Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Why?”

“He said she kept to herself and that not many cons came in.”

“Enough came in to bother her,” I said. “And Sepulveda and Venice is really close to her apartment. I’d like to know how many of the cons assigned to that office had sex-crime histories.”

“Good luck. Parole’s as bureaucratic as it comes. State office, everything’s filtered through Sacramento, and now that the satellites have closed, the records are somewhere in outer space. But if it shakes out that way, I’ll start digging. Meanwhile, Roy Nichols’s place is also close by, and he has a record that says impulse control’s a problem. And isn’t it you guys who make a big deal about psychopaths not liking animals?”

“Cruelty to animals,” I said. “Flora’s mother said Nichols is a neat-freak.”

“There you go, yet another quirk. Just the type to clean up a crime scene thoroughly. He’s worth looking into, right? See you in- what, twenty, twenty-five?”

“Zoom zoom zoom.”

Milo’s unmarked idled at the curb, in front of the station. He was at the wheel, smoking and tapping his finger.

I drove up next to the driver’s window. He handed me a staff permit, and I parked in the lot across the street. When I returned, the unmarked’s passenger door was open. We were heading south before I closed it.

“Big hurry?”

“I pulled Roy Nichols’s file. The 415 wasn’t just some drunk breaking glass. Though you were right about it being booze-stoked. Nichols beat some guy up at a sports bar in Inglewood, did a real number on him, broke some bones. The report says Nichols thought the guy was leering at his date, a woman named Lisa Jenrette. They traded words, and one thing led to another. What got Nichols out of a felony assault charge was several other patrons swore the other guy had thrown the first punch and that he had come on to Nichols’s date. One of those habitual assholes, always picking fights. Nichols compensated part of his medical bills and pleaded down to Disturbing. He served no time, promised to stay away from the bar, and took a rage control class.”

He sped side streets to Olympic, turned left, headed for Sepulveda. “A severe jealousy problem could lead to the kind of overkill they found in Flora’s bedroom.”

“Evelyn Newsome said Nichols was the one who ended the relationship.”

“So maybe he changed his mind, got possessive. Alex, I read the medical report on the guy he pounded. Shattered face bones, dislocated shoulder. One witness said Nichols was about to stomp the guy’s head into pulp when they managed to pull him off.”

We drove in silence for a while, then he said, “Rage control class. You think that stuff works?”

“Maybe sometimes.”

“There’s a hearty endorsement for you.”

“I think it takes more than a few mandatory lectures to alter basic temperament.”

“The lightbulb has to want to change.”

“You bet.”

“More tax dollars flushed,” he said. “Like those satellite parole offices.”

“Probably.”

“Well,” he said, “that really pisses me off.”

Roy Nichols’s house was a slightly larger, pure white version of Evelyn Newsome’s bungalow that bore the signs of ambitious but wrongheaded improvement: overly wide black shutters that would’ve fit a two-story colonial, a pair of Doric columns propping up the tiny porch, a Spanish tile roof, the tiles variegated and expensive and piled too high, a three-foot sash of bouquet canyon stone veneered to the bottom of the facade. This lawn was lush, unblemished, the bright green of a Saint Paddy’s parade. Five-foot sago palms flanked the steps- five hundred dollars’ worth of vegetation. Dwarf junipers ringed the front, trimmed low to the ground with bonsai precision.

In the driveway something hulked under a spotless black cover. Milo lifted a corner of the cover on a shiny black Ford pickup with a freshly chromed bumper. Raised suspension, custom wheels. A sticker protected by a plastic coating said: How Am I Driving? Call 1-800-SCRU YOU.

We walked to the front door. A security firm sticker was centered on a black lacquer door. Pushing the bell elicited chimes. Oh-oh-say-can-you-see?

“Hold on!” A woman opened. Tall, young, pretty but washed out, she had a heart-shaped face, wore a filmy black tank top over white terry-cloth shorts. No bra, bare feet. Great legs, a shaving nick on one glossy shin. Her hair was white-blond with no luster, bunched above her head in a careless thatch. Pink nail polish on her fingers, chipped badly. Darker polish on her toes, in even worse shape. Behind her was a room full of cardboard cartons. New cartons with crisp edges, sealed with brown tape and marked CONTENTS followed by three blank lines.

She folded her arms across big, soft breasts. “Yes?”

Milo showed her the badge. “You’re Mrs. Nichols?”

“Not anymore. You here about Roy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed and waved us in. But for a few feet inside the door, the entire room was filled with the packing boxes. A child-sized mattress stood propped against a tied-off garbage bag.

“Moving?”

“Soon as I can get the movers over here. They say by tomorrow, but they’ve already missed one appointment. The house is already sold, I’ve got to vacate by next week. What did Roy do?”

“You’re assuming he did something.”

“You’re here, right? I didn’t do anything, and neither did Lorelei. My daughter. She’s four years old, and if she wakes up from her nap, I’m going to kick you guys out.”

“Your name, ma’am?”

“Ma’am,” she said, amused. “I’m Lisa. Nichols, still. I’ll probably go back to my maiden name, which is Jenrette, and I always thought was a lot prettier than Nichols. Right now I’ve got other things to keep me busy. So what’s he done?”

“Could be nothing. We just want to talk to him.”

“Then go over to his job site. He’s working in Inglewood. On Manchester, near the Forum. They’re fixing up an office building. I know he’s making good money but try getting a penny out of him. Thank God his parents are cool. They want Lorelei to live decently, even though she’s not theirs, biologically. I told ’em I’d stay in L.A. and they could see her if they make it easy for me; otherwise, I move back to Tucson, where my folks are.”

“Roy’s tight with a buck,” said Milo.

“Roy’s like a stingy old man except when it comes to his projects.”

“What kinds of projects?”

“His truck, his single-malt collection, fixing up the house. Did you have a look at this place- he never stopped fooling with it. If there weren’t so many boxes, I’d show you all the paneling he did in the back rooms. Rosewood paneling, expensive stuff, in all three bedrooms. Made it dark as a funeral parlor, but he claimed it would help the resale value. So what happens, we put the house up for sale and we get a buyer and the first thing they’re going to do is rip out the paneling.”

“That couldn’t have made Roy happy,” I said.

“Roy’s not happy about anything.”

“Moody.”

She turned to me. “Sounds like you know him.”

“Never met him.”

“Lucky you.”

Milo asked if she’d seen Roy recently.

“Not for a month. He’s living with his parents, four blocks away. You’d think he’d drop by to see Lorelei.”

“Not a single visit?”

“I bring Lorelei over once a week. Sometimes Roy’s there, but even if he is, he doesn’t play with her. To him it matters that she isn’t his.” Her eyes misted. She shifted her weight, uncrossed her arms, looked down at the carpet. “Listen, I’ve got calls to make. Why won’t you tell me what he’s done? I mean, if he’s dangerous, shouldn’t I know?”