Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

It was 5:30 P.M. when I pushed away from the computer, and I had nothing much to show.

I made some coffee, munched on a bagel, and drank, thinking and looking out my kitchen window at a graying sky. I realized I’d been seduced by the cheap trick that was cyberresearch and decided to do it the old-fashioned way.

Olivia Brickerman and I had worked together at Western Pediatric Hospital, she as a supervising social worker, I as a fledgling psychologist. Twenty years my senior, she’d seen herself as my surrogate mother. I hadn’t minded one bit because she’d been a benevolent mother, down to home cooking and a cheerfully nosy interest in my love life.

Her husband, an international chess grand master, had written the Final Moves column for the Times . He’d since passed on, and Olivia had dealt with her loss by plunging herself back into work, taking a series of short-lived, well-paying state consultantships, then easing into a position at the genteel old school across town where I was nominally a med school professor.

Olivia knew more about grantsmanship and the way government operated than anyone else I’d ever met.

At five-forty, she was still at her desk. “Alex, darling.”

“Olivia, darling.”

“So nice to hear from you. How’s life?”

“Life is good,” I said. “How about you?”

“Still kicking. So, how’s the new one working out?”

“She’s working out great.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “Both of you in the same profession, lots of common ground. Which isn’t to say I have anything against Robin. I love her, she’s lovely. So’s the new one- that hair, those eyes. No surprise there, a good-looking guy like you. Get yourself a new dog?”

“Not yet.”

“A dog is good,” she said. “I love my Rudy.”

Rudy was a walleyed, shaggy mutt with a lust for deli meat. “Rudy rocks,” I said.

“He’s smarter than most people.”

Last time I’d spoken to her- three or four months ago- she’d sprained an ankle.

“How’s the leg?” I said. “Back to jogging yet?”

“Hah! Can’t get back to a place you’ve never been. Truthfully, the leg’s still a little gammy; I should take off weight. But thank God. The latest thing is, I’m on blood thinners.”

“You all right?”

“Well,” she said, “I’ve got thinner blood. Unfortunately, nothing else got thin. So what can I do for you, darling?”

I told her.

“Department of Corrections,” she said. “Haven’t had much to do with those yokels in a long time. Not since I consulted to Sybil Brand. Back then they had some state grants for therapy, but that was all for inside the prison, helping inmates with kids learn to be good mothers. Good idea, but the oversight was pathetic. Never heard about an outside project such as you’re describing.”

“It may not exist,” I said.

“And you’re asking about this because…”

“Because it may relate to some murders.”

“Some murders,” she said. “Ugly stuff?”

“Very ugly.”

“You and Milo… how’s he doing, by the way?”

“Working hard.”

“He’ll always be doing that,” she said. “Well, I’m sorry nothing comes to mind but just because I haven’t heard about it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve been teaching, have kind of lost touch with the divine world of public monies… what you’re describing could be a pilot study, let me fire up my Mac and see… okay, here goes, click click click… can’t seem to find any pilot postprison rehab therapy studies from NIH or HHS or… the state… maybe it’s private… no, nothing on that list, either. So maybe it was approved as a full-term grant, not a pilot.”

I said, “You might want to check under ‘Sentries for Justice,’ and if that doesn’t work, I’ve got some other buzzwords for you.”

“Give them to me.”

“ ‘Synergy,’ ‘demarginalization,’ ‘attitudinal shifting,’ ‘holistic interplay-’ ”

“That sound you’re hearing in the background is Mr. Orwell groaning.”

I laughed. Waited. Listened to Olivia humming and muttering to herself.

“Nothing,” she said, finally. “Not on any databases I can find. But not everything makes it into the computer in a timely fashion, there are good, old-fashioned printed lists. I don’t keep them here, have to go over to the main office. Which is locked for the night… give me some time, darling, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Olivia.”

“You’re more than welcome. Come over sometime, Alex. Bring Allison. Is she a vegetarian or something like that?”

“On the contrary.”

“Oh, lucky you,” she said. “Then definitely bring her over. I’ll marinate some skirt steaks, my skirt steaks are famous. You bring Allison and some wine. I could use some adorable people in the house.”

Six-thirty. Milo called me from his desk.

“Jerry Quick’s CPA was cagey, but I managed to get a few things out of him. First of all, I got a clear impression Quick is not a big-money client. Secondly, Quick’s income comes in spurts, he’s got no regular income coming in, just whatever deals he can close, and the CPA never sees the checks, just writes down what Jerry tells him. His main gripe was that Jerry’s income was unstable, so establishing estimated tax was a hassle.”

“Not a big-money client,” I said. “How’s he’s been doing recently?”

“Couldn’t get the guy to spill specifics, but he did say Quick was late to pay his bill.”

“Same thing Sonny Koppel complained about, so maybe Quick’s living on the edge. House in Beverly Hills, a Mercedes, albeit one that’s a few years old. Appearances are important. Toss in Gavin’s medical bills, and there’d be pressure.”

“Sure,” he said. “It would explain Quick getting into something iffy and lucrative. But what it doesn’t explain is why would Sonny and the others want him involved? Guy’s a middling metals dealer. What could he offer?”

“Guns are metal.”

“From therapy to guns? A burgeoning crime syndicate?”

“It’s just what came to mind,” I said. “Dealers like to deal. Quick travels around buying scrap. Don’t police departments scrap confiscated weapons?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Anything’s possible, but there’s still nothing to connect Quick or anyone to therapy mischief, let alone arms mischief. And I still can’t locate the bastard. I got hold of his home phone records, but there’re no calls to any airlines. No travel-related stuff of any kind. Couldn’t find any business phone, so I asked Sheila about it. She said he uses prepaid cells. Which is just what you’d do if your business was shady. Meanwhile, Sheila still has no idea where he is. So maybe you were right and he is on the lam.”

“How’s she taking that?”

“She was pretty soused but did sound a little scared. As in maybe this is more than just another of Jerry’s business trips. When she sobers up, it’ll be worse; lucidity can be a bitch. I also bopped over to Quick’s office. Closed, no sign of Angie Blue-Nails, mail’s piled up in front of the door, all junk solicitations.”

“Maybe his important mail goes somewhere else.”

“That would not shock me,” he said. “I phoned Angie’s apartment in North Hollywood. No answer. On the other fronts, Mr. Raymond Degussa works as a bouncer at a club in East Hollywood. Petra doesn’t know him, but she checked Hollywood files, and Degussa’s name came up on a patrol call. Hassle at the club, Degussa got into it with an unruly patron, patron called the cops, showed them a shiner, claimed Degussa threatened to kill him. But there were no witnesses, and the complainant was stoned and hostile and obnoxious, so no charge.”