Therapy

CHAPTER 30

Milo said, “Drop me back at the station. Gonna run these numbers, then head over to the Hall of Records, see if I can find any other link between Jerry Quick and Sonny beyond tenancy. If I leave soon, I can make it downtown in time.”

“Want me to take you straight there?”

“No, this is gonna be tedious, I’ll do it alone. I also want to talk to Quick’s accountant. Luckily CPAs don’t get confidentiality. Any word from the Times on running the picture?”

“Not yet.”

“If your pal Biondi doesn’t come through, I’m having a chitchat with my habitually unresponsive capitan. He hates seeing my face, so maybe I can promise not to surface for another year if he goes over the heads of those losers in Community Relations and gets someone to push the media. With all the deceit on this one I don’t need a victim I can’t identify.”

“I’ll try Ned again.”

“Good,” he said. “Thanks. Let me know, either way.”

I phoned Coronado Island.

Ned Biondi said, “No one called you? Jesus. I’m sorry, Doc. I thought it was worked out. Okay, let me see what’s going on, I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

An hour later, the phone rang.

“Mr. Delaware?” Plummy, theatrical baritone. Every syllable, foreplay.

“Speaking.”

“This is Jack McTell. From the Los Angeles Times. You’ve got a picture you’d like us to run.”

“Picture of a homicide victim,” I said. “An LAPD detective would like it run, but his superiors don’t think it’s got enough of a hook for you.”

“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t promise anything.”

“Should I bring it by?”

“If you choose.”

Times headquarters was on First Street, in a massive gray stone building that studded the heart of downtown. I got stuck in freeway mucus, trolled for parking, finally scored a space in an overpriced stacked lot five blocks away.

Three security guards patrolled the Times’s massive, echoing lobby. They let several people pass but stopped me. Two of the uniforms made a show of staring me down as the third called up to Jack McTell’s office, barked my name into the phone, hung up, and told me to wait. Ten minutes later, a young, crew-cut woman in a black sweater and jeans and hiking boots emerged from the elevator. She looked around, saw me, and headed my way.

“You’re the person with the picture?” A Times badge said Jennifer Duff. Her left eyebrow was pierced by a tiny steel barbell.

“This is for Mr. McTell.”

She held out her hand, and I gave her the envelope. She took it delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as if it was tainted, turned her back, and left.

I blew another twenty minutes waiting for the parking lot attendant to move six other cars and free the Seville. I used the time to leave Milo a message that the Times had the photo, and it was up to the editors’ good graces. By now, he was downtown, too, reading microfiche at the Hall of Records, just a couple of blocks away.

Cars were queued up at the 101 on-ramp, so I took Olympic Boulevard west. Avoiding another jam wasn’t all of it. That route took me past Mary Lou Koppel’s office building.

I made it to Palm Drive by three-thirty, hooked a left, and swung around into the back alley. Gull’s and Larsen’s Mercedeses were there, along with a few other late-model luxury cars. Next to the handicapped slot, a copper-colored van was stationed. A white stick-on sign on its flanks read:

THRIFTY CARPET AND DRAPERY CLEANING

A Pico address near La Brea. A 323 number.

The rear glass doors had been propped open with a wooden triangle. I parked and got out.

The corridor smelled like stale laundry. The polyester beneath my feet seeped and made little sucking sounds. At the far end of the hall, a man pushed an industrial shampooer in lazy circles.

Two doors of the Charitable Planning suite were propped open the same way. Mechanical groan from inside. I had a look.

Another man, short, stocky, Hispanic, wearing rumpled gray work clothes, guided an identical machine over the thin, blue indoor-outdoor felt that covered Charitable’s floor. His back was to me, and the din overrode my footsteps.

To the right was a small office. A swivel chair had been lifted and placed atop a scarred steel desk. Off in the corner was a rollaway typing table that hosted an IBM Selectric. On the desktop, next to the chair, were five rubber-banded bundles of mail.

I checked out return addresses. United Way, Campaign for Literacy, the Thanksgiving Fund, the Firefighters Ball. I flipped through all the bundles.

Everyone wanted Sonny Koppel’s money.

The rest of the suite was one enormous room with high, horizontal windows covered by cheap nylon drapes. Empty save for a couple of dozen folding chairs stacked against the wall. The Hispanic man flicked off the machine, straightened slowly, as if in pain, ran his hand through his hair, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and lit up. Still with his back to me.

