Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“A girl hanging around with Angie in Mr. Quick’s front office.”

“That was the first time. Two, three months ago. The second time was more recent- six weeks ago. I saw the two of them- her and Angie- as they left the building together. It was lunchtime, I assumed they were going out to lunch.”

“Where’d they go to eat?”

“I didn’t follow them, Lieutenant. I was there to see Jerry.”

“About the rent.”

“Yes.” Koppel scratched behind his ear. “I’m getting the feeling that by trying to do what’s right I’m complicating my life.”

“In what way, sir?”

“Like I said, it must seem funny to you.” Koppel pushed the photo toward Milo. “Anyway, that’s all I know.”

Milo passed the shot from hand to hand, like a three-card monte artist. “Hanging around with Angie.”

“Talking. Like girls do.”

“Girls just wanna have fun,” said Milo.

“They didn’t seem to be having fun,” said Koppel. “What I mean is they weren’t laughing or giggling. In fact, the time I saw them leaving together I figured it for some sort of serious discussion because when they saw me they shut up fast.”

“Serious discussion on the way to lunch.”

“Maybe they weren’t going to eat. I’m assuming because it was lunchtime.”

“Did Angie call the other girl by name?”

“No.”

“What else can you tell me about her? Physically.”

“She wasn’t tall- average. Slim. She had a good figure. But she was a bit… she didn’t look like someone who’d grown up with money.”

“Nouveau riche?” said Milo.

“No,” said Koppel. “More… her clothes were nice but maybe a little too… obvious? Like she wanted to be noticed? Maybe she wore a bit too much makeup, I can’t really remember- I don’t want to tell you things that aren’t accurate.”

“A little flashy.”

Koppel shook his head. “That wasn’t it. I don’t want to be cruel… she looked… a little trashy. Like her hair. No hair is that blond naturally, unless you’re five years old, right?”

“Sounds like you had a good look at her.”

“I noticed her,” said Koppel. “She was pretty. And shapely. I’m a guy, you know how it is.”

Milo smiled faintly. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” Koppel picked up his fork. The eggs had hardened. He speared a big clot and shoved it into his mouth. The two guys with the screenplay got up from their table, looking vexed, and left the coffee shop in silence.

Milo said, “Last time we spoke, you mentioned your ex-wife wanting to use the bottom floor of her building for group therapy.”

“She was supposed to give me a final answer before she… before her death.”

“She give you any details about the nature of the therapy?”

“No,” said Koppel. “Why would she?”

“No particular reason,” said Milo. “Still gathering facts.”

“Have you made any progress at all?”

Milo shrugged.

Sonny Koppel said, “Whatever the group therapy thing was, it’s not going to happen. Albin Larsen called me yesterday, said it was okay to rent out the bottom floor. Mary was the glue that held them together. With her gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if Larsen and Gull tried to break their lease.”

“They don’t like the building?”

“I’m not sure they’ll be willing to take on the financial burden. Mary got a sweetheart rent deal from me. There’s no lease, it’s month to month.”

“You’re gonna raise it?”

“Hey,” said Koppel, “business is business.”

“You have a problem with them?”

“I had very little to do with them. Like I said, Mary held things together. Whenever there was some business to discuss- a repair, whatever- Mary was the one who’d call.” Koppel smiled. “I didn’t mind. It was a chance for us to talk. Now…”

He threw up his hands.

Milo said, “She was the business person, but it was Larsen who got her interested in halfway houses.”

“He struck me as an idea guy,” said Koppel. “But when it came to the nuts and bolts, it was all Mary.”

“Mary and you.”

“I had nothing to do with the day-to-day operations. I just know something about real estate.”

“Like getting government funding,” said Milo.

Koppel nodded. No blink, no tremble, not a single errant muscle.

“Did your ex-wife ever ask for help getting some sort of government funding for the group therapy she planned downstairs?”

“Why would she? What would I know about therapy?”

“You’re a savvy person.”

“In my limited sphere,” said Koppel. “I already told you, Mary never consulted me on professional matters.” He twirled his fork. “It’s getting to me. Mary’s death. Pretty stupid, huh? We hadn’t been together for years, how often did we talk, once a month, tops. But I find myself thinking about it. For someone you know to go like that.” He caressed his voluminous belly. “This is my second dinner. I do that- add meals- when things pile up.”

As if to illustrate, he ingested two bacon strips.

“Mary was a powerful person,” he said, between mouthfuls. “It’s a big loss.”

Milo waltzed around the prison rehab issue, but Koppel wasn’t biting. When Koppel called over to the counterman for a double order of rye toast and jelly and tea with honey, we left him opening marmalade packets and returned to the Seville.

Milo said, “So what’s his game?”

“Sounding you out. And letting you know he knew nothing about Mary Lou’s professional dealings.”

“Nudging us closer to the blonde.”

“Closer to Jerry Quick,” I said. “Deflecting attention from himself.”

“A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space- think they’re pulling up the tents?”

“Probably.”

“The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”

“One way to find out,” I said.

Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.

The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade- painted-over graffiti.

No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.

The twin gates meant two groups of mail slots. A. Paul’s button was on the north end of the building. Apt 43. No answer. No manager’s unit listed. Back to the southern gate.

Apt 1, no name, just Mgr .

It was 11:40 P.M. Milo jabbed the button.

I said, “Let’s hope for a night owl.”

“What’s a little sleep deprivation in the service of justice?”

A male voice said, “Yes?”

“Police.”

“Hold on.”

I said, “He doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the tenants are interesting.”

A buzzer sounded, and we pushed through the gate.

The fifty units were arranged in two tiers that looked down on a long, rectangular courtyard that should have held a pool. Instead there was sketchy grass and lawn chairs and a collapsed umbrella. A couple of utility doors on the ground floor were marked TO PARKING LOT. Three satellite dishes rimmed the flat roof. TV sounds washed across the courtyard. Then: music, a smudge of human voice, breaking glass.