Milo said, “His and his Benz’s.”
“They work together but drove here separately,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning let’s see.”
Larsen and Gull were unaware of our presence and we watched them for a few moments. They sat talking to each other, and eating. Not much conversation, no obvious emotion. Milo said, “Let’s go.”
When we were ten yards away both men noticed us and put down their plastic forks. Albin Larsen’s dress was consistent with what I’d seen the day Mary Lou Koppel had failed to show up at her office: another sweater-vest, this one brown, over a tan linen shirt and a green wool tie. Franco Gull’s black suit was finely woven crepe with narrow lapels. Under it he wore a collarless white silk shirt buttoned to the neck. Gold wedding ring, gold watch.
Gull was broad-shouldered and powerful-looking, with a thick neck, a boxer’s nose, and a big, rough face that managed to be handsome. His head sported a mass of wavy, iron-flecked black hair. His chin preceded the rest of him by a half inch. Tailored eyebrows arched behind gray-lensed sunglasses, and his skin was rosy.
A bit younger than Larsen—midforties. When Milo and I reached the table, he removed the shades and exposed big, dark eyes. Sad eyes, bottomed by smudgy pouches. They added a couple of years and the suggestion of thoughtfulness.
He was eating take-out Chinese out of the carton. Shrimp swimming in red sauce and fried rice and a side of dwarf spring rolls. Albin Larsen’s lunch was mixed green salad heaped in a Styrofoam bowl. Both men sipped canned iced tea.
Larsen said, “Good day,” and gave a formal little nod. Gull held out a hand. His fingers were enormous.
Both men were in the shade, but Gull’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Spicy shrimp?
Milo and I brushed dust and leaves from the picnic bench and sat down. Larsen resumed eating. Gull smiled with uncertainty.
“Thanks for taking the time, Doctors,” said Milo. “Must be tough around the office.”
Larsen looked up from his salad. Neither man answered.
“Dr. Koppel’s patients,” said Milo. “Having to explain to them.”
“Yes,” said Larsen. “The vulnerability.”
Gull said, “Fortunately, we’re not talking about a huge number. Unlike physicians, each of us handles only forty, fifty patients at any given time. Albin and I divided up the actives and contacted each one. We’re still working on former patients, but it’s tough finding them. Mary didn’t hold on to her files for longer than a year.”
His voice was smooth and soft, but talking seemed to take the wind out of him. He wiped his forehead. The sweat kept coming.
“Is that typical?” said Milo. “Destroying files?”
“It’s something each therapist decides independently.”
“What about you and Dr. Larsen?”
“I hold on to files for two years. What about you, Albin?”
Larsen said, “It depends, but generally that’s about right.”
“No official group policy,” said Milo.
“We’re not an official group,” said Larsen. “We share an office suite.”
“So what happens to Dr. Koppel’s active patients now? In terms of treatment?”
Franco Gull said, “Those who choose to continue with either Albin or me are free to do so. If they prefer a female therapist, we’re happy to refer them out.”
“Sounds pretty organized,” said Milo.
“We need to be. As Albin said, we’re dealing with extreme vulnerability. What could be worse for someone needy than to be cast adrift so abruptly?” Gull shook his head and his wavy hair shimmied. “It’s a nightmare for them and for us. Unbelievable.”
“Dr. Koppel’s murder.”
Gull’s sad eyes tightened. “Are we talking about anything else?”
Albin Larsen speared a tomato but didn’t eat it.
“It’s a major loss,” said Gull. “For her patients, for us, for . . . Mary was vibrant, brilliant, dynamic. She was someone I learned from, Detective. It’s hard to comprehend that she’s really gone.”
He glanced at Larsen.
Larsen toyed with a lettuce leaf, and said, “To be snuffed out like that.” He wiped his eyes. “We’ve lost a dear friend.”
Franco Gull said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”
Milo placed his elbows on the picnic table. “I know you gentlemen are bound by confidentiality, but a viable threat nullifies that. Are either of you aware of any patient ever making a threat against Dr. Koppel? Any patient who resented her deeply?”