He smoked, was careful to drop the ash in his cupped hands.

I said, “Hi.”

He turned. Surprise, but no con wariness. He looked at his cigarette. Blinked. Shrugged. “No permisa?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.

Resigned smile. No hardness around his eyes, no sloppy tattoos. “Usted no es el patron?”

You’re not the boss?

“No,” I said. “Not today.”

“Hokay.” He laughed and smoked. “Mebbe tomorrow.”

“I’m thinking of renting the space.”

Blank stare.

I pointed to the wet carpet. “Nice job-muy limpia.”

“Gracias.”

I left wondering what he’d cleaned up.

Sonny Koppel had been truthful about Charitable Planning, but what did that mean? Perhaps parceling out partial truths was a strategic defense.

All that B.H. square footage left vacant in case Mary Lou needed it.

If Milo was right about Gavin hanging around, spying, writing down license numbers, what had the boy seen?

Empty room. Two dozen folding chairs.

What more did you need for group therapy?

Had the sessions already begun?

What had gone on in there?

I drove a block away, pulled to the curb, and thought more about Gavin Quick.

Brain-damaged, but he’d managed to hold on to his secrets.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d confided in his father, and that’s why Jerry Quick had cleaned out his room.

Now Quick was traveling, after stashing his wife at her sister’s. Business as usual, or was he on the run because he knew?

Eileen Paxton said Quick hired sluts as secretaries. The secretary I’d met had a dope bust and nails too long for typing.

House in Beverly Hills, but a shadow life?

Gavin had been murdered alongside a blond girl whom no one cared enough about to call in missing. All along, I’d wondered if she was a pro. Jerry and Gavin were both sexually aggressive.

Had the blonde been a gift from father to son? Another referral by Sonny Koppel?

Angie Paul claimed not to know her. Milo had noticed her blinking. I’d explained it away as a reaction to death.

The blonde.

Gavin’s type. Two miles north, in the high-priced spread, lived a blond girl who knew Gavin before his accident. A girl we still hadn’t spoken to.

The last time I’d followed Kayla Bartell she’d driven to a midday hair appointment. That meant she wasn’t holding down a nine-to-five job.

Rich girl with plenty of leisure time? Maybe she’d spare me some.

The Bartell mansion was lifeless as a mortuary behind its white iron security blanket. A white Bentley Mulsanne with rear plates that read MEW ZIK was parked in the circular drive, but no sign of Kayla’s red Cherokee.

I continued to Sunset. Cars whizzed by both sides of the median strip, and I waited for a lull to hook right and retrace to the turnaround. It took a while. Just as I swung onto the boulevard, I caught a glimpse of red in my side mirror.

Probably nothing. I got back on Camden anyway.

The Jeep was parked in front of the house.

I drove six houses down and parked, figuring I’d give it half an hour.

Eighteen minutes later, Kayla, dressed in white but carrying a big black bag, exited the house, got in the red SUV, waited until the gates slid open, and sped past me.

Exact same path she’d taken the last time. Santa Monica west to Canon Drive. More pampering at Umberto?

But this time, she passed the salon and continued two blocks down to a Rite Aid pharmacy.

First hair, now makeup? Wouldn’t a girl like that buy her cosmetics at a boutique?

Watching her for five minutes gave me my answer, but it wasn’t what I expected.

She went straight for the nail polish. I stood on the end of the aisle as she studied a rack of small bottles. The white outfit was a midriff T-shirt that advertised her tan tummy, over white ostrich-skin lowriders and open white sandals with orange plastic heels. Her long hair was tucked into a white denim cap that she wore at a jaunty tilt. Big white plastic earrings. She bounced on her heels a couple of times, seemed to settle down as she peered at the polish.

Big decision; her pretty face creased. Finally, she chose a vermillion bottle and dropped it in her shopping basket. Then so fast that I almost missed it, two other bottles were slipped into the big black handbag- same bag I’d seen that first night, oversized, embroidered with roses.

Not a good match for the white-white duds, but something that size did have its utility.

She moved up the aisle to the eyeliners. One in the basket, two in the purse. Brazen, not even a cautionary look. The store was quiet, poorly staffed. If surveillance cameras were operating, I couldn’t see them.

I hung back, pretended to browse mouthwash, strolled to the next aisle, sauntered back, keeping my head down. Now she was over by the lipstick. Same routine.

