Singh finished the peppermint stick. “I have to tell you, I was of two minds on that. I hate going to court, I didn’t know that I could say all that and be truthful. Beth Gallegos was one of our best O.T.s, a really super gal, and I felt terrible about what happened to her. I had to wonder if letting Gavin off the hook completely was the best thing for anyone. The boy clearly had serious problems, so maybe he needed to learn a lesson. On the other hand, this was jail we were talking about and he had experienced a cerebral insult and he was my patient. I decided to call the district attorney who was prosecuting the case, and she told me it being a first offense, they weren’t gonna throw the book at him. She said if I referred him to a psychiatrist or a psychologist, that would work for her. I asked a couple of the psych guys who attend here, but they all felt it would be a conflict of interest because they knew Beth. Before I could make more calls, Mr. Quick phoned me and said he’d found a good psychologist, right there in Beverly Hills, real close to the house. He said that was important because he didn’t want Gavin going too far afield.”
“Mr. Quick asked to be referred to Dr. Gull,” I said.
“He asked to be referred to Dr. Koppel, but she punted and sent him to Dr. Gull. I had my secretary call up and check Dr. Gull’s credentials, and everything was in order. I called Dr. Gull, and he seemed like a nice fellow, so I wrote the letter.”
He smoothed his tie. The amber eyes were sharp. “So tell me, was there some problem with that? ’Cause my name’s on that referral letter, and if there are going to be problems, I’d sure like to know.”
“I can’t think of anything that would reflect on you.”
Singh said, “That sounds upsettingly vague.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s too soon to be more specific. I’ll be sure to let you know if that changes.”
Singh touched his turban. “Much obliged.”
“Were you aware that Gavin didn’t stick with Gull?”
“Really?” said Singh.
“No one told you.”
“The only communication I got was from Gull. A week in, he called, thanked me, said everything was going fine. Never heard from him again. What happened?”
“Gavin didn’t get along with Gull and was transferred to Dr. Koppel.”
“Guess she found time for him. Poor Gavin. Whatever he did to Beth, the boy had it rough. Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a ton of paperwork.”
He walked me out.
I thanked him for his time, and said, “Dallas?”
“Houston. Born and bred; my daddy was a heart transplant surgeon on Denton Cooley’s team.” He smiled. “Cowboys and Indians, and all that good stuff.”
CHAPTER
27
I got home just after five, tried the Times human resources office, found out it was closed. I tried to recall the names of colleagues Ned Biondi had mentioned and came up with one, Don Zeltin, like Ned, once a reporter, now a columnist. I phoned the paper’s switchboard, asked for him, got patched through.
“Zeltin,” said a gruff voice.
I started to explain who I was and that I wanted to get in touch with Ned.
“Sounds complicated,” said Zeltin. “You could be some nut.”
“I could be but I’m not. If you don’t mind calling Ned—”
“Maybe Ned didn’t leave you a number because he doesn’t want to hear from you.”
“Would calling him and asking be a huge imposition? It’s important.”
“Psychologist, huh? My ex-wife decided she was going to be a psychologist. Back when she was still my wife. I’ve got three friends in the same boat. Wife talks about going back to shrink school, get on the horn to your divorce lawyer.”
I laughed.
He said, “It’s not funny. Actually, it is. She ended up dropping out, and now she lives in Vegas and sells clothes at a crappy boutique. Okay, what the hell, I’ll call Ned. Give me your name again.”
*
I looked up Franco Gull in my American Psychological Association directory. He’d gone to college at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. Double major: psychology and business. His move to Berkeley for grad school had been delayed by two years playing semipro baseball at a farm club in Fresno. Not the kind of thing generally listed in the APA book; Gull had been proud of his athletic stint.
Charismatic at a young age, sure about his physicality.
Gull had no academic appointments, had conducted no research since grad school that he cared to specify. His areas of interest were “interpersonal relations” and “insight-oriented therapy.” From what I could tell, he’d gone straight from a postdoc at UC Riverside into private practice with Mary Lou Koppel.
While I had the book in front of me, I checked out Albin Larsen. His bio was considerably longer and more impressive. Undergraduate work at Stockholm University, followed by a one-year fellowship in public policy at Cambridge, back to Sweden for a doctorate at Göteborg University and an assistant professorship in the Social Sciences Institute at that same institution. His areas of interest were cultural factors in psychological assessment, the integration of social and clinical psychology, the application of psychological research to conflict resolution, and the appraisal and treatment of war-related trauma and stress. He’d done relief work in Rwanda and Kenya, consulted to Amnesty International, Doctors Without Borders, the Human Rights Beacon Symposium, World Focus on Prisoners’ Rights, and a child welfare subcommittee of the United Nations. Though he’d lived in the U.S. for eight years and had earned a California license shortly after arriving, he’d maintained an academic appointment at Göteborg.
Substantive fellow. Would Koppel and Gull’s shenanigans have offended him?
I got on the computer, logged on to the California Board of Psychology website and checked the list of disciplinary actions. Nothing on Gull or Larsen. Whatever Gull’s transgressions had been, they’d remained private.