“A patient?” said Gull. “Why would you even think that?”
“I’m thinking anything, Doctor. Covering all bases.”
“No,” said Gull. “There are no patients like that. Absolutely not.” He groped for a napkin, took another swipe at his brow.
Milo glanced at Albin Larsen. Larsen shook his head.
Milo said, “Dr. Koppel dealt with troubled people. It seems a logical place to start.”
“Logical in the abstract,” said Gull, “but it doesn’t apply to our practice. Mary didn’t treat sociopaths.”
“Who did she treat?” said Milo.
“People with everyday problems of adjustment,” said Gull. “Anxiety, depression, what used to be called neurosis. And basically sound individuals facing choice points.”
“Career guidance?”
“All kinds of guidance,” said Gull.
“You don’t call ’em neurotic anymore, huh?”
“We avoid labeling, Detective. Avoid stigma. Therapy’s not treatment in the way a medical procedure is—a doctor doing something to a passive patient. It’s contractual. We see ourselves as partners with our patients.”
“Doctor and patient working as a team.”
“Exactly.”
“Problems of adjustment,” said Milo. “You’re absolutely certain there were no dangerous people in Dr. Koppel’s practice.”
Albin Larsen said, “Mary would not have enjoyed working with violent individuals.”
“And she did only what she enjoyed?”
“Mary was busy. She could choose her patients.”
“Why wouldn’t she enjoy working with violent people, Dr. Larsen?”
“Mary was committed to nonviolence.”
“We all are, Doctor, but that doesn’t mean we’re insulated from the uglier aspects of life.”
Larsen said, “Dr. Koppel was able to insulate herself.”
Milo said, “Really?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard radio tapes where Dr. Koppel talked about prison reform.”
“Ah,” said Larsen. “I’m afraid that was my influence. Was I on the tapes, as well?”
“Don’t think so, Doctor.”
Larsen’s mouth got tiny. “It was a topic I got Mary interested in. Not in a clinical sense. She was a socially aware individual, had a human as well as an academic interest in the larger social issues. But when it came to her practice, she concentrated on the everyday problems of everyday people. Women, mostly. And doesn’t that say something about the likelihood of her murderer being a patient?”
“Why’s that, Dr. Larsen?”
“Criminal violence is usually male-generated.”
“You’ve got an interest in criminal psychology?” said Milo.
“Only as part of the social rubric,” said Larsen.
Franco Gull said, “Albin’s being modest. He’s done terrific things as a human rights advocate.”
“From that to private practice,” I said.
Larsen glanced at me. “One does what one can in a given time.”
Milo said, “Human rights doesn’t pay the bills.”
Larsen turned to him. “I’m sorry to say, you’re correct, Detective.”
“So,” said Milo, “no psychopaths on Dr. Koppel’s patient roster.”
A statement, not a question, and neither psychologist responded. Albin Larsen ate a shred of lettuce. Franco Gull examined hi
s gold watch.
Milo whipped out the picture of the blond girl. “Either of you gentlemen recognize her?”
Larsen and Gull examined the death shot. Both shook their heads.
Gull licked his lips. Sweat beaded atop his nose, and he wiped it away with irritation. “Who is she?”
“Was,” said Larsen. “She’s clearly deceased.” To Milo: “Is this related in some way to Mary’s murder?”
“Don’t know, yet, Doctor.”
“Did Mary know this girl?” said Gull.
“Don’t know that either, Doctor. So neither of you have seen her around the office.”
Gull said, “Never.”
Larsen shook his head. Tugged at a button of his sweater-vest. “Detective, is there something we need to know about? In terms of our own safety?”
“Are you worried about your safety?”
“You’ve just showed us a picture of a dead girl. I assume you feel her death is related to Mary’s. What’s really going on here?”
Milo put the photo back in his pocket. “All I can advise you is to exercise normal caution. Should either of you come up with a threatening patient—or anyone else from Dr. Koppel’s life who seems suspicious—you’d do best to let me know.”