She moved through the store that way for ten minutes, concentrating on small articles. Dental floss, contact lens cleaning solution, aspirin, candy. Boosting double the amount of whatever she put in her basket.

I bought a ten-pack of gum, was behind her when she checked out.

She walked cheerfully to her Cherokee, swinging her bag and wiggling her tight little butt. I managed to get to the SUV first, slipped out from the front of the vehicle, and took hold of the black bag.

She said, “What the-” then she recognized me.

“Cop.” She nearly choked on the word.

It seemed a poor time for full disclosure. I said, “You’ve got a little problem, Kayla.”

Green-gray eyes widened. Glossy lips parted as she contemplated a reply. Such a pretty girl, despite the hook nose. Such empty eyes.

She said, “I was doing research. For a term paper.”

“What was the subject?”

“You know.” She glanced off to one side, cocked a hip, tried to work up a smile.

I said, “Where do you go to school?”

“Santa Monica College.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s late June. School’s out.”

“Maybe I’m in summer session.”

“Are you?”

No answer.

“What’s your major?”

She stared at the asphalt, raised her head, chanced eye contact. “Design… um… and psychology.”

“Psychology,” I said. “So you know the name for this.”

“For what?”

I took the bag from her, pulled out a bottle of contact lens solution, some shrink-wrapped Tylenol and Passionate Peach lip gloss. “For this, Kayla.”

She pointed to the Tylenol. “I get headaches.”

“You’ve got a big one now.”

Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “I don’t want someone to see me.”

“That’s the least of your problems.”

“Please,” she said. “C’mon.”

“We need to talk, Kayla.”

“C’mon,” she repeated. Arched her back. Removed her beret and tossed her hair and let loose a blond storm.

She blinked twice. Batted her lashes and did something silly with her head. Golden hair shimmered. “C’mon,” she said, nearly whispering. “I can fix it.”

“How?”

Slowly spreading smile. “I’ll blow you,” she said. “Like you’ve never been blown before.”

I took her car keys, positioned her behind the wheel of her Jeep and ordered her not to move as I slid in on the passenger side. Keeping my door open an inch. Her car was her territory. Hopefully the open door would insulate me from a kidnapping charge if the truth ever got out.

She jammed the beret back on her head. Carelessly; golden strands leaked out.

“Please,” she said, staring out the windshield. Her middy blouse rode up. Rapid breathing pulsed her flat belly.

I let the silence sink in. Cars drove in and out of the Rite Aid lot. Tinted windows afforded us privacy.

I wondered if she’d cry.

She pouted. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me do it- I’ll make you feel real good, and I’ll return the stuff. Okay?”

Sonny Koppel had talked about stuff being a burden.

I said, “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll return everything and promise never to do it again. But first, you’ll talk to me about Gavin Quick. If you’re honest and open and tell me everything you know about him, we’ll call it even.”

She turned quickly and gawked at me. Her hawk nose was powdered. Beneath the film I saw delicate freckles. The gray-green eyes had turned calculating.

She said, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She laughed. “Cool. I wasn’t really into giving you head. Speaking of Gavin.”

“That was Gavin’s thing?”

“Wham bam was Gavin’s thing. Even for a young guy, he was fast. Even if he came twice in a row. I mean they all start out that way, but you can train them. Not Gavin. The twenty-second man. So I stopped.”

“Stopped having sex with him.”

“It was never sex,” she said. “That’s the point.”

“What was?”

“Being with him felt like… playing basketball. He shoots, he scores, he zips up, you go out for coffee.”

“That why you broke up?”

“We didn’t break up, because we weren’t like going together, you know?”

“What was your relationship?”

“We knew each other. For years. From Beverly, we had classes together. Then he went to college to do whatever, and I decided to study design. It’s better at SMC than at some university, you know.”

“SMC’s strong on design?”

“For sure. You can just do it and not mess with all that other stuff.”

“Like psychology,” I said.

She grinned. “You caught me. Again. That research story was pretty lame, huh?”

“Beyond lame.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I should’ve prepared something better. How’d you catch me?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“I never got caught before.”

“Been doing it for a while,” I said.

She started to reply, shut her mouth.

“Kayla?”

“I thought you weren’t going to bother me about that if I told you about Gavin.”

“You brought it up.”

“I did?”

I nodded.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, then I effed up. Let’s stick to Gavin. Which I didn’t. Stick to him, you know?” She laughed. Stopped and placed a finger across her lips. Spanked her hand. “Bad Kayla. I shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Laughing at him, his being dead and all.”

