Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“What happens, now that Dr. Koppel’s dead, in terms of the lease?”

Gull stared at him.

Milo said, “I need to ask.”

“Albin and I haven’t talked about that, Detective. It’s all we can do to take care of Mary’s patients.” He looked at Larsen.

Larsen said, “I’d be in favor of you and I picking up Mary’s share of the rent, Franco.”

“Sure,” said Gull. To us: “It’s no big deal. The rent’s reasonable, and Mary’s share was smaller than ours.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Because,” said Gull, “she found the building for us, arranged an excellent lease, oversaw the entire renovation.”

“Good negotiator,” said Milo.

“She was,” said Larsen. “Her skills were facilitated by the fact that her ex-husband owns the building.”

“Ed Koppel?”

Franco Gull said, “Everyone calls him Sonny.”

Milo said, “Renting from the ex.”

“Mary and Sonny got along well,” said Gull. “The divorce was years ago. Amicable.”

“No problems at all?”

“He gave us a sweetheart lease, Detective. Doesn’t that speak volumes?”

“Guess so,” said Milo.

Gull said, “You won’t find anyone who knew Mary well who’s going to bad-mouth her. She was a fabulous woman. This is really hard for us.”

His chin trembled. He put his sunshades back on.

“Gotta be rough,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”

He made no move to leave.

Larsen said, “Is there anything else?”

“This is just a formality, Doctors, but where was each of you the night Dr. Koppel was killed?”

“I was home,” said Gull. “With my wife and kids.”

“How many kids?”

“Two.”

Out came the notepad. “And where do you live, Doctor?”

“Club Drive.”

“Cheviot Hills?”

“Yes.”

“So you and Dr. Koppel were neighbors?”

“Mary helped us find the house.”

“Through Mr. Koppel?”

“No,” said Gull. “As far as I know Sonny’s only into commercial. Mary knew we were looking to upgrade. She was taking a walk and noticed the FOR SALE sign and thought it might meet our needs.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A year- fourteen months.”

“Before that you lived…”

“In Studio City,” said Gull. “Why is this relevant?”

Milo turned to Larsen. “And you, sir. Where were you that night?”

“Also at home,” said Larsen. “I live in an apartment on Harvard Street in Santa Monica, north of Wilshire.” He recited the address in a soft, weary voice.

“Live by yourself?”

“I do.” Larsen smiled. “I read and went to bed. I’m afraid there’s no one to verify that.”

Milo smiled back. “What’d you read?”

“Sartre. Transcendence of the Ego. ”

“Light stuff.”

“Sometimes a challenge is good.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Milo. “I’ll tell you, this case is a challenge.”

Larsen didn’t answer.

Franco Gull checked his watch again. “I really need to head back to the office.”

“One more question,” said Milo. “I know you can’t tell me about any deep dark patient secrets because of ethical restraints. But I do have a question that I think you are allowed to answer. Do any of your patients drive a dark Ford Aerostar minivan? Black, dark blue, maybe gray?”

Above us, the elm canopy rustled and the high, gleeful sounds of childhood play drifted over. The ice-cream truck rang its bell and drove off.

Albin Larsen said, “A patient? No, I’ve never seen that.” His eyes drifted toward Gull.

Franco Gull said, “I agree. No patients I’m aware of drive a car like that. Not that I’d notice. I’m in the office when they park their cars, don’t know what any of them drive- unless it comes up in therapy.”

His brow was slick with sweat.

Milo scribbled in his pad and closed it. “Thanks, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”

“There’ll be more?” said Gull.

“Depends upon what we find in the way of evidence.”

“Fingerprints?” said Gull. “That kind of thing?”

“That kind of thing.”

Gull stood so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Makes sense.” Larsen got to his feet, too. Gull was a head taller and a foot and a half broader at the shoulders. High school football, maybe college.

We watched the two of them walk to their Mercedeses.

Milo said, “Now wasn’t that interesting?”

“Sweaty fellow,” Milo murmured, as he called DMV.

It didn’t take long to get the data. Three vehicles were registered to Franco Arthur Gull on Club Drive. A two-year-old Mercedes, a ’63 Corvette, and a 1999 Ford Aerostar.

“Well, well, well.”

He pulled the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, found a map, and jabbed his index finger. “Gull’s house is only a few blocks from Koppel’s, so on the face of it, one of his cars in the neighborhood isn’t weird. But the witness said the van drove away from his street. Seemed to be looking for something.”

I said, “Cruising back and forth at 2 A.M. isn’t neighborly. It’s the kind of thing stalkers do.”

“A shrink with problems in that area. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“A shrink the court refers stalkers to. Maybe Gavin found out somehow, and that’s why he dropped Gull and switched to Koppel.”

“Gull driving by Koppel’s house,” he said. “She wouldn’t have stood for that. Gavin tells her, he’s lighting a tinderbox.”

“On the other hand,” I said.

“What?”

“Three vehicles in the Gull family. The Mercedes for him and a vintage Vette for weekend fun. That leaves the Aerostar for the wife.”

“Suspicious wife,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Gull and Koppel were having a fling.”

“When you talked about evidence, Gull asked about fingerprints. It struck me as out of context. That could be because he knows his prints are in that batch you dusted at Koppel’s house.”

“More than partners. More than neighbors. She finds him a house close by, all the easier for drop-in fun. Mrs. G suspects and drives by at 2 A.M. Checking up. No wonder the guy’s perspiring like a marathon runner.”

I said, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s got a state license, so his prints are in the system.

He flipped the little blue phone open. “I’ll call the techs right now. Meanwhile, let’s visit the wife.”

“What about excavating Gavin’s room?”

“That, too,” he said. “but later.” Big grin. “All of a sudden, I’m busy.”

The Gull residence was a Tudor, not unlike Mary Lou Koppel’s, a bit less imposing on a flat lot with no view. Ballpark-quality lawn, the usual luxuriant beds of impatiens, a liquidambar sapling just beginning to turn color, staked in the crater vacated by a larger tree.

The Aerostar van was parked in the driveway. Deep blue. Two bumper stickers: MY CHILD’S AN HONOR STUDENT AT WILD ROSE SCHOOL. And GO LAKERS!

An Hispanic maid answered Milo’s knock. He asked for “La señora, por favor,” and she said “Un momento,” and closed the door. When it opened again, a petite, very slim blond-ponytailed woman in her thirties stood there, looking distracted. Milo’s badge changed nothing. She continued to look through us.

White-blond, ice-blue eyes, small bones, beautiful features. Even standing still, she seemed graceful. But dangerously slim; her skin bordered on translucence, and her black velvet sweats bagged. She’d done a fine job with her makeup, but the red rims around her eyes were impossible to conceal.

Milo said, “Mrs. Gull.”