Which might very well be the point.
Had Gavin learned something that made him a threat to Gull?
Was the secret something to do with the Quick family? Why had Jerome Quick lied about Barry Silver being a golfing buddy? Why hadn’t he told us that he, himself, had spearheaded the referral?
Did Quick have some kind of prior relationship with Koppel or Gull? Some specific reason he wanted Gavin under the group’s care?
If so, he wasn’t saying, and now Gavin was dead.
And so was his therapist.
I turned it over a couple of times, produced nothing but a headache, broke for a cup of coffee, found the machine empty, and was loading it when Ned Biondi called.
“Doc,” he said. “Sorry for not keeping in touch, but I just moved, and the boxes aren’t even unpacked.”
“Oregon?”
“The other direction. Got myself a great little apartment on Coronado Island. Dinky little place because everything’s so expensive, but what do I need, one guy.”
I said, “It’s pretty out there.”
“Got a view of the bay, the bridge. Norma and I got divorced. To be accurate, I divorced her. Last year.”
“Sorry to hear about it.”
“Don’t be, I should’ve done it years ago. She’s a mean woman, terrible mother—you remember how she wouldn’t give you the time of day, wouldn’t participate in Anne Marie’s treatment?”
“I do.”
“Ice queen,” he spit. “As far as I’m concerned she was a big part of Anne Marie’s problem, I should’ve recognized it sooner. You probably saw it, but you couldn’t come out and say that, right? ‘Go divorce your wife, Ned.’ You’d have said that, I’d have fired you. But you’d have been right.”
“How’s Anne Marie?”
“Mostly good,” he said. “Not always great. She has her moods, but most of the time, good. That husband of hers is okay, and they just had a third kid. Career-wise, she never got it together, but she says she loves being a mom and why shouldn’t I believe her? She’s a terrific mom, the ki
ds love her, Bob loves her. Do you know what made me realize I needed to divorce Norma?”
“What?”
“I decided to quit smoking. Finally got serious about it. So what does Norma do? Tries to talk me out of it, I’m talking a pitched battle. She didn’t want to quit because smoking was something we did together—cigarettes and coffee in the morning, reading the paper. Taking walks and puffing away like the cancer fiends we were. She actually accused me of abandoning her by wanting to quit. I stuck to my guns, and she went ballistic. So I sat back and thought, ‘Dummy, she doesn’t care if you get sick or die, she just wants what she wants, it’s all about her.’ Thirty-five years too late, but what the hell, I’m here, and she moved to New York to write a novel and I’m wearing the patch and have worked myself down to seven Winstons a day.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. So what can I do for you?”
I told him about the photo of the blond girl.
He said, “I’ll make a call, but I’m sorry to say I can’t promise you, Doc. The paper’s not about public service—if it ever was. It’s about peddling ad space, and that means going for the hook. From what you’re telling me there’s no juicy angle to this one.”
“A double killing?” I said. “Two kids up on Mulholland?”
“Unfortunately L.A.’s more of a company town than it ever was, and juice means a Hollywood tie-in. Give me a klepto starlet boosting scanties on Rodeo, and I’ll guarantee you lots of print inches. Two kids on Mulholland is tragic, but it ain’t man bites dog.”
“How about this for a hook: The police didn’t want to release the photo because it was too early in the investigation, but an anonymous source supplied it to the Times.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe the editors will go for that, they’ve got a reflexive dislike of authority. Anytime they can show they’re not in lockstep with LAPD it makes them feel the muckrackers they wish they were . . . okay, I’ll try. By the way, is it true?”
“LAPD Communications didn’t want to release it because they thought it lacked a hook.”
He laughed. “Everyone’s in showbiz. I’ll call and get back to you. Anything more you can tell me about this girl?”
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Doc. Good talking to you—as long as I’ve got you, let me ask you something. Do you believe that study that came out, said guys do better married than single?”
“Depends on the guy,” I said. “And the marriage.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You hit it on the head.”
*
Soon after I hung up, Milo called, and I told him Biondi would try to get the photo in.
“Thanks. Some of the prints came in from Koppel’s house, and sure enough, Gull’s are all over the place. Along with a bunch of others we can’t identify. One we could tag was some guy who showed up in the system because of an assault record, turns out he works for a heating and air-conditioning company, did a service call a month ago. His latents were on the furnace and nowhere else, so that fits. The assault was punching a guy in a bar.”
“Like Roy Nichols,” I said.
“Lots of anger out there. If people only knew who they let into their homes.”
“Do Gull’s prints mean much?” I said. “Given his relationship with Koppel?”
“That’s what he’d say. What his lawyer would say. He hired a B.H. mouthpiece, by the way. Don’t know him, but one of the guys here does. Not high-powered, more like medium-powered.”
“Meaning Gull’s not that scared?”
“He’s scared enough to lawyer up,” he said. “Maybe he doesn’t know better. Or couldn’t afford better. He’s got his baby Benz and his Vette, but he’s not really rich, right? Even with a hefty fee, you guys are limited by the hours you work.”
“Interesting you should bring that up,” I said. I told him what Allison had said about profit motive.