“Any idea who killed him?” I said.

“Nope.”

“A girl was found with him. Blond, about your size-”

“Skankadoo,” she said.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her. He like showed her off to me. As if. My friend Ellie said she looked like me, but I was like get a refund on your LASIK, girl. Then Ellie was like, ‘Not like a twin, Kayle, like just a little. Like if you had a rough night.’ ” She shook her head. “No way; that thing was trailer-trash skankplasm. But then I thought maybe Gavin, being brain-damaged and all, liked her because he thought she did look like me. Because he couldn’t have me, and she was like sloppy seconds, you know?”

“When did he show her off to you?”

“After I told him no more quickie-city.”

“After the accident?”

“Way after,” she said. “This was like- couple of months ago? I thought he’d stopped bugging me ’cause I hadn’t heard from him in a while, but then he started calling me again. I expected him to like break down and beg, you know? Because he claimed he was really into me. But he just called and wanted to hang out. So that proves he was lying, he really wasn’t into me. Right?”

“Unusual for Gavin,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Giving up so easily. I’ve heard he could be pretty persistent.”

“After the accident he got really weird that way. Started calling me again, like twenty times a day. Dropping over, bugging my dad.” Faint smile. “I guess he did end up begging. Then he stopped.”

Because he was stalking Beth Gallegos. I said, “So he wanted to hang out.”

“He wanted to go somewhere and park and put his cock in my mouth. I felt sorry for him, so I did it once. But never again.”

“No more speed-record sex,” I said.

“You’re making me sound mean,” she said, pulling at loose strands and trying to stuff them back in the beret. Unsuccessful, she yanked off the hat and began kneading it.

“You should apologize,” she said.

“For what?”

“Saying I’m mean and a slut.”

“You said you felt sorry for Gavin-”

“Exactly. I was being nice. After the accident he got kind of… I don’t want to say retarded because it sounds so mean, but really, that’s what it was. So I felt sorry for him and wanted to help him.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“It does,” she agreed.

“So Gavin slowed down intellectually.”

“Like before, he could be obnoxious, but he was smart. But now- it was…” She probed her cheek with her tongue. “I want to say pathetic.”

“Sounds like it was.”

“Huh?”

“Pathetic.”

“Yeah, exactly, like it really was.”

“The time you went out with him-”

“It was only once. I felt sorry for him.”

“Where’d you park?”

“Up on Mulholland?” Her mouth froze in a tiny O. “That was where- omigod.”

“Was that a regular spot for you and Gavin? Back in the old days?”

“Sometimes.” She started crying. “That could’ve been me.”

“Tell me about the blond girl,” I said.

She wiped her eyes, smiled. “Too bleached out, you could see her roots.”

“Where’d you meet her?”

“I never met her, like actually hanging out. Me and Ellie went to a movie and later we went to Kate Mantolini for the vegetable plate. Sometimes Jerry Seinfeld goes there.”

Her eyes drifted out a side window, switched direction, and focused on a parking sign. “I hope I don’t go past the validation time.”

I said, “You and Ellie at Kate Mantolini.”

“Yeah,” she said. “We were like into our veggies and in comes Gavin with this skank. I’m talking Ross-Dress-for-Less blouse and a skirt up to her you-know-what.” Her eyes dropped to her sandals. “She did have cool shoes. Black, open-backed. Very Naomi Campbell.”

“Jimmy Choo,” I said.

“How’d you know?”

“She was wearing them the night she was murdered.”

“They were cool shoes. I figured she boosted them.” She chuckled. “Just kidding!”

“So Gavin walked in with her-”

“And pretended not to see me so I pretended not to see him. Then he had to walk past us to get to his booth and he pretended to all of a sudden spot me and be all like surprised, like, hey-it’s-you, Kayla.”

“What did you do?” I said.

“I waited until he came right up to the table, I mean right up, so like no way could you ignore it.”

“Then what?”

“Then I said, ‘Hey, Gav,’ and he wiggles his finger and the skank comes over and she’s like ‘who are you?’ Like she’s got it all goin’ on. Which she doesn’t. And Gavin’s like this is… whatever her name was. And Skanky just stands there in her Jimmy’s like she’s the star of an E! True Hollywood Story or something.”

“You don’t remember her name?”

“Nope.”

“Try.”

“It’s not like I was listening.”

