.

Sonny Koppel said, “Can I offer you guys something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Koppel’s soft, bulky shoulders rose and fell. He sighed, sank into a green tweed La-Z-Boy recliner, kept the chair upright.

Milo and I took the plaid sofa.

“So,” said Koppel, “what can I do for you?”

“First off,” said Milo, “is there anything you can tell us about your ex-wife that could help us solve her murder?”

“I wish there was. Mary was a remarkable person- attractive, really smart.” Koppel ran a hand over his scalp. Instead of settling, his hair picked up static and coiled as if alive. The room was dim and he was backlit with fluorescence from the kitchen and the hair became a halo. Sad-looking, pajama-bottomed guy with an aura.

“You’re thinking,” he said, “how did someone like her ever hook up with someone like me.”

His lips curled like miniature beef roulades, approximating amusement. “When Mary and I met I didn’t look like this. Back then I was more shortstop than sumo. Actually, I was a pretty decent jock, got a baseball scholarship to the U., had Major League fantasies.”

He paused, as if inviting comment. When none followed, he said, “Then I ripped a hamstring and found out I had to actually study to get out of there.”

One hand dipped into the popcorn bowl. Koppel gathered a full scoop and transferred the kernels to his mouth.

Milo said, “You met Dr. Koppel when you were in law school?”

“I was in law school, and she was in grad school. We met at the rec center, she was swimming, and I was reading. I tried to pick her up, but she blew me off.” He touched his abdomen as if it ached. “The second time I tried, she agreed to go out for coffee, and we hit it off great. We got married a year later and divorced two years after that.”

“Problems?” said Milo.

“Everyone’s got them,” said Koppel. “What’s the cliché- we grew apart? Part of the problem was time. Between her dissertation and my classes, we never saw each other. The main problem was I screwed up. Had an affair with a woman in my class. To make it worse, a married woman, so two families got messed up. Mary let me down easy, she just wanted a clean break. Stupidest thing I ever did.”

“Cheating on her?”

“Letting her go. Then again, she probably would have broken it off, even if I had been faithful.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was kind of at loose ends back then,” said Koppel. “No goals. Only reason I went to law school was because I didn’t know what else to do. Mary was just the opposite: focused, put-together. She has”- He winced-“had a powerful persona. Charisma. I couldn’t have kept up.”

“Sounds like you’re selling yourself short,” said Milo.

Koppel looked genuinely surprised. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’ve done some background on you, sir, and you’re one of the biggest landlords in Southern California.”

Koppel waved a thick hand. “That’s just playing Monopoly.”

“You’ve played well.”

“I’ve been lucky.” Koppel smiled. “I was lucky to be a loser.”

“A loser?”

“I nearly flunked out of law school, then I chickened out of taking the bar. Started experiencing anxiety attacks about taking it that put me in the ER a couple of times. One of those pseudo-heart attack things? By then Mary and I were having our problems, but she helped me through it. Deep-breathing exercises, having me imagine relaxing scenes. It worked and the attacks stopped and Mary expected me to take the bar. I showed up early, looked around the room, walked out, and that was it. That bothered Mary more than my cheating on her. Soon after, she filed.”

Koppel’s hand waved again, this time limply. “Couple months after that, my mother died and left me an apartment building in the Valley, so all of a sudden I was a landlord. A year later, I sold that property, used the profit and a bank loan to invest in a bigger building. I did that for a few years- flipping and trading up. Real estate was booming, and I made out okay.”

He shrugged, ate more popcorn.

Milo said, “You’re a modest man, Mr. Koppel.”

“I know what I am and what I’m not.” Koppel turned his head to the side, as if recoiling from insight. His jowls quivered. “Do you have any idea who murdered Mary?”

“No, sir. Do you?”

“Me? No, of course not.”

“She was murdered in her home,” said Milo. “No signs of forced entry.”

“You’re saying someone she knew?” said Koppel.

“Any candidates, sir?”

“I wasn’t privy to Mary’s social life.”

“How much contact did you and she have?”

“We stayed friendly, and I kept up my spousal support.”

“How much support?”

“It evolved,” said Koppel. “Immediately after the divorce, she got nothing except the furniture in our apartment because we were both starving students. When I started to earn a decent income, she called and asked for support. We agreed on a figure and over the years I’ve increased it.”

“At her request?”

“Sometimes. Other times, I decided to share some of my good luck.”

“Keep the ex happy,” said Milo.

Koppel didn’t answer.

“Sir, how much were you paying her at the time of her death?”

“Twenty-five thousand a month.”

“Generous.”

“It seemed fair,” said Koppel. “She stuck with me when I needed her. Helping through those panic attacks even after I cheated on her. That deserves something.”

