Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

All that B.H. square footage left vacant in case Mary Lou needed it.

If Milo was right about Gavin hanging around, spying, writing down license numbers, what had the boy seen?

Empty room. Two dozen folding chairs.

What more did you need for group therapy?

Had the sessions already begun?

What had gone on in there?

I drove a block away, pulled to the curb, and thought more about Gavin Quick.

Brain-damaged, but he’d managed to hold on to his secrets.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d confided in his father, and that’s why Jerry Quick had cleaned out his room.

Now Quick was traveling, after stashing his wife at her sister’s. Business as usual, or was he on the run because he knew ?

Eileen Paxton said Quick hired sluts as secretaries. The secretary I’d met had a dope bust and nails too long for typing.

House in Beverly Hills, but a shadow life?

Gavin had been murdered alongside a blond girl whom no one cared enough about to call in missing. All along, I’d wondered if she was a pro. Jerry and Gavin were both sexually aggressive.

Had the blonde been a gift from father to son? Another referral by Sonny Koppel?

Angie Paul claimed not to know her. Milo had noticed her blinking. I’d explained it away as a reaction to death.

The blonde.

Gavin’s type. Two miles north, in the high-priced spread, lived a blond girl who knew Gavin before his accident. A girl we still hadn’t spoken to.

The last time I’d followed Kayla Bartell she’d driven to a midday hair appointment. That meant she wasn’t holding down a nine-to-five job.

Rich girl with plenty of leisure time? Maybe she’d spare me some.

The Bartell mansion was lifeless as a mortuary behind its white iron security blanket. A white Bentley Mulsanne with rear plates that read MEW ZIK was parked in the circular drive, but no sign of Kayla’s red Cherokee.

I continued to Sunset. Cars whizzed by both sides of the median strip, and I waited for a lull to hook right and retrace to the turnaround. It took a while. Just as I swung onto the boulevard, I caught a glimpse of red in my side mirror.

Probably nothing. I got back on Camden anyway.

The Jeep was parked in front of the house.

I drove six houses down and parked, figuring I’d give it half an hour.

Eighteen minutes later, Kayla, dressed in white but carrying a big black bag, exited the house, got in the red SUV, waited until the gates slid open, and sped past me.

Exact same path she’d taken the last time. Santa Monica west to Canon Drive. More pampering at Umberto?

But this time, she passed the salon and continued two blocks down to a Rite Aid pharmacy.

First hair, now makeup? Wouldn’t a girl like that buy her cosmetics at a boutique?

Watching her for five minutes gave me my answer, but it wasn’t what I expected.

She went straight for the nail polish. I stood on the end of the aisle as she studied a rack of small bottles. The white outfit was a midriff T-shirt that advertised her tan tummy, over white ostrich-skin lowriders and open white sandals with orange plastic heels. Her long hair was tucked into a white denim cap that she wore at a jaunty tilt. Big white plastic earrings. She bounced on her heels a couple of times, seemed to settle down as she peered at the polish.

Big decision; her pretty face creased. Finally, she chose a vermillion bottle and dropped it in her shopping basket. Then so fast that I almost missed it, two other bottles were slipped into the big black handbag- same bag I’d seen that first night, oversized, embroidered with roses.

Not a good match for the white-white duds, but something that size did have its utility.

She moved up the aisle to the eyeliners. One in the basket, two in the purse. Brazen, not even a cautionary look. The store was quiet, poorly staffed. If surveillance cameras were operating, I couldn’t see them.

I hung back, pretended to browse mouthwash, strolled to the next aisle, sauntered back, keeping my head down. Now she was over by the lipstick. Same routine.

She moved through the store that way for ten minutes, concentrating on small articles. Dental floss, contact lens cleaning solution, aspirin, candy. Boosting double the amount of whatever she put in her basket.

I bought a ten-pack of gum, was behind her when she checked out.

She walked cheerfully to her Cherokee, swinging her bag and wiggling her tight little butt. I managed to get to the SUV first, slipped out from the front of the vehicle, and took hold of the black bag.

She said, “What the-” then she recognized me.

“Cop.” She nearly choked on the word.

It seemed a poor time for full disclosure. I said, “You’ve got a little problem, Kayla.”

Green-gray eyes widened. Glossy lips parted as she contemplated a reply. Such a pretty girl, despite the hook nose. Such empty eyes.

She said, “I was doing research. For a term paper.”

“What was the subject?”

“You know.” She glanced off to one side, cocked a hip, tried to work up a smile.

I said, “Where do you go to school?”

“Santa Monica College.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s late June. School’s out.”

“Maybe I’m in summer session.”

“Are you?”

No answer.

“What’s your major?”

She stared at the asphalt, raised her head, chanced eye contact. “Design… um… and psychology.”

“Psychology,” I said. “So you know the name for this.”

“For what?”

I took the bag from her, pulled out a bottle of contact lens solution, some shrink-wrapped Tylenol and Passionate Peach lip gloss. “For this, Kayla.”

She pointed to the Tylenol. “I get headaches.”

“You’ve got a big one now.”

Her eyes darted around the parking lot. “I don’t want someone to see me.”

“That’s the least of your problems.”

“Please,” she said. “C’mon.”

“We need to talk, Kayla.”

“C’mon,” she repeated. Arched her back. Removed her beret and tossed her hair and let loose a blond storm.

She blinked twice. Batted her lashes and did something silly with her head. Golden hair shimmered. “C’mon,” she said, nearly whispering. “I can fix it.”

“How?”

Slowly spreading smile. “I’ll blow you,” she said. “Like you’ve never been blown before.”

I took her car keys, positioned her behind the wheel of her Jeep and ordered her not to move as I slid in on the passenger side. Keeping my door open an inch. Her car was her territory. Hopefully the open door would insulate me from a kidnapping charge if the truth ever got out.

She jammed the beret back on her head. Carelessly; golden strands leaked out.

“Please,” she said, staring out the windshield. Her middy blouse rode up. Rapid breathing pulsed her flat belly.

I let the silence sink in. Cars drove in and out of the Rite Aid lot. Tinted windows afforded us privacy.

I wondered if she’d cry.

She pouted. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me do it- I’ll make you feel real good, and I’ll return the stuff. Okay?”

Sonny Koppel had talked about stuff being a burden.

I said, “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll return everything and promise never to do it again. But first, you’ll talk to me about Gavin Quick. If you’re honest and open and tell me everything you know about him, we’ll call it even.”

She turned quickly and gawked at me. Her hawk nose was powdered. Beneath the film I saw delicate freckles. The gray-green eyes had turned calculating.