Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

I said, “There’s another possibility. The con didn’t follow Flora home, she already knew him. That’s why there was no sign of a break-in. Why he didn’t need to bring a knife. Maybe what brought Flora to therapy was more than adjustment problems.”

“Nice, old-fashioned girl getting it on with a lowlife?”

“She kept her therapy from her boyfriend, could’ve had other secrets.”

“Fooling with a con,” he said. “Forbidden pleasures. Guilt took her to Koppel.” He stared at me. “You do weave a web.”

He walked me through the station and out to the street, glanced at his Timex. “Think I’ll have a go at Koppel. Solo, seeing as you two have issues.”

“Issues.” I smiled.

“Hey, I’m walkin’ the walk, talkin’ the talk.”

Later that evening, he called, and said, “Did you know shrinks don’t have to hold on to files?”

“Koppel has no records of Flora Newsome’s treatment.”

“Straight into the shredder a month after Newsome died. Koppel says it’s routine, any closed case gets trashed. Otherwise, she runs into a ‘storage problem.’ Also, she claims it helps safeguard confidentiality because no one can ‘happen’ upon the chart.”

“Did she remember anything about Newsome?”

“Even less than she remembered for Ogden. ‘I treat so many patients, Lieutenant.’ ”

“But this patient was murdered.”

“Same difference.”

“She gave you a hard time,” I said.

“Not on the surface. She was superfriendly, nice smile, easy manner. Sends her regards, by the way. Says you’re a real gentleman.”

“I’m touched. She give you anything to work with?”

“She said she couldn’t be sure, but she thought Newsome had come in for ‘anxiety.’ I decided to be direct and brought up the possibility of a con boyfriend. No reaction. If she was hiding something, she’s Oscar quality.”

“What did she have to say about two patients murdered in fourteen months?”

“She looked a little shaken when I phrased it that way, but said she’d never thought of it that way, her patient load was so huge, it really didn’t mean anything. My impression is the lady’s got a busy life, doesn’t spend too much time focused on any single thing, including her patients. The whole interview was on the run. I caught her leaving the building and walked her to her Mercedes. She was scheduled to tape a show, and her cell phone kept ringing. One of her partners, some guy named Gull, had just parked his Mercedes in the lot and came over to say hi. She blew him off, and his expression said he was used to it.”

“Two murders in one practice is routine?”

“I pressed her, Alex. She got irritated, pressed me back about whether the evidence pointed to any connection between Gavin and Flora. I couldn’t give her any details, so I had to tell her no. She said, ‘There you go. Given the size of my practice, it’s a statistical quirk.’ But I’m not sure she believed it. Her hands were on the steering wheel, and her knuckles were white. They got even whiter when I asked her if she was treating any known felons. She said no, of course not, her patients were all decent people. But maybe I stirred up her you-know-what- her consciousness - and she’ll think of something. I’ll have another go at her in a couple days, and I’d like you to be there.”

“Issues and all.”

“At this point, the more issues the better. I want to rattle her cage. First, though, I’m gonna talk to the parole folks, see what they remember about Flora. I’ve also got an address and number for Flora’s mother, and if you could find time to see her, I’d really appreciate it. I’ve got to make sure I don’t veer completely into Newsome and neglect Gavin and the blonde.”

“I’ll try for tomorrow.”

“Thankee, thankee.” He read off Evelyn Newsome’s number and an address on Ethel Street in Sherman Oaks. “She’s not in board-and-care anymore, moved out six months ago and is living in a real house. Maybe someone came up with a miracle cure for arthritis.”

“Anything in particular you want me to probe for?”

“The deep dark recesses of her daughter’s state of mind before she got killed and any boyfriends Flora had prior to Van Dyne. After that, go anywhere you see fit.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Or reasonable facsimile. That show Koppel was taping, guess what the topic was?”

“Communication.”

Silence. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“You scare me.”

Iphoned Evelyn Newsome at ten the next morning. A woman with a vigilant voice answered, “Yes?” When I told her who I was, she softened.

“The police were very very nice. Is there something new?”

“I’d like to stop by to chat, Mrs. Newsome. We’ll be reviewing old ground, but-”

“A psychologist?”

“We’re taking a look at Flora’s case from all angles.”

“Oh. That’s fine, sir. I can always talk about my Flora.”

Ethel Street just south of Magnolia was a twenty-minute ride over the Glen, past Ventura Boulevard, and into the heart of Sherman Oaks. This side of the mountains was ten degrees hotter than the city and dry enough to tickle my sinuses. The marine layer had burned off, endowing the Valley with blue skies.

Evelyn Newsome’s block was lined with modest, well-kept one-story houses, most of them nailed up posthaste for returning World War II vets. Old-growth orange and apricot trees rose above redwood fences. Huge, scarred elms, top-heavy pines, and untrimmed mulberry trees shaded some of the properties. Others flaunted themselves, naked, in relentless Valley light.

Evelyn Newsome’s new home was a pea green stucco bungalow with a fresh mock-shake roof. The lawn was flat, succotash-colored stubble. Birds-of-paradise flanked the front steps. A porch swing hung still in the baking, dormant air.

A screen door covered the entrance, but the wooden door had been left open, offering full view of a dark, low living room. Evelyn Newsome’s daughter had been murdered two years ago, and her default phone voice was wary, but on some level she still trusted.

Before I could ring the bell, a big, white-haired man in his seventies appeared and unlatched the screen.

“Doctor? Walt McKitchen, Evelyn’s out in back waiting for you.” He held his shoulders high, had a florid face built around a purple cabbage nose and a tiny mouth. Despite the heat, he wore a blue-and-gray flannel shirt buttoned to the neck over triple-pleated gray wool slacks.

We shook hands. His fingers were sausages breaded with callus. When he walked me to the back of the house he limped, and I noticed that one of his shoes was bottomed by a three-inch orthopedic sole.

We passed through a tiny, neat bedroom and entered an equally small add-on den paneled in knotty pine and set up with a fuzzy green couch, prefab bookshelves full of paperbacks and a wide-screen TV. The air conditioner in the window was silent. A couple of black-and-white photos hung on the walls. Group portrait of a military battalion. A young couple, standing in front of this very house, the trees saplings, the lawn just dirt. To the man’s right was a bubble-topped thirties Plymouth. The woman held a SOLD sign.

Evelyn Newsome sat on the fuzzy couch, rotund and hunched with cold-set white hair and kind blue eyes. On the redwood burl table in front of her was a teapot swaddled in a cozy and two cups on saucers.

“Doctor,” she said, half rising. “I hope you don’t prefer coffee.” She patted the sofa cushion to her right, and I sat down. She wore a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar over maroon stretch pants. She was top-heavy, with thin legs; more sag to the material than stretch.