Milo said, “Twenty-five thousand a month. I went through her bank records, never saw any back-and-forth on that level.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Koppel. “Mary lived off her practice and re-invested what I gave her.”

“In what?”

“We’re partnered on some of my properties.”

“She let you hold on to what you owed her and put it back in properties.”

“Mary did very well partnering with me.”

“Who gets her share of the partnered properties now that she’s dead?”

Koppel’s fingers grazed the rim of the popcorn bowl. “That would depend on Mary’s will.”

“I haven’t found a will, and no executors have come forth.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Koppel. “For years I’ve been telling her to do some estate planning. Between her practice and the properties, she was building up a comfortable estate. You’d think she’d have listened, being so organized about everything else. But she was resistant. My opinion is she didn’t want to think about death. Her parents died pretty young, and sometimes she had premonitions.”

“About dying young?”

“About dying before her time.” Tears beaded Koppel’s lower eyelashes. The rest of his stubbled face was impassive.

“She have those premonitions recently?”

Koppel said, “I don’t know. I’m talking back when we were married.”

Milo said, “Assuming there’s no will, what happens to her real estate holdings?”

“If there are no creditors or heirs,” said Koppel, “they’d revert to me. A hundred percent in the case of the ones whose mortgages I carry- I own a little financing company, allows me to keep things in-house. Those that are bank-financed, I’d have the choice of paying off Mary’s share or selling.”

“One way or the other, you’d get everything.”

“Yes, I would.”

Milo crossed his legs.

Koppel emitted a deep, rumbling laugh.

“Something funny, sir?”

“The implication,” said Koppel. “I suppose there’s a logic to it, Lieutenant, but do the math: Mary Lou’s holdings net out to… I’d say one and a half, maybe two million dollars, depending on the real estate market. I grant you that isn’t chicken feed. Eventually, she could’ve retired nicely. But to me, a sum like that isn’t significant… you say you’ve looked into my holdings?”

“Two million’s a drop in the bucket,” said Milo.

“That sounds ostentatious,” said Koppel, “but it’s true. A couple of million wouldn’t make any difference.”

“During good times,” said Milo.

“Times are good,” said Koppel. “Times are always good.”

“No business problems?”

“With business, there are always problems. The key is to see them as challenges.” Koppel placed the popcorn bowl between his knees. “What makes it easier for me is I have no interest in acquiring material goods. I do real estate because it seems to be what I’m good at. Since I don’t need much- without the burden of stuff- I’ve always got free cash. Meaning there’s no such thing as a bad market. Prices go down, I buy. They go up, I sell.”

“Life is good,” said Milo.

“I’d like to get back into shape physically, and I’m upset about Mary. But when I step back and assess, yes, I have a lot to be thankful for.”

“Tell me about the halfway houses you own, sir.”

Koppel blinked. “You really have been doing your research.”

“I ran into an ex-con vacuuming Dr. Koppel’s building and I got curious.”

“Oh,” said Koppel. “Well, I hire a lot of those guys for custodial work. When they show up, they do a good job.”

“They give you attendance problems?”

“No worse than anyone else.”

“What about pilferage problems?”

“Same answer, people are people. Over the years, I’ve lost a few tools, some furniture, but that goes with the territory.”

“Your secretary said properties get broken into.”

“From time to time,” said Koppel. “Not the halfway houses, though. What’s to take from there?”

“You recruit your own tenants as janitors?”

“I get recommendations from the halfway-house managers. They send me guys they think are reliable.” Koppel lifted the popcorn bowl.

“How’d you get into the parolee business?”

“I’m in the real estate business. A handful of my properties are halfway houses.”

“How’d you get into that, sir?”

“I’d never have done it on my own. I’m a bleeding heart liberal but only to a point. It was Mary’s idea. Actually, I was pretty wary, but she won me over.”

“How’d she come up with the idea?”

“I think Dr. Larsen suggested it- one of her partners. Have you talked to him yet?”

Milo nodded.

“He’s an expert on prison reform,” said Koppel. “He got Mary into it, and she was all afire. She said she wanted to do more than build up equity, she wanted her investments to do some social good.”

“The halfway houses are the properties she partners with you?”

“We’re also together on some conventional rentals.”

“Pretty idealistic.”

“When Mary believed in something, she got very focused.”

“But you tried to un-focus her.”

Koppel lifted a leg in order to cross it, changed his mind, and planted a heavy foot on the carpet. “I approached the issue like a businessman, let’s look at the assets and debits. Mary did her homework, showed me the subsidies the state was offering and I had to admit the figures looked good. Even so, I was concerned about tenant damage, so I’d look at the crowd you’re talking about. I also told her I could get equal or better subsidies on what seemed to be safer investments- senior citizen housing, historic properties, where, if you respected the integrity of the structure, you could get three separate funding sources.”

