Alex 18 - Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

  “Not killing Gavin Quick.” Conniff relaxed his posture.

  “In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

  “How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Conniff tightened his black belt and widened the space between his feet. “I mourn Gavin Quick in the sense that I mourn the loss of any human life, but I’m not going to tell you I cared for him. He put Beth through incredible misery. But Beth insisted on dealing with it in her own way, and she was right. The stalking stopped. I had no reason to want to hurt him.”

  “Her own way,” said Milo.

  “Avoiding him,” said Conniff. “Going through the legal system. I wanted to confront Gavin—on a verbal level. I thought a man-to-man talk might convince him. Beth said no, and I respected her wishes.”

  “Man-to-man.”

  Conniff rubbed his palms along the sides of his tunic. His hands were small and callused. “Yes, I can get protective. I love Beth. But I didn’t hurt Gavin Quick. I’d have no reason to.”

  “Where were you Monday?”

  “With Beth. We stayed in. Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust Beth. She’s all about forgiveness, operates at a high level, spiritually.”

  “What’d you have for dinner?” said Milo.

  “Who remembers . . . let’s see, Monday, so it was probably leftovers. Sunday we barbecued steaks and had a lot of leftovers . . . yeah, definitely, leftover steak. I cut it up and sautéed it with peppers and onions, did a stir-fry. Beth cooked up some rice. Yeah, for sure. We stayed in.”

  “Ever been in psychotherapy, Mr. Conniff?”

  “Why is that your business?”

  “Covering bases,” said Milo.

  “Well, I find the question kind of intrusive.”

  “Sorry, sir, but—”

  “I’ll answer it anyway,” said Conniff. “My entire family went into therapy after Bradley died. We all saw a wonderful man named the Reverend Dr. Bill Kehoe, and I talked to him by myself a few times, as well. He was the pastor of our church and a fully qualified clinical psychologist. He saved us from despair. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “That’s the only time you had therapy,” said Milo.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. It took a while—a long while—to stop feeling guilty about Bradley’s dying and my surviving, but I got there. Life’s darned good, nowadays.”

  Milo reached into his pocket and brought out the death shot of the blonde. “Ever see this girl?”

  Conniff studied the picture. “Nope. But I know the look. Pure dead. That’s the look that flavored my childhood. Who is she?”

  “Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”

  “Sad,” said Conniff. “There are always sad things in this world. The key is to push past all that and lead a spiritual life.”

  *

  Back in the car, Milo ran Conniff’s name through the data banks. Two parking tickets.

  “No con, but he’s a strange one, no?”

  “Tightly wound,” I said.

  “The type to clean up carefully.”

  “He says he was with Beth.”

  “I’ll ask Beth,” he said.

  “Her say-so will be enough?”

  “Like he said, she operates at a high level.”

  *

  A call from the car produced the same story from Beth Gallegos.

  Steak stir-fry.

  We returned to the station where Milo found a faxed artist’s rendering of the dead girl and a message to call Community Relations.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Michelangelo’s rolling in his crypt.”

  The drawing was sketchy, lacking in character, useless. He crumpled and tossed it, phoned CR downtown, listened, hung up, grinding his teeth.

  “This city, everything’s a goddamn audition. They talked to the papers, and the papers aren’t interested. Maybe it’s even true.”

  “I can call Ned Biondi. He retired from the Times a few years ago, but he’d know who to talk to.”

  “Now that the PR idiots have given me an official ‘no,’ I can’t just go off and hot-dog. But maybe in a few days, if we still can’t ID her.” He peered at the Timex, muttered, “How’s your time and your intestinal fortitude?”

  “A visit to the Quicks?” I said. “Sure.”

  “You do tarot readings too?”

  CHAPTER

  19

  “That girl,” said Sheila Quick. “She was hired to help Gavin, so instead she goes and gets him into trouble.”

