Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “No!” shouted Bartel. “Out. Now.”

  “Who are they, Daddy?”

  “They’re no one.”

  Milo said, “At some point, I’d like to talk to Kayla.”

  “When pigs take the Concorde.”

  *

  When we reached the door, Bartell stood on his front steps and jabbed a remote control. The gates began sliding, and Milo and I barely made it through before they clanged shut.

  Bartell slammed his door.

  Milo said, “Your friendly neighborhood policeman, making friends and spreading good cheer wherever he goes.”

  *

  As we drove away, he said, “Interesting how Bartell assumed Gavin had done something to Kayla. You used the word ‘obsessive.’ ”

  “Bartell’s hostility could just be resentment at someone sniffing around his angel. But obsessiveness can be a side effect of head injury.”

  “What about that pigsty room? Kid’s mother claims he used to be neat. That fits with brain damage?”

  “Catch a strong blow to the frontal lobes, and there can be all sorts of changes.”

  “Permanent?”

  “Depends on the severity of the injury. In most cases, it’s temporary.”

  “Gavin got hurt ten months ago.”

  “Not a good sign,” I said. “I’d like to know how he was functioning, in general. The student ID in his pocket was two years old. Assuming he dropped out, what’s he been doing since then?”

  “Maybe getting on the bad side of the wrong people,” he said. “Getting obsessive. I’ll have another go-round with Sheila. Bartell said she was weird. You spot anything?”

  “The context we saw her in, anything less than breakdown would be weird.”

  “Yeah . . . I’ll check the father out when he gets back from Atlanta . . . I love my job— enough for one night. Drop me back at the Glen and nighty-night.”

  I got onto Sunset and crossed the border into Holmby Hills. Milo said, “The big question right now is, who was the girl? And why impale her and not Gavin?”

  “That and the way she was left says a sexual thing,” I said. “Eliminate the male, have your way with the female.”

  “Think the coroner will find evidence of sexual assault?”

  “If we’re dealing with a sexual psychopath, the impalement might suffice.”

  “Surrogate penetration?”

  I nodded.

  “So maybe it’s a twisted thing,” he said. “Nothing to do with the victims, they were just a couple of kids happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “It could go that way,” I said.

  He laughed softly. “And I volunteered for this one.”

  “Who better than you?” I said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’ll do a good job on it.”

  He didn’t answer. I slowed down for a couple of turns, got on a straight stretch, and glanced at him. The merest excuse for a smile wormed its way across his lips.

  “What a pal,” he said.

  *

  The following morning I had an early breakfast with Allison Gwynn before her first patient. Her office is in Santa Monica, on Montana, east of Boutique Row, and we met at a pastry shop nearby. It was 7:40 A.M., and the place hadn’t yet filled with people of leisure. Allison had on a white linen suit and white sandals that set off her long black hair. She never goes out without makeup and an assortment of serious jewelry. Today it was coral and gold, pieces we’d picked up on a recent trip to Santa Fe.

  She was there when I arrived, had finished half a cup of coffee. “Good morning. Don’t you look handsome.”

  I kissed her and sat down. “Morning, Gorgeous.”

  We’d been seeing each other for a little over six months, were still in that stage where the pulse quickened and the body flushed.

  We ordered sweet rolls and set about getting into conversational gear. At first it was small things, then sexual banter, then work. Shoptalk can kill a relationship, but so far I’d enjoyed it.

  She went first. Busy week, grading papers for the courses she taught, a full patient load, volunteering at a hospice. Eventually, we got around to talking about the previous night. Allison takes an interest in what I do— more than an interest. She’s attracted to the ugliest aspects of human behavior, and sometimes I wonder if that isn’t part of what cements us. Maybe it’s life experience. She was sexually humiliated as a teenager, widowed in her twenties, carries a gun in her purse, and loves to shoot at paper human targets. I don’t think much about it. Too much analysis, and there’s no time to live.

  I described the crime scene.

  She said, “Mulholland Drive. When I went to Beverly, we used to go up there to park all the time.”

  “We?”

  She grinned. “Me and the other alleged virgins.”

  “A religious experience.”

  “Not back then, you can be sure of that,” she said. “Young boys and all that— too much enthusiasm, not enough finesse.”

  I laughed. “So it was a well-known make-out spot.”

  “That you missed out on, you poor Midwest boy. Yup, my dear, Mulholland was the make-out spot. Probably still is, though there’s probably less lover’s lane stuff going on because kids are allowed to do it in their own rooms. I’m amazed at how many of my patients go along with that. You know the rationale: Better I should know where they are.”

  “There are two families who probably feel that way right now.”

  She pushed hair behind her ear. “Tragic.”

  The sweet rolls arrived, coated with almond slivers, warm. She said, “A vacant house. That creative we weren’t. They probably spotted the FOR SALE sign and the open gate, seized the opportunity. Poor parents. First the boy’s accident, now this. You said he changed. In what way?”

