Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Anything about obsessive behavior?”

“No, but they hadn’t seen him for a while. They were pretty shook-up about his being murdered. Neither had any clue who’d want to hurt him, and they didn’t know about any blonde he’d dated other than Kayla. Who one of them called ‘a spoiled little witch.’ ”

“The anonymous blonde,” I said.

“I called the TV stations,” he said, “asked if they’d run the death shot. They said no, too scary, but if I got an artist’s rendition that toned it down, they might. If airtime permitted. I sent a copy of the photo to one of our sketchers, we’ll see. Maybe the papers would run the actual photo. Grant the poor kid her fifteen seconds of fame.”

“Too scary,” I said. “Are they watching the same tube I am?”

He laughed. “The media talk about public service, but they’re out to sell commercial time. Alex, it was like pitching a story to some showbiz asshole. What’s in it for memememe - okay, here we are, why don’t you circle around to the back, see if Mary Lou’s Mercedes is there?”

It wasn’t, but we parked anyway and went into the building.

The door to the Pacifica-West Psychological Services suite was unlocked. This time, the waiting room wasn’t empty. A tall woman in her forties paced and wrung her hands. She wore a gray leotard set, white athletic socks, pink Nikes, had long legs, a tiny upper body, short, black, feathered hair combed forward. Her eyes were blue and sunken and pouched and too bright, her face was glossy and raw, the color of canned salmon. Skin flaked around her hairline and ears; recent skin-peel. Her expression said she was used to being mistreated but was learning to resent it. She ignored us and continued pacing.

All three call buttons were red.

Drs. Gull, Koppel, and Larsen healing souls.

Milo said, “I wonder when her session ends.”

The black-haired woman kept walking, and said, “If you’re talking about Dr. K, take a number. My appointment was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.” She crossed the office twice, picked at her scalp, stopped to investigate the magazines on a table. Selecting Modern Health, she leafed through the issue, kept it folded at her side as she paced some more. “Twenty- three minutes. She’d better have an emergency.”

Milo said, “She’s usually pretty punctual.”

The woman stopped and turned. Her face was stretched tight yet drawn. Fear scalded her eyes, as if she’d stared at an eclipse. “You’re not patients.”

“We’re not?” said Milo, keeping his voice light.

“No, no, no, no. You look like- why are you here?”

He shrugged, unbuttoned his jacket. “We’re just waiting to talk to Dr. Koppel, ma’a-”

“Well, you can’t!” the woman shouted. “I’m next! I need to see her!”

Milo glanced at me. Begging for help.

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s your time. We’ll leave, come back later.”

“No!” she said. “I mean… you don’t have to, I don’t own this place, I’m not entitled to assert myself at that level.” She blinked back tears. “I just want to have my time. My own time, that’s not overly narcissistic, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“My ex-husband claims I’m an incurable narcissist.”

“Exes,” I said.

She stared at me, probing for sincerity. I must have passed because she smiled. Said, “It’s okay for you to sit down.”

We did.

The waiting room remained silent for another fifteen minutes. For the first five, the woman read her magazine. Then she introduced herself as Bridget. Returned her eyes to the pages, but her heart wasn’t in it. A pulse throbbed in her temple, conspicuous enough for me to see from across the room. Racing. Her hands clasped and unclasped, and her head bobbed from the magazine to the red buttons. Finally, she said, “I don’t understand!”

I said, “Let’s call her. Her service will pick up, and maybe they can tell us if she’s got an emergency.”

“Yes,” said Bridget. “Yes, that’s a good plan.”

Milo whipped out his phone, Bridget rattled off the number, and he punched it. What a team.

He said, “Dr. Koppel, please… Mr. Sturgis, she knows me… what’s that? You’re sure? ’Cause I’m right here in her waiting room, and her session light’s on…”

He clicked off.

Bridget said, “What, what?”

“Her service says she didn’t check in this morning the way she usually does, and they have no idea where she is. She had two early patients before her radio interview, missed them, too.”

Bridget cried out: “Damn her! That’s fucking narcissistic!”

Snatching her purse, she raced to the door, swung it open, slammed it behind her. The silence she left behind was sour.

“I think,” said Milo, “that I prefer my job to yours.”

Five minutes later, he was pounding the door to the inner offices. A muffled man’s voice said what might have been, “Hold on!” and the door opened a crack. The eyes that looked out at us were pale brown and down-slanted behind octagonal bifocals. Analytic. Not amused.

“What’s going on?” Well-modulated voice, tinged by a Nordic inflection. What I could see of his face was smooth and ruddy, the chin melting into soft flesh. A chin coated by a clipped, gray-blond goatee. Centering the beard was a prim, narrow mouth.

“Police,” said Milo. “We’re looking for Dr. Koppel.”

“Police? So you pound the door?” Calm voice- almost amused, despite the irritation.

“You’re-”

“Dr. Larsen. I’m in the midst of seeing a patient and would prefer that you leave. Why are you looking for Mary Lou?”

“I’d rather not discuss that, sir.”

Albin Larsen blinked. “Suit yourself.” He began to close the door. Milo caught it.

“Officer-”

“Her session light is on,” said Milo, “but she’s not in.”

The door opened wider, and Larsen stepped out. He was five-ten, in his midfifties, upholstered by an extra fifteen pounds, wore his whitening hair in a longish crew cut. A green, hand-crocheted, sleeveless vest sheathed a pale blue button-down shirt. His khakis were pressed and pleated, his bubble-topped brown shoes polished glossy.

He took a long moment to look us over. “Not in? How would you know that?”

Milo recounted his conversation with the service operator.

“Ah,” said Larsen. He smiled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Dr. Koppel could have been called in to the office because of a patient crisis and simply neglected to check with her service.”

“A crisis here in the office?”

“Our profession is rife with crisis.”

“Frequently?”

“Frequently enough,” said Larsen. “Now I suggest that the best way for us to deal with this situation is for you to leave your card, and I’ll make sure-”

“Have you seen her today, Doctor?”

“I wouldn’t have. I’ve been booked clear through since 8 A.M. So is Franco- Dr. Gull. We all have very full schedules and try to stagger our patients in order to avoid a logjam in the waiting room.” Larsen tugged at his shirtsleeve, exposed a pink-gold vintage Rolex. “In fact, my next appointment is in ten minutes, and I’ve left a patient waiting in my office, which is grossly unfair and unprofessional. So kindly leave your card, and-”

Milo said, “Why don’t we check to see if Dr. Koppel’s in her office?”

Albin Larsen began to fold his arms over his chest but stopped himself. “That would be inappropriate.”

“Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait right here, Dr. Larsen.”

Larsen’s prim mouth got even smaller. “I believe that if you pause to reflect, sir, you’ll find you are being heavy-handed.”