Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“I will,” said Milo, “but all that proves is you pushed a button on your remote, not that you stayed to watch.”

Gull stared at him. “This is absurd, I didn’t kill Mary.”

“What was the title of the movie?”

Gull looked away and didn’t answer.

“Doctor?”

“It was an adult film. I don’t remember the title.”

“I guess,” said Milo, “it wouldn’t help asking you to recap the plot.”

Gull managed a sickly smile.

Milo said, “When did you see Dr. Koppel last?”

“That afternoon,” said Gull. “Both of us were walking patients out to the waiting room, and we said hi. That was the last time.”

“No tryst later that evening?”

“No. That was over.”

“What was?”

“Mary and I.”

“Who broke it off?”

“It was mutual,” said Gull.

“Because?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

Milo flipped his pad open, scanned his notes. “Alternatively,” he said, “if you didn’t walk to her house, you could’ve called a cab.”

“I didn’t.”

“It can be verified, Doctor.”

“Verify to your heart’s content.”

Milo slapped the pad shut. Gull gave a start and wiped his brow with his sleeve again.

“Doctor, why did Gavin Quick dump you as a therapist?”

“He didn’t dump me. I transferred him to Mary.”

“Why?”

“That’s confidential.”

“No it’s not,” barked Milo. “Gavin lost his privilege when someone shot him. Why’d he transfer away from you, Doctor?”

Gull’s arms had gone rigid, and his palms pressed against the seat cushions, as if bracing himself for takeoff.

“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” he said. “Not without a lawyer.”

“You’re aware of how that makes you look.”

“I assert my rights, and it makes me look bad?”

“If you’ve got nothing to hide, why have concern about rights?”

“Because,” said Gull, “I don’t want to live in a police state. With all that implies.” He forced a smile. Perspiration glazed his face and his neck. “Did you know, Detective, that of all the professions who joined the Nazi party, the police were the most enthusiastic recruits?”

“Really? I heard it was doctors.”

Gull’s smile faltered. He burned some calories restoring it. “That’s it. Not another word.” He drew a finger across his lips.

“Sure,” said Milo, rising. “No sweat.”

As we left Gull’s office, he got on the phone.

Out in the hallway, Milo said, “Lawyering up.”

I said, “What did it was your question about Gavin transferring to Koppel.”

“Some deep dark secret,” he said. “Something that makes him look bad.”

“I wonder how much the Quicks know.”

“If they know, why didn’t they tell me?”

“Maybe it also reflected poorly on Gavin.”

“What, Gavin found out the guy supposed to help him with his stalking problem had outstalked him, so he decided to expose him? Why wouldn’t his parents talk about that? And how does Koppel figure in?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But everything seems to connect to this place.”

“I’ll have Binchy do a loose surveillance on Gull. See if I can get another baby D on it, too.”

“Loose?”

“This ain’t TV, unlimited gizmos and manpower. I’ll be lucky to get two shifts a day.”

We descended the stairs to the ground floor. He said, “So, how effective do you think my leaning on him was?”

“He’s lawyering up,” I said.

“And would an innocent guy do that? Yeah, I got to him… I really wanna know why Gavin left him.”

“The neurologist who sent Gavin to Gull might know something about it. Specialists need to stroke their referral sources, so Gull would have offered some kind of explanation.”

“Singh,” he said. He whipped out his pad, flipped pages. “Leonard Singh, over at St. John’s. You mind doing the doctor-to-doctor bit?”

“Not at all.”

“Also, if you’re still up for calling Ned Biondi, to try to get the blonde’s picture in the papers, go ahead.”

He handed me a sealed envelope stamped PHOTO, DO NOT BEND. “Here’s your chance to be an ‘anonymous source.’ ”

I ran a finger across my lips.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Roland Kristof and his vacuum cleaner were no longer in sight, and Milo gazed down the empty corridor.

“Ghost town,” he said. “ ‘Charitable Planning.’ You picking up eau de scam?”

“At the very least eau de shadow corporation,” I said. “You hassled Kristof. What about him bugged you?”

“He gave off eau de con in waves, and my nose is always sensitive to that.”

“I thought it might be more than that.”

“Like what?”

“A parolee hired by Koppel’s ex, working in the building where three murder victims spent some time. Flora Newsome’s job at the parole office. Before Koppel got killed, we were surmising about an ex-con.”

“Flora again,” he said, and resumed walking.

When we got outside, I said, “It doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

“Sonny Koppel hiring a junkie parolee for building maintenance. The whole con connection?”

“Everything bothers me.” When we reached the car, he said, “In terms of Flora, what we were surmising about was her sleeping with a con. She mighta slummed, Alex, but I don’t see her getting anywhere near a burnout like Kristof.”

“So maybe Kristof’s not the only parolee on Koppel’s payroll. Maybe Koppel’s found himself a source of cheap labor. Mary Lou was into prison rehab. There could be some connection.”

“Larsen says he gave her the idea.”

“Larsen was disappointed we didn’t hear him on the interview tapes. Everyone’s got an ego.”

“Even shrinks?”

“Especially shrinks.”

He tried to pull the car door open. I hadn’t unlocked the Seville, his arm strained, and he grunted. By the time I’d turned the key, he’d wandered back toward the alley.

When he returned, he said, “It’s time to meet Mr. Sonny Koppel. Something else that shoulda been done right away. Woman gets killed, go straight for the ex, it’s goddamned Detection 101.”

“You’re dealing with three cases that point in all directions.”

He threw up his hands and laughed. “Supportive therapy again.”

“Reality.”

“If I wanted reality, I wouldn’t live in L.A.”

As we drove off, he sank into silence. I crossed Olympic, and he announced he’d face Sheila Quick alone for the toss of Gavin’s room. I dropped him at the station and returned home. Spike was waiting for me at the door, looking forlorn.

That was new. Generally, his game was nonchalance: remaining in the service porch when I came home, waiting me out when walk time approached, feigning sleep until I lifted his limp body and set four paws on the ground.

“Hey, guy.”

He snorted, shook a drizzle of saliva my way, licked my hand.

“Lonely, huh?”

His head dropped, but his eyes remained fixed on me. One ear twitched.

“Really lonely.”

He gazed upward and let out a low, hoarse moan.

“Hey,” I said, bending on one knee and ruffling his neck, “she’ll be home tomorrow.”

In the old days, I’d have added, I miss her, too .

Spike snuffled and rolled over. I scratched his belly. “How about some exercise?”

He snapped to attention. Pant, pant.

I had an old leash stored in my office closet, and by the time I brought it back he was jumping and yelping and scraping at the door.