Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“I wasn’t interested. Figured he was just trying to make me feel sorry for him. The way the referral came about is I called his bluff, said, ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you get him some help?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I need to do that.’ And I said, ‘My ex-wife’s a psychologist, and her office is close to your house. You want her number?’ He said sure, and I gave it to him. Like I said, I thought it was a dodge. So he actually followed through.”

Milo nodded. “How’s he been with the rent since then?”

“Chronically late.”

“Dr. Koppel never told you about the referral?”

“She’d never do that,” said Koppel. “Confidentiality, she was big on that. The whole time we were married she never talked about patients. That’s another thing I admired about her. Her ethics.”

“Mr. Koppel,” said Milo, “where were you the night your ex-wife was murdered?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir.”

“Where was I? I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Don’t rub it in,” said Koppel. “That night… let’s see, that night I think I ran into Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher- in the front unit. Both of us were taking out the garbage. Are you going to ask her? If you do, could you please not mention that I’m her landlord?”

“It’s a secret?” said Milo.

“I like to keep a low profile. That way I can come home and relax and not have tenants calling me up for repairs.”

“A private home would accomplish that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m eccentric,” said Koppel. “The problem with a house is too much maintenance, and my whole life’s about that. Also, I don’t need the space.”

“Not a lot of stuff.”

“What’s so sane about accumulating stuff?”

“So you were here all night, sir?”

“Like I always am. Unless I’m on the road.”

“How often are you on the road?”

“One, two days a week.”

“Where do you stay?”

“Motels. I like Best Western. But I was home that night.”

Milo got up. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” said Koppel, tweezing popcorn from his clothes.

“The sensitive tycoon,” said Milo, when we were back on the sidewalk. “You buying it?”

“I think when it comes to money he’d be something to reckon with. You’re not going to check with Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher?”

“What, to verify his alibi? All she saw was him taking out the garbage. Five minutes out of a whole evening, big deal.”

“You see him as a suspect?”

“He’s landlord to a bunch of cons, and he was shelling out twenty-five grand a month to Koppel. Now that she’s dead, not only do the payments stop, he gets all her real estate. That’s a hell of a lot of motive. Also, he goes on about being an efficient businessman but keeps an entire floor of a Beverly Hills building vacant. I’d love to get in there, find out what Charitable Planning is really all about.”

“Group therapy,” I said. “If Sonny was really as enamored of Mary as he made out, I can see him holding the space vacant for her.”

“What, you don’t see him as a potential bad guy?”

“The way you lay it out, he definitely belongs on the radar screen. But what motive would he have for killing Gavin and the blonde?”

He didn’t answer. We headed for my car.

I said, “How’s the surveillance on Gull going?”

“He goes to work, returns home. I’m sure his lawyer told him to keep a clean nose.”

“The lie about Gavin’s referral could be Jerry Quick wanting to hide the fact that he got Mary Lou’s name from Sonny. Because if we interviewed Sonny, we’d know he’s a deadbeat tenant. Having it come from a physician makes it sound a lot more respectable.”

“I guess,” he said. “But his kid was killed, you’d think he’d want to be forthcoming.”

“Another thing,” I said, “is that Sonny sent Gavin directly to Mary Lou, but Gull ended up with the case anyway. Then it reverted to Mary. Sonny may be involved somehow, but I can’t shake the notion that Gavin’s death was connected to his treatment. Same for Flora Newsome. We’re talking two patients and their therapist, all dead.”

“All skewered,” he said. “Someone they all knew. Or who knew them. But maybe nothing to do with the treatment. Some con sent over by Sonny to clean the building spotted them and decided to play. Some real psychopath who’s worked the system and passed himself along as a nonviolent parolee. I’ll ask Sonny for a list of maintenance guys, see who pops up. Meanwhile, let’s go over to the Quick house, again. Maybe Jerry and Sheila returned from wherever it was they went, and I can have a go at Gavin’s mess.”

I took Gregory Drive all the way to Camden. As we pulled up to the Quick house, Milo said, “Same as before: her car’s here, his isn’t. Don’t bother getting out, this probably won’t take long.”

He sprang out of the Seville, trotted to the front door, rang the bell. Tapped his foot. Rang again. Shook his head and was about to leave when the door swung halfway open.

I caught a glimpse of Sheila Quick’s drawn face.

Milo talked to her. Turned to me. Mouthed, “Come in.”

“We were at my sister’s house in Westlake Village,” she said. Her hair was turbaned by a blue towel, and she wore a quilted beige robe patterned with butterflies and clematis vines. Stains on the robe. Her face was drawn and chalky, eyes stripped of illusion.

“You and your husband?” said Milo.

“Jerry wanted to get away for a couple days.” She spoke slowly, slurred, worked hard at forming words. I’d guessed tranquilizers, then I smelled her breath. Lots of wintergreen but not enough to mask the alcohol.

The three of us were standing in her dining room. The space felt heavy, smothering. Where light hit the furniture it exposed a coating of dust.

“Your husband wanted to get away,” said Milo.

“From the stress.” Sheila Quick’s lips curled in distaste.

I said, “You didn’t want to go?”

“Eileen,” she said. “She thinks her house is the greatest… that paddle tennis court of hers. As far as she’s concerned why wouldn’t I want to go?”

She looked to me for confirmation. I nodded.

“Jerry,” she said. “Whatever Jerry wants, Jerry gets. You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think Jerry wanted to stick me there. So he stuck me there. And went on his merry way.”

“He didn’t stay at Eileen’s.”

“I was supposed to be happy because Eileen has a pool and that paddle tennis court. It’s not even a full tennis court, it’s half of that.” She took hold of my sleeve. “We were going to build a pool, Gavin liked to swim.”

She threw up her hands. “I hate chlorine. It makes me itch. Why would I be happy just ’cause there’s a pool? I wanted Jerry to bring me back. Finally, he called, and I told him to bring me back.” Woozy smile. “So, here I am.”

“Where’s Jerry?” I said.

“Working. Somewhere.”

“Out of town?”

She nodded. “As usul- usuizul… it’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Jerry hates Eileen. But wanted to stick me in her house so he could Godknowswhat… It wasn’t right.”

She ticked her fingers, talked in a singsong. “Eileen has her house, I have my house.”

“You like your privacy,” I said.

“I don’t like her pool. It itches. I don’t play paddle tennis. She and her husband go to work, I’m left there with all the… all the quiet . What am I supposed to do all day? But Jerry… Eileen asked me last week to come over, and Jerry told her forget it. Then he changed his mind. What’s that all about? I’ll tell you what it’s about.”