He handed me a crumpled piece of paper that I smoothed. Ballistics report from the crime lab, stamped PRIORITY and initialed by Detective L. L. Ogden. Comparisons between the .22 used to kill Gavin and the blonde and the gun that had terminated Flora’s life. A tech named Nishiyama had signed off on the test.
Similar weapons, probably cheap, imported semiautomatics, but no match.
“With a cheapie,” I said, “you could use one, toss it, get another.”
“Anything’s possible, but a match would’ve been a helluva lot nicer. Now I’ve pissed off a colleague and gotten no closer to a solve.”
“She’s a D-II, you’re a lieutenant. I thought the lines of authority were clearer.”
“In title only. My lack of administrative duties cuts both ways, everyone knows I’ve got no juice.” He rifled though his messages. “Looks like no luck yet on the blonde . . .” His eyes shifted to his Timex. “Koppel’s on the air.”
He switched on his desk radio and tuned in the talk station. Another host, same level of derision. A rant about racial profiling; this guy hated it.
Milo said, “Sure, let’s inspect Grandma’s shoes at the airport while Mr. Hamas waltzes through.”
The host said, “Okay, folks, this is Tom Curlie at the top of the hour, and we’ve got a hot guest coming any minute. Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, noted psychiatrist, and anyone who listens to the show knows she’s been on before and knows she’s smart . . . and anyone who doesn’t listen, who the hell needs you heh-heh . . . today we’ll be talking about . . . what’s that . . . my engineer, the ever-charismatic Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel is running late . . . better do something about the punctuality, Doc. Maybe see a psychiatrist heh-heh-heh . . . meanwhile let’s talk about car insurance. Have you ever been rear-ended by one of those lunatics who seem to be everywhere like invaders from outer space? You know what I’m talking about: space-outs, cell-phone freaks, and just plain lousy dri-vers. Has one of them bendered your fender? Or worse? Then you know the value of good insurance, and Low-Ball Insurance is the best value around . . .”
Milo said, “Koppel’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“Why let facts get in the way?”
Tom Curlie finished his spiel and segued to a prerecorded commercial for do-it-yourself legal forms. Then a woman with a sultry voice reported on the weather and freeway traffic.
Another commercial came on—Tom Curlie rhapsodizing about something called a Divine Mochalicious that could be had at any branch of CafeCafe, then he said, “The enigmatic yet pedestrian Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, our psychiatric guest, has still not arrived at the studio and that said headshrinker cannot be reached on her cell phone. Tsk, tsk, Mary Lou. You are now officially off the privileged roster that makes up guests on the Tom Curlie show because Tom Curlie stands for punctuality and personal responsibility and all the other virtues that have made this country great. Even though this country, in a lapse of judgment, elected a president who don’t talk good . . . okay, who needs her, folks? Let’s talk about psychiatrists and why they’re so doggone nuts themselves. I mean, is that just my imagination, or are they all just a little bit off? So what’s that all about, gang? Someone becoming a headshrinker because her own head’s too doggone big for her own good? Or is it a matter of a rotten childhood heh-heh-heh? How do you guys feel about that, c’mon, call and let me know at 1 888 TOM CURLIE. Here we go, those lines are lighting up and my first call is Fred from Downey. Hey, Fred. Had your head shrunk lately?”
“Hey, Tom. First of all I wanna tell you that I listen to you every day, and that you’re really coo—”
“Excellent judgment, Fred, but what about those psychiatrists—those head docs, those voodoo incantators, those shrinks? Think they’re rowing with one paddle, blinking with one eye, suffering from brain freeze, dancing with shadows in the hall of mirrors? Is that what it boils down to, Fred? They become shrinks because they need to get shrunk?”
“Well, Tom, as a matter of fact, Tom, I know about those people. It was just about twelve years ago that I was sitting out under the stars minding my own business and they abducted me and implanted these electrodes in my—”
Milo flicked off the radio.
“Civilization and its discontents,” I said.