“Kill Koppel and steal her patients . . . smart girl, Allison . . . I’d sure like to get into Gull’s finances but can’t see a way to do it yet.”
“How’d it go with Gavin’s room?”
“It didn’t,” he said. “No one home, I’ll try tomorrow.”
“I spoke to Dr. Singh.” I recapped the interview.
“Jerry Quick lied,” he said. “What was the point of that?”
“Good question.”
“It’s time to pay Mom and Dad a closer look. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to arrange an appointment with Mr. Edward Koppel, but I can’t get past his receptionist.”
“The old tycoon shuffle?” I said.
“Seems to be. I figure the best thing’s to drop in tomorrow morning. Early, say eight-thirty, maybe catch him before his day gets too tycoonish. You up for that?”
“Want me to drive?”
“What do you think?”
*
He came by the next morning just before eight, marched into my kitchen, drank coffee and ate two bagels standing at the counter, and said, “Ready?”
I drove over the Glen into the Valley, then east, across Sepulveda, into the heart of Encino.
This was Boomtown Valley, high-rises shining like chrome in the morning sun, traffic jams worthy of downtown, the flavors of money and boosterism comingling easily. But Edward Koppel’s office was located in a straggler from an earlier age: a shopworn, two-story stucco box on Ventura just past Balboa, stuck between a used-car lot crammed with secondhand Jaguars, Ferraris, and Rollses, and a storefront Mideastern restaurant.
Behind the building was a small, outdoor parking lot accessible through an alley, with most of the spaces marked RESERVED. Entrance was through a glass door. Identical setup to the building that housed Mary Lou Koppel’s group, and I said so.
Milo said, “Here I was thinking some big-time executive suite setup. Maybe Koppel specializes in small buildings he can rent out easily. Why don’t you park at the far end, over there.”
He directed me to a spot where we could observe every vehicle that arrived. Over the next half hour, four vehicles did. Two compacts driven by young women, a bottled water delivery truck, and a faded green, ten-year-old Buick that disgorged a sloppy-looking, heavyset man wearing wrinkled pants and an oversized brown polo shirt. He carried a brown paper bag and looked half-asleep as he stumbled up the stairs.
Ten more minutes brought two more Toyotas bearing secretarial types. Soon after, the heavy man exited, and drove off, minus his sack.
“What was that?” I said. “A literal bagman?”
Milo frowned, read the face of his Timex, didn’t answer.
Half an hour after we’d arrived, we were still sitting there. Milo seemed fine, eyes alive under half-closed, hooded lids, but I was getting itchy. I said, “Looks like Mr. K keeps tycoon’s hours.”
“Let’s pay his office a visit.”
*
The ground floor of the building was divided into three offices: Landmark Realty, SK Development, and Koppel Enterprises. Above were a travel agency, a general contractor, and a secretarial service.
Milo tried the doorknob to Koppel Enterprises and Landmark Realty, found them locked. But SK Development was open for business.
We walked into a large, bright, open area, sectioned into cubicles by waist-high partitions. All four of the young women we’d seen in the parking lot sat at computers typing briskly. Three wore headsets.
At the rear was a door marked PRIVATE. Milo strode past the secretarial pool and tried it. Also locked. The sole typist without a headset got up and walked over to him. Midtwenties, pleasantly plain, she had short dark hair, freckles, and an easy smile, wore a tan cotton-poly pantsuit.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Mr. Koppel.”
“Sonny?” she said. “You just missed him.”
“What’s he look like?”
She glanced around, moved in close, cupped her hand over her mouth. “Kind of chubby. He was wearing a brown polo.”
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“Drives an old Buick?”
“That’s him. Are you guys the police or something?”
Milo showed her the badge.
“Wow.”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Cheryl Bogard.” She looked back at the other women. They continued typing.
“They taking dictation on those headsets?” said Milo.
“Oh, no,” said Bogard. “They’re listening to music. Sonny has multiple CD tracks set up so they can listen to what they want.”
“Good boss.”
“The best.”
“So, Cheryl Bogard, what do you guys do here?”
“Help take care of Sonny’s properties. So how come you guys are here? Did one of the buildings get broken into?”
“Does that happen often?”
“You know how it is,” she said. “With as many properties as Sonny owns, something’s always happening somewhere.”
“Real estate empire,” said Milo.
“He’s got a lot of stuff.” Adding happily: “Keeps all of us busy. So where was the break-in this time?”
“Not important,” said Milo. “So that was the boss. He didn’t stay long.”
“He just picked up some papers.” She smiled. “Not what you were expecting, huh?”
Milo shook his head.
“You know what they say, Officer. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Hard to say. He’s out on the road a lot. He’s got properties in four counties, so that means lots of traveling. We kid him, say he should get himself a nice car, he can sure afford it. But he loves his Buick. Showing off isn’t Sonny’s thing.”
“Low-key.”
“He’s a real nice guy.”
“Could you call him for us?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Sonny doesn’t use a cell phone in the car. He’s kind of old-fashioned, says he doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s thinking and also, it’s not safe talking and driving.”
“Safety-conscious,” said Milo.
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