Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“His landlord hires troubled souls, and so does he,” I said. “Maybe compassion’s contagious. Or Sonny sent him Angela Paul, as well.”

“Sonny the fixer? Get you a medical referral, invest your money.”

“Maybe Quick was into him for more than back rent.”

“His own kid, and he doesn’t say a word.”

“Maybe it’s more than knowing,” I said. “What if he’s implicated?”

“Wouldn’t that be pretty.”

“What’d you find in Gavin’s pockets?”

“Who says I found anything?”

“Those questions about Gavin’s clothing. You didn’t need ten minutes to flip through a few books and pockets.”

He slapped a slow three-four beat on the dashboard with one big palm. “Bastard took the computer- should I even bother calling Beverly Vista school to see if he donated it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he made the call, hung up grinning with rage. “First they’ve heard about it. You wanna know what I think? Gavin found out about something dirty going on in that building- something to do with Koppel and Charitable Planning and Daddy . The kid fancied himself an investigative reporter and figured he’d got himself a nice little scandal. Brain-damaged, but he kept some sort of records. And his old man destroyed them. My damn fault, I shoulda gone through that room first thing.”

“What’d you find in the closet?” I said.

He opened to the center of his pad and showed me something sandwiched there, encased in a plastic evidence bag.

Wrinkled sheet of paper the size of an index card. Miniature lined paper, from a pad not unlike Milo’s. Numbers written in blue ink. Cramped, smudged. A wavering column of seven-digit number-letter combinations.

“License plate numbers?”

“That would be my guess,” said Milo. “Stupid kid was surveilling .”

Milo said, “Drop me back at the station. Gonna run these numbers, then head over to the Hall of Records, see if I can find any other link between Jerry Quick and Sonny beyond tenancy. If I leave soon, I can make it downtown in time.”

“Want me to take you straight there?”

“No, this is gonna be tedious, I’ll do it alone. I also want to talk to Quick’s accountant. Luckily CPAs don’t get confidentiality. Any word from the Times on running the picture?”

“Not yet.”

“If your pal Biondi doesn’t come through, I’m having a chitchat with my habitually unresponsive capitan . He hates seeing my face, so maybe I can promise not to surface for another year if he goes over the heads of those losers in Community Relations and gets someone to push the media. With all the deceit on this one I don’t need a victim I can’t identify.”

“I’ll try Ned again.”

“Good,” he said. “Thanks. Let me know, either way.”

I phoned Coronado Island.

Ned Biondi said, “No one called you? Jesus. I’m sorry, Doc. I thought it was worked out. Okay, let me see what’s going on, I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

An hour later, the phone rang.

“Mr. Delaware?” Plummy, theatrical baritone. Every syllable, foreplay.

“Speaking.”

“This is Jack Mc Tell . From the Los Angeles Times . You’ve got a picture you’d like us to run .”

“Picture of a homicide victim,” I said. “An LAPD detective would like it run, but his superiors don’t think it’s got enough of a hook for you.”

“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t promise anything.”

“Should I bring it by?”

“If you choose .”

Times headquarters was on First Street, in a massive gray stone building that studded the heart of downtown. I got stuck in freeway mucus, trolled for parking, finally scored a space in an overpriced stacked lot five blocks away.

Three security guards patrolled the Times ’s massive, echoing lobby. They let several people pass but stopped me. Two of the uniforms made a show of staring me down as the third called up to Jack McTell’s office, barked my name into the phone, hung up, and told me to wait. Ten minutes later, a young, crew-cut woman in a black sweater and jeans and hiking boots emerged from the elevator. She looked around, saw me, and headed my way.

“You’re the person with the picture?” A Times badge said Jennifer Duff. Her left eyebrow was pierced by a tiny steel barbell.

“This is for Mr. McTell.”

She held out her hand, and I gave her the envelope. She took it delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as if it was tainted, turned her back, and left.

I blew another twenty minutes waiting for the parking lot attendant to move six other cars and free the Seville. I used the time to leave Milo a message that the Times had the photo, and it was up to the editors’ good graces. By now, he was downtown, too, reading microfiche at the Hall of Records, just a couple of blocks away.

Cars were queued up at the 101 on-ramp, so I took Olympic Boulevard west. Avoiding another jam wasn’t all of it. That route took me past Mary Lou Koppel’s office building.

I made it to Palm Drive by three-thirty, hooked a left, and swung around into the back alley. Gull’s and Larsen’s Mercedeses were there, along with a few other late-model luxury cars. Next to the handicapped slot, a copper-colored van was stationed. A white stick-on sign on its flanks read:

THRIFTY CARPET AND DRAPERY CLEANING

A Pico address near La Brea. A 323 number.

The rear glass doors had been propped open with a wooden triangle. I parked and got out.

The corridor smelled like stale laundry. The polyester beneath my feet seeped and made little sucking sounds. At the far end of the hall, a man pushed an industrial shampooer in lazy circles.

Two doors of the Charitable Planning suite were propped open the same way. Mechanical groan from inside. I had a look.

Another man, short, stocky, Hispanic, wearing rumpled gray work clothes, guided an identical machine over the thin, blue indoor-outdoor felt that covered Charitable’s floor. His back was to me, and the din overrode my footsteps.

To the right was a small office. A swivel chair had been lifted and placed atop a scarred steel desk. Off in the corner was a rollaway typing table that hosted an IBM Selectric. On the desktop, next to the chair, were five rubber-banded bundles of mail.

I checked out return addresses. United Way, Campaign for Literacy, the Thanksgiving Fund, the Firefighters Ball. I flipped through all the bundles.

Everyone wanted Sonny Koppel’s money.

The rest of the suite was one enormous room with high, horizontal windows covered by cheap nylon drapes. Empty save for a couple of dozen folding chairs stacked against the wall. The Hispanic man flicked off the machine, straightened slowly, as if in pain, ran his hand through his hair, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and lit up. Still with his back to me.

He smoked, was careful to drop the ash in his cupped hands.

I said, “Hi.”

He turned. Surprise, but no con wariness. He looked at his cigarette. Blinked. Shrugged. “No permisa?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said.

Resigned smile. No hardness around his eyes, no sloppy tattoos. “Usted no es el patron?”

You’re not the boss?

“No,” I said. “Not today.”

“Hokay.” He laughed and smoked. “Mebbe tomorrow.”

“I’m thinking of renting the space.”

Blank stare.

I pointed to the wet carpet. “Nice job- muy limpia .”

“Gracias.”

I left wondering what he’d cleaned up.

Sonny Koppel had been truthful about Charitable Planning, but what did that mean? Perhaps parceling out partial truths was a strategic defense.