His eyes had dried, and he was talking faster. In his element.

Milo said, “Mary convinced you.”

“Mary said the tenants would be more reliable, not less, because they weren’t paying rent so they had no incentive to leave. On top of that, the state mandated supervision by parole officers and provided in-house managers and security guards. She had to work on me for a while, but I agreed to give it a try. Smartest thing I ever did.”

“Good deal?”

“The funding’s ironclad- long-term state grants that get renewed easily- and the properties can be had dirt cheap because they’re always in fringe areas. You’re not going to stick a building full of criminals in Bel Air, right? So there are no NIMBYs, no zoning problems, and once you get past financing the part the state doesn’t cover, the rents are great. And listen to this: On a square-footage basis, the income’s close to Beverly Hills, because you’re not talking multiroom apartments, it’s all single rooms. And as opposed to a senior citizen situation where the tenancy-terminating event is death so your occupancy is uncertain, you go in knowing the tenants are there on a short-term deal but they’re always going to be replenished.”

“No shortage of bad guys.”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” said Koppel. “And turns out there are fewer repairs. The bathrooms are all communal, so the plumbing’s centralized, there are no kitchens in the rooms, all the tenants get is hot plates. And their use is restricted to certain hours. There’s some paperwork, but nothing I haven’t seen before. And, let’s face it, the state wants you to be a success.”

“Define ‘success.’ ”

“The residents stay put and don’t roam out in the community to hurt or kill someone.”

“Where do I sign?” said Milo.

Koppel smiled. “I should’ve known listening to Mary would never lead me wrong.” He shifted his bulk in the recliner. “Now she’s gone. I can’t believe it- is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Back to the halfway houses, sir. Great deal notwithstanding, have you ever had any problems with tenant violence?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I wouldn’t know.”

“Why not?”

“All that’s handled in-house,” said Koppel. “I’m not a warden. I just own the building, and the state runs it. Why, do you think one of those lowlifes killed Mary?”

“There’s no evidence of that,” said Milo. “Just covering all bases.” He opened his pad. “What’s Charitable Planning all about?”

“My foundation,” said Koppel. “I give away ten percent a year. Of after-tax income.”

“We’ve been in the building a few times and never saw any activity on the ground floor.”

“That’s because there isn’t much. Twice a month, I go in and write checks to worthy causes. It takes a while because the solicitations come in constantly, everything really piles up.”

“An entire ground-floor suite for you to write checks? That’s Beverly Hills space, Mr. Koppel. Why don’t you rent it out?”

“I had a deal, last year, for a tenant to take the whole floor. An online brokerage. You know what happened to the market. The deal fell through. I was planning to subdivide- rent most of it out and leave a small office for Charitable Planning. But Mary asked me to put a hold on that until she and Larsen and Gull could decide if they wanted it.”

“Why would they want it?”

“To expand their practice. They were talking about doing group therapy, needed larger rooms. The only space I use is a small office, the rest is empty. Mary was supposed to tell me in a week or so.”

“Group therapy,” I said.

“From a business standpoint, I thought it was a smart idea. Treat the max number of patients in the shortest time. I joked with Mary that it had sure taken her a long time to figure it out.” Koppel smiled. “She said, ‘Sonny, you’re the moneyman, and I’m the healer. Let’s stick to what we know.”

He tugged the side of his mouth, ate some popcorn.

Milo showed him the picture of the dead girl.

Koppel chewed faster, swallowed hard. “Who’s that?”

“Someone else who got killed.”

“Someone else? Related to Mary?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“You’re saying what happend was part of something… that it wasn’t just Mary?”

Milo shrugged.

“What’s really going on, Lieutenant?”

“That’s all I can tell you, sir. Does the name Flora Newsome mean anything to you?”

Koppel shook his head. Glanced at the photo. “That’s her?”

“What about Gavin Quick?”

“I know a Quick,” said Koppel, “but not Gavin.”

“Who do you know?”

“Jerry Quick- Jerome Quick. He’s one of my tenants. Who’s Gavin? His son? The one who had the accident?”

“You know about the accident.”

“Jerry told me about it, said his son was having some emotional problems. I referred him to Mary.”

“How long has Mr. Quick been your tenant?”

“Four months.” He frowned.

“Good tenant?” said Milo.

“He pays his rent, but not always on a timely basis. I felt a little… used. Especially after I listened to his problems and gave him a referral. I’ve had to pay Jerry a few visits.” He smiled. “That’s not what it sounds like- no goons with baseball bats, we just talked, and, eventually, he paid.”

“Why would I assume goons with baseball bats, sir?”

Koppel flushed. “You wouldn’t. So what’s with Gavin?”

“He’s deceased.”

“Murdered also?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My God- what’s the connection to Mary?”