  Her living room looked the same, but drawn drapes turned it funereal, and the space had gone stale. The cigarette box from which Jerome Quick had lifted his smokes was empty. Sheila Quick wore a black cotton robe with a zipper up the front. Her ash hair was turbaned by a black silk scarf. Her face was tight and white and old, and she wore pink mules. Above the slippers, her feet were knobby and blue-veined.

  She said, “Unbelievable.”

  Milo said, “What is, ma’am?”

  “What she did to him.”

  “You see Gavin’s arrest as Beth Gallegos’s fault.”

  “Of course I do! Do you know how Gav met her? She was a therapist at Saint John’s, was supposed to be helping Gav get back his dexterity. She knew what he’d been through! She should’ve been more understanding!”

  Milo and I said nothing.

  “Listen,” said Sheila Quick, “if she was so concerned about her safety, why’d she take so long to complain? And then what does she do? Goes straight for the police, dials 911 like it’s some big-deal emergency when all Gav did was knock on her door—I know she said he pounded but no one else heard any pounding and Gav told me he just knocked and I believe my son!”

  “You don’t think she should’ve called 911.”

  “I think if she was so convinced there was a problem, she had ample opportunity to come to us. Why didn’t she? All she had to do was call and let us know she thought Gavin was a little . . . eager. We’d have talked to him. Why’d she let this alleged problem linger if it was so bad? You’re professionals. Does that make sense to you?”

  Milo said, “She never got in touch with you beforehand.”

  “Never, not once. See what I mean?”

  Milo nodded.

  “And then all of a sudden Gav’s arrested and we have to hire a lawyer and go through all that rigamarole.” Her smile was sickly. “Of course, in the end they dismissed it. Obviously, it was nothing.”

  Gavin had pled to a misdemeanor and been sentenced to therapy.

  Sheila Quick said, “Lieutenant, I certainly hope you don’t think what happened to my Gav was related to anything he did. Or anyone he knew.”

  “It couldn’t be anyone he knew?”

  “Of course not, we know only nice people. And Gavin . . .” She began to cry. “Gavin, after the accident, he didn’t have anyone in his life except his father and me and his sister.”

  “No friends,” I said.

  “That’s the point!” she said, pleased, as if she’d solved a difficult puzzle. “It was no one he knew because he really didn’t know anyone. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Lieutenant, and I’m certain my baby just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “A stranger,” said Milo.

  “Look at September 11. Did any of those people know the pigs who killed them? It’s exactly like that—evil’s out there and sometimes it bites you and now the Quick family’s been bitten.”

  She sprang up, raced to the kitchen, came back with a plate of Oreos.

  “Eat,” she ordered.

  Milo took a cookie and finished it in two bites, passed the plate to me. I placed it on a side table.

  “So tell me,” said Sheila Quick. “What progress have you made?”

  Milo brushed crumbs from his trousers to his hand, searched for somewhere to put them.

  “Just drop it all on the rug, Lieutenant. I clean every day. Sometimes twice a day. What
else is there to do around here? Jerry’s already back at work, doing his businessman thing. I envy that about him.”

  “Being able to concentrate?” I said.

  “Being able to cut himself off. It’s a male thing, right? You men cut yourselves off and go out and hunt and prowl and make deals and do whatever it is you think you’re supposed to do, and we women are stuck waiting for you as if you’re some kind of conquering heroes.”

  “Mrs. Quick,” said Milo, “you’re not going to like this question, but I have to ask it anyway. Did Gavin ever run into any problems with women other than Beth Gallegos?”

  Sheila Quick’s hands closed into fists. “No, and the very fact you’re suggesting it—I tell you that’s just so . . . distorted—shortsighted.” She ripped the scarf-turban from her head and began kneading the fabric. Her hair was elaborately pinned, compressed tightly to her skull. White roots showed through the blond.

  Milo said, “I’m sorry, but I need to—”

  “You need to, you need to—what you need to do is find the madman who killed my son.”

  “The young lady he was with, ma’am. We still haven’t been able to identify her.”