  “His room was a sty, and his mother claimed he’d once been neat. She didn’t say much. It wasn’t the time to press.”

  “No, of course not.”

  I said, “His ex-girlfriend’s father described him as obsessive.”

  “In what way?”

  “Showing up at the girl’s house unexpectedly. When she wasn’t home, he’d bug the father, hang around asking questions. The father also implied Gavin had been overly persistent with his daughter. His first reaction when he thought his daughter was dead was that Gavin had done something to her.”

  “That could be more like Protective Dad.”

  “Could be.”

  “Was there any postconcussive syndrome?” she said. “Loss of consciousness, blurred vision, disorientation?”

  “Some transitory memory loss is all the mother mentioned.”

  “The crash was ten months ago,” she said. “And the mother’s still talking about him as changed.”

  “I know,” I said. “The damage might’ve been permanent. But I’m not sure any of that matters, Ally. Make-out spots attract voyeurs and worse. Either Gavin and the girl were interrupted midcoitus, or they were positioned to look that way.”

  “A sicko.” She studied her sweet roll but didn’t touch it. Smiled. “To be technical.”

  “It’s a little early in the day for technical,” I said.

  “Mulholland Drive,” she said. “The things we do when we think we’re immortal.”

  *

  We strolled the three blocks to her office. Allison’s hand clasped my biceps. Her open-toed white shoes had generous heels, and that brought the top of her head to my bottom lip. A bit of ocean breeze lifted her hair, and soft strands brushed against my face.

  She said, “Milo volunteered for this one?”

  “He didn’t seem to need any convincing.”

  “I guess it makes sense,” she said. “He’s been looking pretty bored.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You’d know better, but that’s how it’s seemed to me.”

  “He’ll be getting plenty of stimulation on this one.”

  “So will you.”

&
nbsp; “If I’m needed.”

  She laughed. “Be good for you, too.”

  “I’ve been looking bored?”

  “More like restless. All that caged animal energy.”

  I growled and beat my chest with my free hand and let out a low-volume Tarzan roar. Two women power-walking our way scrunched up their lips and gave us wide berth as they passed.

  “You just made their day,” she said.

  *

  Milo, bored. He griped so much about work stress, personal stress, the state of the world, anything at hand, that I’d never considered the concept.

  When had Allison seen him last . . . two weeks ago. Late-night dinner at Café Moghul, the Indian restaurant near the West L.A. station that he uses as a second office. The proprietors believe his presence ensures them peace and security and treat him like a maharajah.

  That night, Allison and I, Rick, and the big guy had been treated to a gut-stretching banquet. Allison and Milo happened to sit next to each other and ended up talking for most of the evening. It’s taken him a while to warm up to her. To the notion that I’m with someone new. Robin and I were together for over a decade, and he adores her. Robin had found happiness with another man. I thought I was dealing with that pretty well as she and I struggled to build a new kind of friendship. Except for when I wasn’t.

  I was waiting for Milo to stop acting like a kid caught in a custody dispute.

  The morning after the Indian dinner, he called me, and said, “You have your quirks, but when you settle on one, she’s a keeper.”

  *

  The day after the murder, he phoned. “No semen on the girl, no sign of sexual assault. Unless you count the spear. The same .22 was used to shoot both of them, one bullet each, right to the forehead. Your hostile or out-of-control shooter tends to empty his weapon. Meaning this was a guy with confidence. Cool, maybe with experience.”

  “Confident and careful,” I said. “Also, he didn’t want to make a lot of noise.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Though given the site— the nearest house is a couple of acres away— he was probably okay on that account. Also, the gun would have gone pop pop, no big explosion. No exit wounds, the bullets bounced around the kids’ brains, did the kind of damage you’d expect from a .22.”

  “Has the girl been identified?”

  “Not yet. Her prints don’t appear to be in the system, though I can’t say for sure, because the computer’s been screwing up. I’ve talked to our Missing Persons guys, and they’re putting together some paper. I did a bit of calling around to other stations, but young blond girls aren’t a rare commodity when you’re talking MP. My guess is she’ll turn out to be another of Gavin’s Beverly Hills friends. Though if she was, you’d expect someone to miss her by now, and no one called or filed at B.H. on a missing girl.”

  “Sleepover,” I said. “Nowadays, parents are lenient. And affluent parents are more likely to be out of town.”

  “Would’ve been nice to talk to Kayla . . . meanwhile, I got the coroner to shoot some preautopsy pictures. Just got back from picking them up, have the least scary one to show around. It almost looks as if she’s sleeping. I want the Quicks to have a look at it, figure the father’s back, maybe the sister, too. I put a call in to them, but no one answered, no machine.”

