The man placed one hand on the stalk of the vacuum cleaner. “Never any larceny.”
“Any assaults or other bad stuff?” said Milo. “You know I’m gonna find out.”
“One time,” said the man, “I did a battery thing. But the other guy started it, and they paroled me early.”
“Weapon of choice?”
“It was his knife. I took it away from him. It was an accident, mostly.”
“Mostly,” said Milo. “You cut him bad?”
“He lived.”
“How about you show me some ID?”
“I do something wrong?”
“Perish the thought, amigo. Just being thorough—you know why we’re here, right?”
The man shrugged.
“Why’re we here, amigo?”
“What happened to the lady doc upstairs.”
“You don’t know her name?”
“Dr. Koppel,” said the man. “The ex-wife. They got along good.”
“Lovey-dovey,” said Milo.
“No, I . . . uh . . . Mr. Koppel always said just give her what she wants.”
“What she wants?”
“If there’s a problem. In the building. He said we should fix it fast, give her what she wants.”
“He doesn’t do that for all his tenants?”
The man was silent.
“So you’re trying to tell me not to suspect Mr. Koppel for killing his ex because they were still buddies.”
“No, I . . . uh . . . I don’t know nothing about nothing.” The man rolled his sweatshirt sleeve down his arm.
“Any ideas about who did kill Dr. Koppel?”
“Didn’t know her, didn’t hardly never see her.”
“Except to fix things for her.”
“No,” protested the man. “I don’t do that stuff, I call the plumbers, whatever, and they fix it. I’m just here to clean. Mostly I do Mr. Koppel’s buildings in the Valley.”
“But today, you’re on this side of the hill.”
“I go where they tell me.”
“They.”
“Mr. Koppel’s company. They got properties all over.”
“Who told you to come here, today?”
“Mr. Koppel’s secretary. One of them. Heather. I can give you the number, you can check it out.”
“Maybe I will,” said Milo. “Now, how about some ID?”
The man fished in a front pant pocket and fished out a wad of bills secured by a rubber band. He slipped off the band, thumbed through the money—grubby singles and fives—and drew out a California identification card.
“Roland Nelson Kristof,” said Milo. “This your current address, Roland?”
“Yeah.”
Milo scanned the card. “Sixth Street . . . this is right past Alvarado, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Lots of halfway houses there. That your situation?”
“Yeah.”
“So you still paroling.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get the job with Mr. Koppel?”
“My PO got it for me.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mr. Hacker.”
“Downtown office?”
“Yeah.”
Milo gave him back his ID. “I’m going to run you through, Roland. Because a halfway-house guy working a building where someone got murdered is something I need to check out. I find out you lied to me, I pay a visit to your crib, and you know I’m gonna discover something that busts your parole, you know I am. So if there’s something you wanna tell me, now’s the time.”
“There’s nothing,” said Kristof.
“You never had problems with women? No bad behavior in that department?”
“Never,” said Kristof. Until then his delivery had been flat, mechanical. Now a hint of outrage had crept in.
“Never,” said Milo.
“Never, not once. I been a junkie since I was fourteen. I don’t hurt no one.”
“Still on the junk though.”
“I’m getting older, it’s getting better.”
“What is?”
“The hunger,” said Kristof. “Days are getting shorter.”
“How’s your sex life, Roland?”
“Ain’t got none.” Kristof’s declaration was free of regret, almost cheerful.
“You sound happy about that.”
“Yeah, I am,” said Kristof. “You know what dope does to all that.”
“No drive,” said Milo.
“Zactly.” Kristof smiled wearily, flashing intermittent, brown teeth. “Something else not to worry about.”
*
Milo copied down his address and allowed him to resume vacuuming.
As we climbed the stairs to Pacifica-West Psychological Services and the roar of the vacuum cleaner faded, he said, “That’s one habitual con.”
I said, “Criminal burnout. Get to a certain age, and it’s too pooped to pop.”
“Wanna guess how old he is?”
“Fifty?”
“Thirty-eight.”
*
No one sat in the waiting room. Dr. Larsen’s session light was off. Dr. Gull’s shone red.
“It’s three-forty,” I said. “If he does the forty-five-minute hour, he’ll be out shortly.”
“I love your profession,” said Milo. “Imagine if surgeons could do that. Cutting out three-quarters of the appendix and billing.”
“Hey,” I said, “we use the time to chart and to reflect.”
“Or if you’re Dr. Gull, to put back all the stuff you swept off your desk when you decided to reflectively hump your patient all over it.”
“Cynical.”
“Thank you.”
At three-forty-six the door to the waiting room opened and a flushed, attractive woman in her forties backed out, still chattering to Franco Gull.
He was close behind her, holding her by the elbow. When he saw us, he dropped his hand. The woman sensed his tension, and her cheeks pinkened.
I waited for Gull to start sweating, but he recovered his composure and ushered the woman toward the door, saying, “Next week, then.”
The woman was brunette and well padded, swimming in a sea of gray cashmere. She brushed at her hair, favored us with a brittle smile, and left.