“Malcontents is more like it. Maybe Lorraine’s right, and I should keep focused on Gavin. I’m gonna call the kids who were in the crash with him, see what that dredges up. Also, see if I can have a go with the girlfriend—Kayla Bartell—without her old man hovering.”
“Still planning to reinterview Koppel?”
“That, too.” He settled in his chair. “She’s obviously not in her office, or that idiot could’ve contacted her. Let me make some calls first, then how about we drop by in two hours? Or later, if that cramps your style.”
“Two’s fine. Want me to try to talk to Kayla?”
“If you saw her on the street, I’d say fine,” he said. “But what with it being B.H. and the father so uptight, we’d better stick to protocol.”
“Visits limited to an official police presence.”
“Such as it is.”
*
I drove home listening to Tom Curlie. Mary Lou Koppel never showed up, and Curlie didn’t mention her again. He alternated between commercials and call-ins from sad, angry listeners, then brought on his next guest—a personal injury lawyer who specialized in suing fast-food chains for racial discrimination and brewing their coffee too hot.
Curlie said, “I don’t know about all that, Bill, but as far as I’m concerned, you can jail ’em for just plain lousy food.”
*
Instead of heading home, I continued on to Beverly Hills and drove past the Quick house. The same white minivan occupied the driveway, but the baby Benz was gone. The drapes were closed, and the day’s mail had collected on the front step. A gardener pruned a hedge. An anorexic woman walked by with a black Chow on leash. The dog looked drugged. A block and a half up, traffic zipped by on Wilshire. A family had been torn apart, but the world kept spinning.
I turned the Seville around, aimed it north through the business district, entered the Flats, cruised by the Bartell mansion. In daylight, the house was even more outsized, square and white as a fresh bar of soap. The fencing looked like a prison barrier. The four-car garage doors were closed but a red Jeep Grand Cherokee idled just inside the electric gates.
I parked and watched from across the street as the gates opened and Kayla Bartell sped through. She was on her cell phone and turned right without checking for cross traffic and sped toward Santa Monica Boulevard. She talked nonstop, animatedly, on a cell phone, with no idea I was following as she rolled through the stop sign at Elevado and ran the one at Carmelita. Without signaling, she hung a risky left turn on Santa Monica and continued east, one hand still grasping the phone. The other steered, and sometimes she removed it to gesticulate and swerved into other lanes. For the most part, motorists kept their distance from her, until another young woman in a Porsche Boxster honked and flipped her off.
Kayla ignored her, kept gabbing, weaved her way to Canon Drive, drove south, and parked in the service alley behind the Umberto hair salon. A valet held open the driver’s door, and Kayla sprang out wearing a lacy black midriff top, black leather pants, and high-heeled boots. On her head was a silver lamé baseball cap. Her blond ponytail protruded through the adjusting band.
No tip for the valet, just a smile. Someone had told her that was enough.
She entered the salon with a bounce in her step.
*
“Two-hundred-dollar haircut,” said Milo. “Ah, youth.”
We were in the Seville, and I was driving east on Olympic, toward Mary Lou Koppel’s office.
I said, “You reach the boys who were in the accident?”
“Both of them, and they back up what the Quicks told us. Gavin was in the back, sandwiched between them. When the car hit the mountain, they were belted and got jostled fro
m side to side. But the impact squeezed Gavin forward, and he hit his head on the driver’s seat. He shot out like a banana out of a peel, one described it. Both said Gavin was a good guy but that he’d changed big-time. Stopped being social, withdrew from them. I asked if he’d slowed down mentally, and they hesitated. Not wanting to put him down. When I persisted they admitted he’d dulled. Just wasn’t the same guy.”
“Anything about obsessive behavior?”
“No, but they hadn’t seen him for a while. They were pretty shook-up about his being murdered. Neither had any clue who’d want to hurt him, and they didn’t know about any blonde he’d dated other than Kayla. Who one of them called ‘a spoiled little witch.’ ”
“The anonymous blonde,” I said.