He crossed his legs, looked over at the frolicking children. An ice-cream truck cruised through the alley and rang its bell. Some of the kids began pointing and jumping.
Franco Gull said, “Is there anything else? I’ve got a totally booked afternoon.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Milo. “About the structure of your partnership with Dr. Koppel.”
“Albin told you, it’s not a formal partnership,” said Gull. “We share office space.”
“A purely financial arrangement?”
“Well,” said Gull, “I wouldn’t reduce it to just that. Mary was our dear friend.”
“What happens, now that Dr. Koppel’s dead, in terms of the lease?”
Gull stared at him.
Milo said, “I need to ask.”
“Albin and I haven’t talked about that, Detective. It’s all we can do to take care of Mary’s patients.” He looked at Larsen.
Larsen said, “I’d be in favor of you and I picking up Mary’s share of the rent, Franco.”
“Sure,” said Gull. To us: “It’s no big deal. The rent’s reasonable, and Mary’s share was smaller than ours.”
“Why’s that?” said Milo.
“Because,” said Gull, “she found the building for us, arranged an excellent lease, oversaw the entire renovation.”
“Good negotiator,” said Milo.
“She was,” said Larsen. “Her skills were facilitated by the fact that her ex-husband owns the building.”
“Ed Koppel?”
Franco Gull said, “Everyone calls him Sonny.”
Milo said, “Renting from the ex.”
“Mary and Sonny got along well,” said Gull. “The divorce was years ago. Amicable.”
“No problems at all?”
“He gave us a sweetheart lease, Detective. Doesn’t that speak volumes?”
“Guess so,” said Milo.
Gull said, “You won’t find anyone who knew Mary well who’s going to bad-mouth her. She was a fabulous woman. This is really hard for us.”
His chin trembled. He put his sunshades back on.
“Gotta be rough,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”
He made no move to leave.
Larsen said, “Is there anything else?”
“This is just a formality, Doctors, but where was each of you the night Dr. Koppel was killed?”
“I was home,” said Gull. “With my wife and kids.”
“How many kids?”
“Two.”
Out came the notepad. “And where do you live, Doctor?”
“Club Drive.”
“Cheviot Hills?”
“Yes.”
“So you and Dr. Koppel were neighbors?”
“Mary helped us find the house.”
“Through Mr. Koppel?”
“No,” said Gull. “As far as I know Sonny’s only into commercial. Mary knew we were looking to upgrade. She was taking a walk and noticed the FOR SALE sign and thought it might meet our needs.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A year—fourteen months.”
“Before that you lived . . .”
“In Studio City,” said Gull. “Why is this relevant?”
Milo turned to Larsen. “And you, sir. Where were you that night?”
“Also at home,” said Larsen. “I live in an apartment on Harvard Street in Santa Monica, north of Wilshire.” He recited the address in a soft, weary voice.
“Live by yourself?”
“I do.” Larsen smiled. “I read and went to bed. I’m afraid there’s no one to verify that.”
Milo smiled back. “What’d you read?”
“Sartre. Transcendence of the Ego.”
“Light stuff.”
“Sometimes a challenge is good.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Milo. “I’ll tell you, this case is a challenge.”
Larsen didn’t answer.
Franco Gull checked his watch again. “I really need to head back to the office.”
“One more question,” said Milo. “I know you can’t tell me about any deep dark patient secrets because of ethical restraints. But I do have a question that I think you are allowed to answer. Do any of your patients drive a dark Ford Aerostar minivan? Black, dark blue, maybe gray?”
Above us, the elm canopy rustled and the high, gleeful sounds of childhood play drifted over. The ice-cream truck rang its bell and drove off.
Albin Larsen said, “A patient? No, I’ve never seen that.” His eyes drifted toward Gull.
Franco Gull said, “I agree. No patients I’m aware of drive a car like that. Not that I’d notice. I’m in the office when they park their cars, don’t know what any of them drive—unless it comes up in therapy.”