Gull said, “Again? Now what?”
Milo said, “We met your wife.”
Long silence. “I see.”
Milo smiled.
Gull said, “Patty’s going through a rough patch. She’ll be fine.”
“She didn’t sound fine.”
Gull smoothed back his hair. “Why don’t you come in? I’m free for the next hour.”
“Or at least forty-five minutes of it,” said Milo, under his breath.
Gull didn’t hear. He’d turned and was striding toward the trio of inner offices. Albin Larsen’s and Mary Lou Koppel’s doors were closed.
Gull’s was open. He stopped before entering.
“My wife—has got problems.”
“Bet she does,” said Milo. “Maybe she could use some therapy.”
CHAPTER
25
Gull’s office was two-thirds the size of Mary Lou Koppel’s and set up surprisingly simply. No bird’s-eye maple paneling, just beige paint on the walls. Thin, beige carpeting blurred the room’s boundaries. Off-white leather couches and armchairs were loosely arranged. Koppel had displayed crystal eggs and Indian pottery. Franco Gull’s sole nod to decoration were cheaply framed photographic prints of animals and their young.
I found myself sniffing for the aroma of sex, smelled only a syrupy mélange of perfumes.
Gull sprawled on a sofa and invited us to sit. Before our butts hit the leather, he said, “The thing you need to know about Patty is that she’s dealing with some very serious issues.”
“Marital infidelity?” said Milo.
Gull’s lips produced a pained semicolon. “Her problems go way beyond that. Her father was extremely abusive.”
“A
h,” said Milo. “Ah” was a running joke between us. The old therapist’s dodge. He turned his head so Gull couldn’t see him wink. “All this talk about Mrs. Gull. Guess wives don’t get confidentiality.”
Gull’s eyes sparked. A fleck of moisture appeared from under the shade of a wavy, salt-and-pepper forelock.
I’d been right: Losing the power rule played havoc with his adrenals.
“I’m telling you about Patty because you need to put her in context.”
“Meaning I shouldn’t believe anything she tells me.”
“That depends on what she told you.”
“For one thing,” said Milo, “she thinks you didn’t kill Dr. Koppel.”
Gull had been primed to protest. He regrouped, shifted position. “There you go, even someone who’s not feeling kindly toward me knows I’d never do anything like that. I don’t even own a—”
“You hate guns,” said Milo. “She told us that, too.”
“Guns are an abomination.”
“Mrs. Gull feels she’s provided you with an alibi for the night Dr. Koppel was killed.”
“There you go,” Gull repeated, sitting a bit straighter.
“Yeah, I’m going strong,” said Milo. “The thing is, Doctor, what your wife considers an alibi, we don’t.”
“What? Oh, come on, you’ve got to be kidding.” Sweat beads popped at Gull’s hairline. “Why would I need an alibi?”
“Don’t you want to know what Mrs. Gull told us?”
“Not really.” Theatrical sigh, then: “Fine, tell me.”
“Mrs. Gull drove by Dr. Koppel’s house around 2 A.M., searching for your car. She didn’t see it—”
“She did that?” said Gull. “How . . . sad. As I told you, Patty’s got serious trust issues.”
“You blame her?” said Milo.
“Why did you speak to Patty in the first place? Why would you even consider something so far-fetched—”
“Let’s get back to the alibi, Doctor. Your car not being parked on McConnell. That really doesn’t mean much. You could’ve parked somewhere else in the neighborhood. Or taken a cab from the hotel you stayed at—which was . . . ?”
Gull didn’t answer.
“Dr. Gull?”
“This is my personal life, Detective.”
“Not any longer, sir.”
“Why?” said Gull. “Why are you doing this?”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Which hotel, sir? We’ll find out anyway.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. The Crowne Plaza.”
“Pico and Beverly Drive.”
Gull nodded.
“You stay there often?”
“Why would I?”
“It’s close to your office, for when you and the missus have a spat.”
“We don’t have spats that often.”
Milo’s pencil tapped the pad. “Same question, Doctor.”
“I’ve lost track of your questions.”
“Do you stay there often?”
“Occasionally.”
“When your wife throws you out.”
Gull flushed. His hands tightened. His fists were enormous. “My marital issues are of no concern to—”
“What I’m getting at,” said Milo, “is do they know you at the Crowne Plaza?”
“I don’t know . . . those places.”
“What about them?”
“Businesslike, anonymous. It’s not exactly the wayfarer’s inn,” said Gull. “And I’m really not there that often.”
“How often is not that often?” said Milo.
“I couldn’t quantify.”
“Your credit card records could.”
“My—this is absolutely—”
“You don’t consider the hotel a home away from home? Being so close to the office.”
“I don’t need a home—I paid cash.”
“Why?”
“It seemed simpler.”
“For when you bring women there.”
Gull shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ever bring Dr. Koppel there?”
“No.”
“No need to, I guess,” said Milo. “What with her living so close to the office. And to your house. Make a stopover after work, then continue on to the missus and kids.”