  “Grieving,” I said.

  “And now I’m going to interrupt the process. Care to join me? In case I need help in the sensitivity department?”

  CHAPTER 4

  In the afternoon daylight the Quick residence was even prettier, well kept, the lawn clipped, the front yard ringed by beds of impatiens. Daytime parking was restricted to permit holders. Milo had placed an LAPD banner atop his dash, and he handed me one for the Seville. In his free hand was a manila envelope.

  I put the banner in the car. “Now I’m official.”

  “Hoo-hah. Here we go again.” He bent one leg and flexed his neck. Opening the envelope, he pulled out the death shot of the blond girl.

  The pretty face was now a pale mask. I studied the details: ski slope nose, dimpled chin, eyebrow pierce. Lank yellow strands that the camera turned greenish. Greenish tint to the skin that was real. The bullet hole was an oversized black mole, puffy around the edges, just off center in the unlined brow. Purplish bruises had settled around the eyes— blood leaking from the brain. Bloody residue under the nose, too. Her mouth hung slightly open. Her teeth were straight and dull.

  To my eye, nothing close to “almost sleeping.”

  I returned the picture, and we approached the Quick house.

  A woman in a black pantsuit answered. Younger than Sheila Quick, she was slim and angular and brunette, with firm features and an assertive posture. Her dark hair was short, feathered in front, sprayed in place.

  Her hands clamped her hips. “I’m sorry, they’re resting.”

  Milo showed her the badge.

  She said, “That doesn’t change the facts.”

  “Ms.—”

  “Eileen. I’m Sheila’s sister. Here’s my badge.” She slid a cream-colored business card out of a jacket pocket. The diamond on her finger was a three-carat pear.

  Eileen Paxton

  Senior Vice President and

  Chief Financial Officer

  Digimorph Industries

  Simi Valley, California

  “Digimorph,” said Milo.

  “Ultratech computer enhancement. We do film work. On the biggest pictures.”

  Milo smiled at her. “Here’s a picture, Ms. Paxton.” He showed her the death shot.

  Eileen Paxton’s gaze didn’t waver, but her lips worked. “She’s the one who was found with Gavin?”

  “Do you recognize her, ma’am?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t. I thought Gavin was found with his girlfriend. That little hook-nosed thing. That’s what Sheila told me.”

  “Your sister assumed,” said Milo. “A reasonable assumption, but she was mistaken. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

  He kept the photo in Eileen Paxton’s sight. She said, “You can put that away.”

  “Is Mr. Quick back from Atlanta?”

  “He’s sleeping. They both are.”

  “When do you think they’ll be available?”

  “How would I know that? This is a terrible time for the entire family.”

  “Yes, it is, ma’am.”

  “This city,” said Paxton. “This world.”

  “Okay then,” said Milo. “We’ll check back later.”

  We turned to leave, and Eileen Paxton began to close the door, when a male voice from inside the house said, “Who’s out there, Eileen?”

  Paxton was halfway inside when she said something unintelligible. The male voice retorted. Louder. Milo and I faced the house. A man emerged, his back to us, talking to the doorway. “I don’t need to be protected, Eileen.”

  Muffled response. The man closed the door, swiveled, and stared at us. “I’m Jerry Quick. Any news on my boy’s murder?”

  Tall, thin, round-shouldered, he wore a navy blue crewneck sweater over khakis and white Nikes. Thinning gray hair was arranged in a careless comb-over. His face was long, deeply seamed, lantern-jawed. Bluish smudges stained the crinkled skin beneath wide-set blue eyes. His eyelids drooped, as if he were having trouble staying awake.

  We returned to the front steps. Milo held out his hand. Quick shook it briefly, glanced at me, said, “Do you have anything yet?”

  “Afraid not. If you’ve got time—”

  “Of course I do.” Quick’s lips twisted as if he’d tasted something bad. “My executive sister-in-law. She met Spielberg once and thinks her shit doesn’t stink— come on in. My wife’s totally out of it, our doctor gave her Valium or something, but I’m fine. He wanted to dose me up, too. I want to be focused.”

  *

  Milo and I sat on the same blue sofa, and Jerome Quick took a Chippendale-repro armchair. I studied the family photos again. Wanting to imagine Gavin as something other than the thing i
n the Mustang.

  In life, he’d been a tall, dark-haired, pleasant-looking kid with his father’s long face and wide-set eyes. Darker eyes than his father’s— gray-green. In some of the earlier pictures he wore glasses. His fashion sense never changed. Preppy clothes, designer logos. Short hair, always, in either a conservative crew cut or gelled and spiked cautiously. A regular kid with a tentative smile, not handsome, not ugly. Walk down any suburban street, check out a mall or a multiplex theater or a college campus, and you’d see scores just like him. His sister— the law student in Boston— was plain and serious-looking.