“All we know at this time was that Gavin was her patient, and they’re both dead.”

“My God,” Koppel repeated. “There’s a lot you can’t tell me.”

“Is there something more you could tell us, sir?”

Koppel considered that. “I wish there was. Mary and I- we rarely spoke, except when there was a business issue. Even then, there was little to talk about. I set up our partnership so she didn’t have to be hands-on. She had her practice, she didn’t need to be distracted. Because properties can be demanding. To make them work you have to give them attention like children. I’m on the road all the time.”

“All those cars,” said Milo.

“I know, I know, it probably seems eccentric, but I need to have reliable transportation… Jerry’s son? He was young, right? Just a kid.”

“He was twenty.”

Koppel’s face had turned an unhealthy color- bologna left too long in the fridge. “You can’t tell me anything?”

“The truth is, we don’t know much ourselves.”

“Quick’s son… the girl you showed me- Flora- was she a patient of Mary’s, as well?”

“The girl we showed you hasn’t been identified yet, so I don’t know if she was one of Dr. Koppel’s patients. The files are confidential, we can’t get in there.”

“All those questions you asked me,” said Koppel, “about the halfway houses. Are you saying you suspect one of my- one of those tenants had something to do with something really horrible? If you do, please tell me. I really need to know if you do.”

“Do you think that’s a possibility, sir?”

“How would I have a clue?” Koppel bellowed. One of his hands moved spasmodically, knocked against the popcorn bowl, sent it flying.

Yellow rain. When it settled, Koppel was covered with kernels and husks and dust.

He stared at us, breathing heavily. Milo went into the kitchen and unrolled a paper towel from a wooden spool. He came back and began brushing Koppel off. Koppel snatched the paper away and flailed at himself. When he finally stopped, yellow grit clung to his sweatshirt and his pajamas.

He sat there, staring at us, still panting.

Milo said, “What else can you tell us about Jerome Quick?”

Koppel didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

“I’m sorry. For losing my temper. But you’re freaking me out. First Mary, now Jerry Quick’s son. That girl.”

Milo repeated his question.

“He didn’t pay his rent on time, that’s it. His excuse was the up-and-down nature of his business. He trades metals, makes deals on scrap. Once in a while he has a windfall that carries him for a while; other times, he loses money. To me it sounded more like gambling than business. Had I known, I never would have rented to him.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He came to me through a leasing agent. In the past they’d been reliable,” said Koppel. “It’s not as if his rent is prohibitive. I keep all my rents reasonable, want the turnover low.”

He looked down and picked stray bits of popcorn from his pajamas. Dropped the first few into the bowl. Ate the rest.

“His son. Poor Jerry. Guess I’ll need to cut him some slack.” Suddenly, he stood with surprising grace, brushed himself off some more, sat back down.

“What kind of emotional problems did Jerry Quick describe?”

“He didn’t get specific. At first I wasn’t sure I even believed him. He brought it up when we were having one of our rent discussions. Second month’s rent, and he’s already twenty days late. I dropped by to talk about it, and he gave me a sob story about how he’d been cheated out of a deal, lost big, and now on top of it his kid was having psychological problems.”

“Which he didn’t specify.”

“I wasn’t interested. Figured he was just trying to make me feel sorry for him. The way the referral came about is I called his bluff, said, ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you get him some help?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I need to do that.’ And I said, ‘My ex-wife’s a psychologist, and her office is close to your house. You want her number?’ He said sure, and I gave it to him. Like I said, I thought it was a dodge. So he actually followed through.”

Milo nodded. “How’s he been with the rent since then?”

“Chronically late.”

“Dr. Koppel never told you about the referral?”

“She’d never do that,” said Koppel. “Confidentiality, she was big on that. The whole time we were married she never talked about patients. That’s another thing I admired about her. Her ethics.”

“Mr. Koppel,” said Milo, “where were you the night your ex-wife was murdered?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir.”

“Where was I? I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Don’t rub it in,” said Koppel. “That night… let’s see, that night I think I ran into Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher- in the front unit. Both of us were taking out the garbage. Are you going to ask her? If you do, could you please not mention that I’m her landlord?”

“It’s a secret?” said Milo.

“I like to keep a low profile. That way I can come home and relax and not have tenants calling me up for repairs.”

“A private home would accomplish that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m eccentric,” said Koppel. “The problem with a house is too much maintenance, and my whole life’s about that. Also, I don’t need the space.”

“Not a lot of stuff.”

“What’s so sane about accumulating stuff?”

“So you were here all night, sir?”

“Like I always am. Unless I’m on the road.”

“How often are you on the road?”

“One, two days a week.”

“Where do you stay?”

“Motels. I like Best Western. But I was home that night.”

Milo got up. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” said Koppel, tweezing popcorn from his clothes.