“I called the TV stations,” he said, “asked if they’d run the death shot. They said no, too scary, but if I got an artist’s rendition that toned it down, they might. If airtime permitted. I sent a copy of the photo to one of our sketchers, we’ll see. Maybe the papers would run the actual photo. Grant the poor kid her fifteen seconds of fame.”
“Too scary,” I said. “Are they watching the same tube I am?”
He laughed. “The media talk about public service, but they’re out to sell commercial time. Alex, it was like pitching a story to some showbiz asshole. What’s in it for memememe—okay, here we are, why don’t you circle around to the back, see if Mary Lou’s Mercedes is there?”
*
It wasn’t, but we parked anyway and went into the building.
The door to the Pacifica-West Psychological Services suite was unlocked. This time, the waiting room wasn’t empty. A tall woman in her forties paced and wrung her hands. She wore a gray leotard set, white athletic socks, pink Nikes, had long legs, a tiny upper body, short, black, feathered hair combed forward. Her eyes were blue and sunken and pouched and too bright, her face was glossy and raw, the color of canned salmon. Skin flaked around her hairline and ears; recent skin-peel. Her expression said she was used to being mistreated but was learning to resent it. She ignored us and continued pacing.
All three call buttons were red.
Drs. Gull, Koppel, and Larsen healing souls.
Milo said, “I wonder when her session ends.”
The black-haired woman kept walking, and said, “If you’re talking about Dr. K, take a number. My appointment was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.” She crossed the office twice, picked at her scalp, stopped to investigate the magazines on a table. Selecting Modern Health, she leafed through the issue, kept it folded at her side as she paced some more. “Twenty-three minutes. She’d better have an emergency.”
Milo said, “She’s usually pretty punctual.”
The woman stopped and turned. Her face was stretched tight yet drawn. Fear scalded her eyes, as if she’d stared at an eclipse. “You’re not patients.”
“We’re not?” said Milo, keeping his voice light.
“No, no, no, no. You look like—why are you here?”
He shrugged, unbuttoned his jacket. “We’re just waiting to talk to Dr. Koppel, ma’a—”
“Well, you can’t!” the woman shouted. “I’m next! I need to see her!”
Milo glanced at me. Begging for help.
“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s your time. We’ll leave, come back later.”
“No!” she said. “I mean . . . you don’t have to, I don’t own this place, I’m not entitled to assert myself at that level.” She blinked back tears. “I just want to have my time. My own time, that’s not overly narcissistic, is it?”
“Not at all.”
“My ex-husband claims I’m an incurable narcissist.”
“Exes,” I said.
She stared at me, probing for sincerity. I must have passed because she smiled. Said, “It’s okay for you to sit down.”
We did.
*
The waiting room remained silent for another fifteen minutes. For the first five, the woman read her magazine. Then she introduced herself as Bridget. Returned her eyes to the pages, but her heart wasn’t in it. A pulse throbbed in her temple, conspicuous enough for me to see from across the room. Racing. Her hands clasped and unclasped, and her head bobbed from the magazine to the red buttons. Finally, she said, “I don’t understand!”
I said, “Let’s call her. Her service will pick up, and maybe they can tell us if she’s got an emergency.”
“Yes,” said Bridget. “Yes, that’s a good plan.”
Milo whipped out his phone, Bridget rattled off the number, and he punched it. What a team.
He said, “Dr. Koppel, please . . . Mr. Sturgis, she knows me . . . what’s that? You’re sure? ’Cause I’m right here in her waiting room, and her session light’s on . . .”
He clicked off.
Bridget said, “What, what?”
“Her service says she didn’t check in this morning the way she usually does, and they have no idea where she is. She had two early patients before her radio interview, missed them, too.”
Bridget cried out: “Damn her! That’s fucking narcissistic!”
Snatching her purse, she raced to the door, swung it open, slammed it behind her. The silence she left behind was sour.
“I think,” said Milo, “that I prefer my job to yours.”
*
Five minutes later, he was pounding the door to the inner offices. A muffled man’s voice said what might have been, “Hold on!” and the door opened a crack. The eyes that looked out at us were pale brown and down-slanted behind octagonal bifocals. Analytic. Not amused.