  Sheila got up and snatched the plate of cookies from where I’d placed them. She returned to the kitchen, swung the door closed, stayed in there.

  “As predicted,” said Milo, “a pretty scene. I know she’s gone through hell but ten to one she was a harpy before.”

  Minutes passed.

  He said, “I’d better go in there and finish up with her. Be kind to yourself and stay here.”

  Just as he rose, the kitchen door swung open, and Sheila Quick stomped through. She’d unpinned and brushed her hair but applied no makeup. Milo sat back down. She stopped directly in front of us, placed her hands on her hips.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “The girl Gavin was wi—”

  “Don’t know her, never seen her, can’t change that. No one in the family knows her, including my daughter.”

  “You asked Kelly.”

  “I called and asked her if Gavin was dating anyone, and she said she hadn’t heard that.”

  “Were the two of them close?”

  “Of course. Kelly’s my bright one, she knows her way around.”

  I said, “Any plans for her to come back?”

  “No. Why should she? She’s got a life. Even though I don’t.”

  She stared at me. “Gavin was a good human being. A handsome human being, of course girls liked him. Which is why that Gallegos woman is so off base. Gavin didn’t need to chase some little . . . nurse type.”

  “When did he and Kayla Bartell stop dating?”

  “Don’t know,” she snapped. “Why don’t you ask her? The . . . she hasn’t even been by to see me. Not once. Not a condolence note.” A pink mule tapped the carpet. “Are we finished?”

  Milo said, “You’ve heard about Dr. Koppel.”

  “She got murdered,” said Sheila Quick. “I read about it yesterday.”

  Matter-of-fact, no emotion.

  “Any thoughts about that, Mrs. Quick?”

  “It’s terrible,” she said. “Everyone’s getting murdered. What a city—I’m thirsty. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thanks, ma’am. Let me toss a few names at you. Please tell me if any of them are familiar. Anson Conniff.”

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “Flora Newsome?”

  “No.”

  “Brian Van Dyne, Roy Nichols?”

  “No, no, no. Who are these people?”

  “Not important,” said Milo. “Nothing you need to worry about. Thanks for your time.”

  “Time,” said Sheila Quick. “I’ve got too much of that.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Sheila Quick turned her back on us, and we saw ourselves out.

  Just before we reached the car, Milo’s cell phone beeped. He took the call, big hand concealing the little blue gizmo. “Sturgis . . . oh, hi. As a matter of fact, yes we are . . . right here, at the house . . . yes . . . that so? . . . where’s that? When? Sure, that would be fine. Thank you, ma’am, see you soon.”

  He snapped the phone shut. “That was Eileen Paxton, Sheila’s ‘baby sister.’ She’s in Beverly Hills for a meeting, was planning to visit sis, drove by, saw us go in, and decided to wait until we were finished. She’d like to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “ ‘Family issues’ is how she put it. She’s a few blocks away, on Bedford, some Italian place, corner of Brighton.”

  “Time for tiramisu,” I said.

  He touched his gut and grimaced. “Even I have limits.”

  “How disillusioning.”

  *

  The Italian place was named Pagano and it featured three wobbly outdoor tables that blocked most of its share of the sidewalk. Eileen Paxton sat at one of them, wearing a slim-cut black pantsuit and backless high-heeled sandals and sipping a café latte. She saw us, smiled, wiggled a pinkie. Her hair was trimmed shorter than a few days ago, tinted a couple of shades lighter, and her makeup was more intense. She wore diamond stud earrings and a jade necklace, looked as if she was celebrating something.

  She said, “I’m so glad we could get together.”

  Passersby brushed us. Milo edged closer to her, and said, “Here or inside?”

  “Oh, here. I like the rhythm of the city.”

  This particular city was barely a village, a precious display of conspicuous wealth. The rhythm was set by power-walking pedestrians and oversized engines belching toxins. Milo and I sat down and ordered espresso from an overly moussed waiter with drugged eyes. Eileen Paxton looked content, as if this was a quiet, restful place for al fresco dining.

