Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

Woman’s silhouette in the front passenger seat. I got out and approached the van, found Sheila Quick sitting stiffly, looking hypnotized, her window up.

She didn’t notice me and I was about to knock on her window when a young woman came out of the house hefting an oversized blue duffel.

When she saw me she froze.

Tall, slim, dark hair drawn back in a careless ponytail. Pleasant face, less plain than in the family photo. She wore a hooded blue sweatshirt over jeans and white sneakers. Down-slanted eyes, her father’s large jaw. His slightly stooped posture, too; it made her look weary. Maybe she was.

“Kelly?”

“Yes?”

“My name’s Alex Delaware. I work with the L.A. Police-”

“ With the police? What does that mean?”

First-year law student, trained to parse? Or she’d chosen the profession because it fit her nature?

I said, “I’m a psychologist who consults to LAPD. I’ve been involved in your brother’s-”

Hearing “psychologist” she turned her head toward her mother. She said, “I just got in to town, don’t know anything about that.”

A cheery voice behind me said, “Hi!”

Sheila Quick had rolled down her window and was waving and smiling. “Hello, again!”

Kelly Quick lifted her duffel, came forward, interposed herself between me and her mother.

“He’s with the police, Kell.”

“I know, Mom.” To me: “Excuse me, but we’re kind of in a hurry.”

“Getting away for a while?”

No answer.

“Where to, Kelly?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Aunt Eileen’s?”

“I’d rather not say.” Kelly Quick edged past me, to the rear of the van, lifted the hatch, and loaded her duffel. Two large suitcases were already there.

Sheila Quick said, “Still no sign of Jerry! For all I know, he’s dead!”

Still cheerful.

“Mom!”

“No need to be dishonest, Kelly. I’ve had enough dishonesty to last me-”

“ Mo -ther! Please! ”

Sheila said, “At least you said ‘please.’ ” To me: “I raised them to be polite.”

I said, “Where you heading?”

Kelly Quick got between us, again. “We’re in a hurry.” Her mouth twisted. “Please.”

Sheila Quick said, “This one is smart, nothing wrong with her brain. She was always a great student. Gavin had the charm and the looks, but Kelly had the grades.”

Kelly Quick’s eyes misted.

I said, “Could we talk, Kelly? Just for a moment?”

Fluttering eyelashes, cock of hip. A hint of the adolescence she’d barely left.

“Fine, but just for a moment.”

We walked a few yards past the van. Sheila Quick called out, “Where are you two going?”

“Just one sec, Mom.” To me: “What?”

“If you’re heading to your aunt Eileen’s, that’ll be easy enough to find out.”

“We’re not- we can go anywhere we want.”

“Of course you can, I’m not here to stop you.”

“Then what?”

“Have you heard from your father?”

No answer.

“Kelly, if he’s gotten in touch and given you instructions-”

“He hasn’t. Okay?”

“I’m sure he instructed you not to talk. I’m sure you think you’re helping him out by obeying.”

“I don’t obey anyone,” she said. “I think independently. We need to get going.”

“You can’t say where?”

“It’s not important- it really isn’t. My brother was murdered, and my mom… she’s having problems. I need to take care of her, it’s as simple as that.”

“What about your dad?”

She looked at the sidewalk.

“Kelly, he could be in serious trouble. The people he’s dealing with shouldn’t be underestimated.”

She raised her eyes but stared past me.

“No one knows better than you about your mother’s vulnerability. How long do you think you can take care of her?”

Her head snapped back toward me. “You think you know.”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Please,” she said, “don’t make matters worse.”

Tears blurred her eyes. Old eyes in a young face.

I stepped aside, and she returned to the van, got in the driver’s seat, locked the door. As she started up the engine, Sheila prattled and gesticulated.

Festive mood. Kelly was grim, hand planted on the wheel. Not going anywhere until I did. I pulled away from the curb.

When I reached the corner, I looked back in my rearview mirror and the van was still there.

Milo was out, so I asked for Detective Sean Binchy.

He said, “So you think Mr. Quick phoned his daughter?”

“That would be my guess.”

“So she probably knows where he is. Think I should put a BOLO on the van?”

“I’d check with Milo about that. When will he be back?”

“He didn’t say,” said Binchy. “Something about going over to the Marina for lunch. I think there was more to it, but that’s what he said. Usually he ends up explaining.”

An hour later, Milo showed up at my house and explained.

“Had a nice cool drink at Bobby J’s,” he said, rubbing his gut. “Found a waitress who recalls Flora and Degussa eating there several times. Brunch and dinner. She remembered them because she thought they were an odd couple.”

“The teacher and the thug.”

“She said Degussa flirted with her shamelessly, and Flora just sat there and took it. She also said Degussa ate funny- all hunched over his food, like someone was going to steal it.”

“Prison etiquette,” I said. “She ever see Flora with Van Dyne?”

“Nope. Either it wasn’t on her shift, or ol’ Brian didn’t make an impression. Extra kudos to you for the Marina lead. I found an address there for Bennett Hacker.”

“Thought he lived on Franklin.”

“As of seven months ago he’s got two addresses, apartment on Franklin, condo on Marina Way. Maybe his weekend getaway.”

“Guess what paid for it,” I said. “I wonder how much kickback he got from Sentries.”

“Total billing was over a million and a quarter during the sixteen-month period, so there’d be enough for everyone. Larsen and Mary could have shot him and Degussa a third and still ended up comfy.”

“Maybe that’s what they used Gull’s phony billings for.”

“That’s Zevonsky’s job to iron out. I’m concentrating on four homicides, meaning when Bennett Hacker leaves the parole office today, he gets tailed. I found a nice, unobtrusive car in the department pool, plan to be downtown in half an hour. Binchy’ll be in radio contact. Wanna come along, maybe take pictures if my hands aren’t free?”

I said, “Smile and say cheese.”

“Nice and unobtrusive” was a dark gray Volvo station wagon with black-tinted windows and an I LOVE L.A. bumper sticker. The interior smelled of tobacco and incense. On the passenger seat was a Polaroid camera and five film cartridges. I placed them on my lap.

“Hot wheels.”

“Confiscated from a drug dealer,” he said. “Peppier than it looks, he installed a turbocharger.”

“Drug dealers drive station wagons?”

“Life’s full of surprises,” he said. “This one was a junior at the U., selling ecstacy to his frat brothers. Daddy’s a surgeon, Mommy’s a judge. It used to be her car.”

As he drove toward downtown, I filled him in on my encounter with Kelly and Sheila Quick.

“The high-achieving kid,” he said. “Quick called her home to help out.”

“He knows he’s in trouble, and he wants his family out of the way. And he needs someone to take care of Sheila.”

“Another stash at Eileen Paxton’s house?”

“When I mentioned that, Kelly clammed up.”