“What’s going on?” Well-modulated voice, tinged by a Nordic inflection. What I could see of his face was smooth and ruddy, the chin melting into soft flesh. A chin coated by a clipped, gray-blond goatee. Centering the beard was a prim, narrow mouth.
“Police,” said Milo. “We’re looking for Dr. Koppel.”
“Police? So you pound the door?” Calm voice—almost amused, despite the irritation.
“You’re—”
“Dr. Larsen. I’m in the midst of seeing a patient and would prefer that you leave. Why are you looking for Mary Lou?”
“I’d rather not discuss that, sir.”
Albin Larsen blinked. “Suit yourself.” He began to close the door. Milo caught it.
“Officer—”
“Her session light is on,” said Milo, “but she’s not in.”
The door opened wider, and Larsen stepped out. He was five-ten, in his midfifties, upholstered by an extra fifteen pounds, wore his whitening hair in a longish crew cut. A green, hand-crocheted, sleeveless vest sheathed a pale blue button-down shirt. His khakis were pressed and pleated, his bubble-topped brown shoes polished glossy.
He took a long moment to look us over. “Not in? How would you know that?”
Milo recounted his conversation with the service operator.
“Ah,” said Larsen. He smiled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Dr. Koppel could have been called in to the office because of a patient crisis and simply neglected to check with her service.”
“A crisis here in the office?”
“Our profession is rife with crisis.”
“Frequently?”
“Frequently enough,” said Larsen. “Now I suggest that the best way for us to deal with this situation is for you to leave your card, and I’ll make sure—”
“Have you seen her today, Doctor?”
“I wouldn’t have. I’ve been booked clear through since 8 A.M. So is Franco—Dr. Gull. We all have very full schedules and try to stagger our patients in order to avoid a logjam in the waiting room.” Larsen tugged at his shirtsleeve, exposed a pink-gold vintage Rolex. “In fact, my next appointment is in ten minutes, and I’ve left a patient waiting in my office, which is grossly unfair and unprofessional. So kindly leave your card, and—”
Milo said, “Why don’t we check to see if Dr. Koppel’s in her office?”
Albin Larsen began to fold his arms over his chest but stopped himself
. “That would be inappropriate.”
“Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait right here, Dr. Larsen.”
Larsen’s prim mouth got even smaller. “I believe that if you pause to reflect, sir, you’ll find you are being heavy-handed.”
“No doubt,” said Milo. He sat down and picked up the copy of Modern Health discarded by the face-peeled woman.
Larsen turned to me, as if hoping for reason. I looked at the carpet.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll go check.”
He stepped back into the inner hallway and shut the door. Seconds later, he returned, expressionless.
“She’s not there. I don’t understand it, however I’m sure there’s an explanation. Now, really, I must return to my patient. If you insist on staying here, please don’t create a commotion.”
CHAPTER
15
“Now that,” said Milo, as we left the building, “is what I call a shrink. Unflappable, soft-spoken, analyzing everything.”
“I don’t qualify?”
“You, my friend, are an aberration.”
“Too flappable?”
“Too damn human. Let’s check out Dr. K’s residence. Have time?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s see how the real shrinks live.”
*
Motor vehicle records put Mary Lou Koppel’s address on McConnell Drive, in Cheviot Hills.
I drove west, past Century City and south to Pico, continued half a mile past Rancho Park and the radar gun of a stone-faced motorcycle cop. Milo waved at the officer, but he didn’t return the gesture. McConnell was a lovely street, hilly and winding and, unlike the horticulturally regimented arteries of Beverly Hills, graced by an adventurous mix of street trees.
Koppel’s house was a two-story brick Tudor set high on a knoll above thirty stone steps. The steep driveway would have been a challenge for a car with a puny engine. No sign of the Mercedes, but the garage door was closed.
Milo said, “Maybe she was more scared of two murders in her practice than she let on and decided to take a little vacation.”
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 11