“Try,” I said.

“It’s important?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“Hmm.” She flipped her upper lip with her index finger, let it snap down against her teeth. Repeated it several times, making little ploppy noises. Squished the beret and watched the soft fabric pulsate amoebically as it regained its shape.

“Kayla?” I said.

“I’m thinking,” she said. “I guess I’d like to say Chris. Or Christa. Something Chris-sy.”

“Any last name?”

“No,” she said. “Definitely not. Gavin never mentioned a last name. This wasn’t like some big introduction. Gavin was like ‘I don’t need you, look what I’ve got.’ ”

“He said that?”

“No, but you could just tell. Later, he came up and said how cool she was.”

“Later when?”

“When Skanky went to the bathroom and left him alone. She was in there a long time, I’m thinking dope- she looked like a doper. Real skinny. There was no way anyone could think she looked like me. But Gavin…” She crossed her eyes and tapped her forehead.

“She left him alone, and he came to your table.”

“Yeah, and Ellie was like ‘Who’s your new lay-dee, Gav?’ And Gavin’s like, ‘Christa- I think it was Christa, something like that, maybe Crystal. And Ellie’s like, ‘Pretty cute, Gav.’ But not meaning it, dissing him, you know? And I’m not saying a thing, I’m working on my steamed spinach, which is the coolest part of the vegetable plate. Then Gavin gives this sick smile and moves away from Ellie and he bends down and whispers in my ear, ‘She does it all, Kayla. Endlessly.’ And I’m like ‘More like endlessly boring and endlessly preemie’ but I just think it, I don’t say it. Because Gavin wasn’t normal anymore, it would’ve been like dissing a retard. Also, because by that time he’d moved back to his booth. Like he didn’t care what I had to say.”

I said, “What else can you tell me about Christa?”

“Maybe it was Crystal,” she said. “I’m thinking Crystal’s more right.”

“She never said a word to you?”

“No, but Gavin did. Actually, he said more than what I just told you.”

I waited.

“It was mean, I really don’t want to remember.”

“It’s important, Kayla.”

She sighed. “Okay, okay. When he bent down and whispered in my ear, was like how great she was, he also said, ‘She’s a dancer, Kayla. She’s got all the moves.’ Like I don’t. You know what it really means, right?”

“What?” I said.

“Get real,” she said. “A dancer means a stripper. They all call themselves dancers. She was skank-spread on a croissant.”

“You know any strippers?”

“Me? No way. But she had that… the way she stood, the way she… she was like look at my body, it’s the greatest body, I love my body, I’ll take off my clothes for a mixed green salad.”

“Easy morals,” I said.

“Which is stupid,” she said. “The way it is with guys, you want ’em to respect you, you got to hold something back.”

“What can you tell me about Gavin’s home life?”

“Like his parents?”

“Yes.”

“His mom’s nuts, and his father’s a horn-dog. Probably where Gav gets it.”

“The old man make a move on you?”

“Yuk,” she said. “No way. You just hear things.”

“About what?”

“About who’s sleeping around.”

“Jerome Quick was sleeping around?”

“That’s what Gavin said.”

“He told you?”

“He was like bragging,” she said. “Like, my dad’s a stud, and so am I.”

“This was after the accident?”

“No,” she said. “Before. When Gavin was still talking like a normal person.”

“You say his mother’s nuts.”

“Everyone knows that. She was never at school stuff, you’d never even see her out in her backyard, she’d be all up in her bedroom, drinking, sleeping. At least Gavin’s dad came to school stuff.”

“Gavin was closer to him.”

She stared at me, as if I’d posed the question in a foreign language.

I said, “Did Gavin ever tell you about his career plans?”

“Like what job he wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Before the accident he wanted to be a rich businessman. Afterward, he talked about writing.”

“Writing what?”

“He didn’t say on what.” She laughed. “As if.”

“Did he ever talk to you about being suspicious of anyone?”

“Huh?” she said. “Like some spy thing?”

“Like that,” I said.

“No. Can I get going. Pu-leeze? I’m supposed to meet Ellie over at Il Fornaio, and I don’t want to go over the parking limit. Paying for parking sucks.”

“So does paying for cosmetics,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, “I thought that was over with.”

“What else can you tell me about Gavin?”

“Nothing. He was out of my life, running with skanks- you think that’s why he was killed? Running with bad people?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“There you go,” she said. “It pays to be good.”