  She said, “How did my sister seem to you?”

  Milo punted to me.

  I said, “She looked a bit depressed.”

  “What you need to know is that’s not all because of what happened to Gavin. Sheila’s got long-standing psychological problems.”

  “Long-standing depression?”

  “Depression, anxiety, difficulty coping, you name it. She’s always been moody and high-strung. I’m the baby, but I always took care of her. When she married Jerry, I had my concerns.”

  “About the marriage?”

  “About Sheila being able to handle marriage,” she said. She turned her head quickly, flashed teeth at Drug-eyes. “Gio, could I have some of those lovely little pistachio biscotti? Thank you, you’re a true dear.” Back to us: “To Sheila’s credit, she worked at her marriage and seemed to do okay. Even though Jerry’s no prize.”

  “He’s got problems, too?”

  Her squint was furious. “Jerry’s sexually predatory. Hits on anything with a vagina and, for all I know, anything with anything else. He hit on me. I’ve never told Sheila, it would’ve destroyed her and the marriage, and I didn’t want that on my conscience.”

  But you’re telling us.

  I said, “When did this happen?”

  “A month after they were married. Barely back from their honeymoon. I was also married, and the four of us spent a weekend in Arrowhead—my first husband’s family owned a place on the lake, great place with a double dock. Everything was rolling along nicely until one day Sheila went down for a nap—she runs out of steam easily—and my then-hubby had to go to town on business—he was an investment banker. That left just Jerry and me. I went down to sun on the dock in my bikini, and a few minutes later, Jerry came by. We weren’t alone ten minutes before he made his move. And I’m not talking subtle. Hand down the bikini bottom.” She clawed her hand, made a swooping motion. “He does not have a gentle touch.”

  The plate of hard cookies arrived along with our espressos. Eileen Paxton patted the waiter’s hand, selected a crescent, broke it in half, nibbled the tip.

  “What did you do?” I said.

  “I yanked Jerry’s goddamn hand out of there, told him what I’d do to his balls if he ever tried that again. He’
s despised me ever since, and the feeling’s mutual. Not just because of that. Because of what he does to my sister.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s cheated on her consistently throughout the marriage.”

  I didn’t answer.

  She said, “Trust me, I know the bum. All those business trips, doing God knows what. The looks he gives me when we’re alone. Gives other women—the girls he hires as secretaries.”

  “What about them?”

  “Sluts. They’re supposed to be doing secretarial work, but don’t look as if they know how to type. He goes off doing his thing, doing God knows what, and Sheila basically lives alone. She has no friends, no social network. Which is the way it was when we were growing up. I always had a huge social circle. Sheila had trouble relating.”

  I said, “Doing God knows what. Sheila said he was a metals dealer.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Paxton said airily. She chewed on a biscotti.

  “You have doubts?”

  “He must do something, the bills get paid. Yes, he travels around trading aluminum, whatever. But when my husband—my new one—tried to talk to him about investing, Jerry wasn’t interested. And Ted’s a fabulous broker, someone who could help Jerry. My sense is Jerry isn’t great at what he does, has to hustle just to keep his head above. He moves his office every few years, travels all the time.”

  “Hires sluts as secretaries.”

  She hesitated. “Maybe I was being a little harsh. I just know what he did to me on the dock that day. And the way his eyes rove.”

  I said, “You’re thinking this could be related to Gavin.”

  “I want you guys to have all the facts, and I know no one else will give them to you. The family’s screwed up, and Gavin was a weirdo. I know Sheila and Jerry are going to tell you he was just a regular kid before the accident, but that’s not the way it was. Gavin had problems.”

  “What kinds of problems?”

  Eileen Paxton rubbed the biscotti against her top teeth, as if caressing the enamel. Her tongue snaked out and tickled the pastry, then she took a hard bite and chewed slowly.

  “I wouldn’t be telling you this except I don’t want you misled.”