His brow was slick with sweat.
Milo scribbled in his pad and closed it. “Thanks, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”
“There’ll be more?” said Gull.
“Depends upon what we find in the way of evidence.”
“Fingerprints?” said Gull. “That kind of thing?”
“That kind of thing.”
Gull stood so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Makes sense.” Larsen got to his feet, too. Gull was a head taller and a foot and a half broader at the shoulders. High school football, maybe college.
We watched the two of them walk to their Mercedeses.
Milo said, “Now wasn’t that interesting?”
CHAPTER
23
“Sweaty fellow,” Milo murmured, as he called DMV.
It didn’t take long to get the data. Three vehicles were registered to Franco Arthur Gull on Club Drive. A two-year-old Mercedes, a ’63 Corvette, and a 1999 Ford Aerostar.
“Well, well, well.”
He pulled the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, found a map, and jabbed his index finger. “Gull’s house is only a few blocks from Koppel’s, so on the face of it, one of his cars in the neighborhood isn’t weird. But the witness said the van drove away from his street. Seemed to be looking for something.”
I said, “Cruising back and forth at 2 A.M. isn’t neighborly. It’s the kind of thing stalkers do.”
“A shrink with problems in that area. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”
“A shrink the court refers stalkers to. Maybe Gavin found out somehow, and that’s why he dropped Gull and switched to Koppel.”
“Gull driving by Koppel’s house,” he said. “She wouldn’t have stood for that. Gavin tells her, he’s lighting a tinderbox.”
“On the other hand,” I said.
“What?”
“Three vehicles in the Gull family. The Mercedes for him and a vintage Vette for weekend fun. That leaves the Aerostar for the wife.”
“When you talked about evidence, Gull asked about fingerprints. It struck me as out of context. That could be because he knows his prints are in that batch you dusted at Koppel’s house.”
“More than partners. More than neighbors. She finds him a house close by, all the easier for drop-in fun. Mrs. G suspects and drives by at 2 A.M. Checking up. No wonder the guy’s perspiring like a marathon runner.”
I said, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s got a state license, so his prints are in the system.
He flipped the little blue phone open. “I’ll call the techs right now. Meanwhile, let’s visit the wife.”
“What about excavating Gavin’s room?”
“That, too,” he said. “but later.” Big grin. “All of a sudden, I’m busy.”
*
The Gull residence was a Tudor, not unlike Mary Lou Koppel’s, a bit less imposing on a flat lot with no view. Ballpark-quality lawn, the usual luxuriant beds of impatiens, a liquidambar sapling just beginning to turn color, staked in the crater vacated by a larger tree.
The Aerostar van was parked in the driveway. Deep blue. Two bumper stickers: MY CHILD’S AN HONOR STUDENT AT WILD ROSE SCHOOL. And GO LAKERS!
An Hispanic maid answered Milo’s knock. He asked for “La señora, por favor,” and she said “Un momento,” and closed the door. When it opened again, a petite, very slim blond-ponytailed woman in her thirties stood there, looking distracted. Milo’s badge changed nothing. She continued to look through us.
White-blond, ice-blue eyes, small bones, beautiful features. Even standing still, she seemed graceful. But dangerously slim; her skin bordered on translucence, and her black velvet sweats bagged. She’d done a fine job with her makeup, but the red rims around her eyes were impossible to conceal.
Milo said, “Mrs. Gull.”
“I’m Patty.”
“May we come in?”
“Why?”
“This is about a recent crime in the neighborhood.”
One slender hand drummed the other. “What,” she said, “another mugging in Rancho Park?”
“Something more serious, ma’am. And I’m afraid the victim’s someone you know.”
“Her,” said Patty Gull. Her voice had gone deeper, and any trace of distraction had vanished. Her hands separated, dropped, clamped on her hips. Her lower jaw slung forward. As fine-featured and aquiline as she was, her face took on a mastiff scowl.
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