Gull’s brow was slick and pale. “I don’t see what your point is—”
“How far would you say it is, from the office to Dr. Koppel’s? A mile?”
Gull rolled his shoulders. “Closer to two.”
“Think so?”
“All the way up Pico to Motor and then south to Cheviot.”
“Let’s split the difference,” said Milo. “Mile and a half.”
Gull shook his head. “I really think it’s closer to two.”
“Sounds like maybe you’ve clocked it, Doctor.”
“No,” said Gull. “I’m just—forget it. This is pointless.”
“You look in pretty good shape, Doctor. Work out?”
“I’ve got a treadmill at home.”
“A little mile and a half walk on a cool June night wouldn’t challenge you, would it?”
“That never happened.”
“You never walked from the Crowne Plaza to Dr. Koppel’s house.”
“Never.”
“The night she was killed,” said Milo. “Where were you?”
“At the hotel.”
“Did you call up for food?”
“No, I had dinner before I checked in.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“Before the tiff.”
“Yes,” said Gull. He knuckled an eye. Sleeved his brow.
“You stayed in the hotel all night,” said Milo.
Gull rubbed his jaw. “I rented a movie. That’ll be on record.”
“What time?”
“Elevenish. Check.”
“I will,” said Milo, “but all that proves is you pushed a button on your remote, not that you stayed to watch.”
Gull stared at him. “This is absurd, I didn’t kill Mary.”
“What was the title of the movie?”
Gull looked away and didn’t answer.
“Doctor?”
“It was an adult film. I don’t remember the title.”
“I guess,” said Milo, “it wouldn’t help asking you to recap the plot.”
Gull managed a sickly smile.
Milo said, “When did you see Dr. Koppel last?”
“That afternoon,” said Gull. “Both of us were walking patients out to the waiting room, and we said hi. That was the last time.”
“No tryst later that evening?”
“No. That was over.”
“What was?”
“Mary and I.”
“Who broke it off?”
“It was mutual,” said Gull.
“Because?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
Milo flipped his pad open, scanned his notes. “Alternatively,” he said, “if you didn’t walk to her house, you could’ve called a cab.”
“I didn’t.”
“It can be verified, Doctor.”
“Verify to your heart’s content.”
Milo slapped the pad shut. Gull gave a start and wiped his brow with his sleeve again.
“Doctor, why did Gavin Quick dump you as a therapist?”
“He didn’t dump me. I transferred him to Mary.”
“Why?”
“That’s confidential.”
“No it’s not,” barked Milo. “Gavin lost his privilege when someone shot him. Why’d he transfer away from you, Doctor?”
Gull’s arms had gone rigid, and his palms pressed against the seat cushions, as if bracing himself for takeoff.
“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” he said. “Not without a lawyer.”
“You’re aware of how that makes you look.”
“I assert my rights, and it makes me look bad?”
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, why
have concern about rights?”
“Because,” said Gull, “I don’t want to live in a police state. With all that implies.” He forced a smile. Perspiration glazed his face and his neck. “Did you know, Detective, that of all the professions who joined the Nazi party, the police were the most enthusiastic recruits?”
“Really? I heard it was doctors.”
Gull’s smile faltered. He burned some calories restoring it. “That’s it. Not another word.” He drew a finger across his lips.
“Sure,” said Milo, rising. “No sweat.”
CHAPTER
26
As we left Gull’s office, he got on the phone.
Out in the hallway, Milo said, “Lawyering up.”
I said, “What did it was your question about Gavin transferring to Koppel.”
“Some deep dark secret,” he said. “Something that makes him look bad.”
“I wonder how much the Quicks know.”
“If they know, why didn’t they tell me?”
“Maybe it also reflected poorly on Gavin.”
“What, Gavin found out the guy supposed to help him with his stalking problem had outstalked him, so he decided to expose him? Why wouldn’t his parents talk about that? And how does Koppel figure in?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But everything seems to connect to this place.”
“I’ll have Binchy do a loose surveillance on Gull. See if I can get another baby D on it, too.”
“Loose?”
“This ain’t TV, unlimited gizmos and manpower. I’ll be lucky to get two shifts a day.”
We descended the stairs to the ground floor. He said, “So, how effective do you think my leaning on him was?”
“He’s lawyering up,” I said.
“And would an innocent guy do that? Yeah, I got to him . . . I really wanna know why Gavin left him.”
“The neurologist who sent Gavin to Gull might know something about it. Specialists need to stroke their referral sources, so Gull would have offered some kind of explanation.”
“Singh,” he said. He whipped out his pad, flipped pages. “Leonard Singh, over at St. John’s. You mind doing the doctor-to-doctor bit?”
“Not at all.”
“Also, if you’re still up for calling Ned Biondi, to try to get the blonde’s picture in the papers, go ahead.”
He handed me a sealed envelope stamped PHOTO, DO NOT BEND. “Here’s your chance to be an ‘anonymous source.’ ”
I ran a finger across my lips.
We reached the bottom of the stairs. Roland Kristof and his vacuum cleaner were no longer in sight, and Milo gazed down the empty corridor.
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