Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Did Flora ever talk about being afraid of anyone?” said Milo. “Someone harassing her, stalking her, that kind of thing?” Easing his big body closer to Van Dyne. Using Newsome’s first name.

  “Never. But given the fact that she kept her therapy a secret, I can’t be sure she didn’t hide something else.”

  “Did she ever seem scared or unduly nervous?”

  “Being on probation was a little stressful. Who likes to be judged? But she was doing great, would definitely have passed. Teaching meant a lot to her, Lieutenant. She told me everything she’d done before that had just been a job, but this was her career.”

  “What other jobs did she have?” I said.

  “Office work, mostly. She did some filing for a law firm, worked at a parole office, then she managed the office of a software company that went bust. Evenings she studied for her credential.”

  “The parole office downtown?” said Milo.

  “She never said, only that she didn’t like it there. Too many weird characters coming in and out. I thought that might be important and mentioned it to the first detectives, but they didn’t seem to agree. Because Flora hadn’t worked there for a while.”

  “Weird characters.”

  “Her phrase,” said Van Dyne. “She didn’t want to discuss it.” He laced his hands across his chest, as if guarding his heart. “The thing you need to understand about Flora was she wasn’t the most talkative person. Not very outgoing or passionate on the surface.” He licked his lips. “She was very . . . traditional, more like someone from my mother’s generation.”

  “Conservative.”

  “Very. That’s why I was so surprised to find out she’d been in therapy.”

  “And you have no idea,” said Milo, “about what was bothering her.”

  “She seemed happy,” said Van Dyne. “She really did.”

  “About getting married.”

  “About everything. She was a reserved person, Lieutenant. An old-fashioned girl.” Van Dyne’s fingers separated, but he kept his hand on his chest. “Have you talked to her therapist? Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, she’s one of those radio personalities. For all I know that’s how Flora found her, from hearing her on the radio.”

  “Would Flora do something like that?” I said. “Listen to a show and call up for an appointment?”

  Van Dyne thought about that. “It’s not what I’d have predicted, but who knows? What did Koppel say about treating Flora?”

  “Haven’t spoken to her yet,” said Milo.

  “Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.” Van Dyne’s hands dropped to his lap. “I called her a few weeks after the murder, when I found out Flora had been seeing her. I’m not even sure what I wanted. Some memory of Flora, I guess. Maybe some sympathy, it was a horrendous time. But boy did I dial a wrong number. She was anything but sympathetic. Said confidentiality prevented her from speaking to me and hung up. Very curt. Not in the least bit therapeutic.”

  *

  Driving away from the school, Milo frowned and lit up a panatella. “Sensitive guy.”

  “He bug you in some way?”

  “Not in the criminal sense, but I wouldn’t want to hang out with him. Too delicate.” He frowned. “Working at a parole office where the cons made her nervous. One reinterview and we’ve got info that wasn’t in Lorraine’s notes.”

  “Lorraine and McKinley weren’t impressed with the parole job because a year had gone by.”

  “I’m more easily impressed.”

  *

  We returned to the station, where he accessed Flora Newsome’s state employment records and located the parole branch where she’d clerked for five months. Not downtown, the North Hollywood office. A half-hour drive from the murder scene.

  I said, “A con notices her, follows her home, stakes out her apartment. Breaking in wouldn’t be much of a challenge for a pro.”

  “Ye olde failure to rehabilitate,” he said. “Wonder what Dr. Koppel thinks about that.” He stood, stretched, sat down hard.

  I said, “There’s another possibility. The con didn’t follow Flora home, she already knew him. That’s why there was no sign of a break-in. Why he didn’t need to bring a knife. Maybe what brought Flora to therapy was more than adjustment problems.”

  “Nice, old-fashioned girl getting it on with a lowlife?”

  “She kept her therapy from her boyfriend, could’ve had other secrets.”

  “Fooling with a con,” he said. “Forbidden pleasures. Guilt took her to Koppel.” He stared at me. “You do weave a web.”

  *

  He walked me through the station and out to the street, glanced at his Timex. “Think I’ll have a go at Koppel. Solo, seeing as you two have issues.”

  “Issues.” I smiled.

  “Hey, I’m walkin’ the walk, talkin’ the talk.”

  *

  Later that evening, he called, and said, “Did you know shrinks don’t have to hold on to files?”

  “Koppel has no records of Flora Newsome’s treatment.”

  “Straight into the shredder a month after Newsome died. Koppel says it’s routine, any closed case gets trashed. Otherwise, she runs into a ‘storage problem.’ Also, she claims it helps safeguard confidentiality because no one can ‘happen’ upon the chart.”

  “Did she remember anything about Newsome?”

  “Even less than she remembered for Ogden. ‘I treat so many patients, Lieutenant.’ ”

  “But this patient was murdered.”

  “Same difference.”

  “She gave you a hard time,” I said.

  “Not on the surface. She was superfriendly, nice smile, easy manner. Sends her regards, by the way. Says you’re a real gentleman.”

  “I’m touched. She give you anything to work with?”

  “She said she couldn’t be sure, but she thought Newsome had come in for ‘anxiety.’ I decided to be direct and brought up the possibility of a con boyfriend. No reaction. If she was hiding something, she’s Oscar quality.”

  “What did she have to say about two patients murdered in fourteen months?”

  “She looked a little shaken when I phrased it that way, but said she’d never thought of it that way, her patient load was so huge, it really didn’t mean anything. My impression is the lady’s got a busy life, doesn’t spend too much time focused on any single thing, including her patients. The whole interview was on the run. I caught her leaving the building and walked her to her Mercedes. She was scheduled to tape a show, and her cell phone kept ringing. One of her partners, some guy named Gull, had just parked his Mercedes in the lot and came over to say hi. She blew him off, and his expression said he was used to it.”

  “Two murders in one practice is routine?”

  “I pressed her, Alex. She got irritated, pressed me back about whether the evidence pointed to any connection between Gavin and Flora. I couldn’t give her any details, so I had to tell her no. She said, ‘There you go. Given the size of my practice, it’s a statistical quirk.’ But I’m not sure she believed it. Her hands were on the steering wheel, and her knuckles were white. They got even whiter when I asked her if she was treating any known felons. She said no, of course not, her patients were all decent people. But maybe I stirred up her you-know-what— her consciousness— and she’ll think of something. I’ll have another go at her in a couple days, and I’d like you to be there.”

  “Issues and all.”

  “At this point, the more issues the better. I want to rattle her cage. First, though, I’m gonna talk to the parole folks, see what they remember about Flora. I’ve also got an address and number for Flora’s mother, and if you could find time to see her, I’d really appreciate it. I’ve got to make sure I don’t veer completely into Newsome and neglect Gavin and the blonde.”

  “I’ll try for tomorrow.”

  “Thankee, thankee.” He read off Evelyn Newsome’s number and an address on Ethel Street in Sherman Oaks. “She’s not in board-and-care anymore, moved out six
months ago and is living in a real house. Maybe someone came up with a miracle cure for arthritis.”

  “Anything in particular you want me to probe for?”

  “The deep dark recesses of her daughter’s state of mind before she got killed and any boyfriends Flora had prior to Van Dyne. After that, go anywhere you see fit.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Or reasonable facsimile. That show Koppel was taping, guess what the topic was?”

  “Communication.”

  Silence. “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “You scare me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I phoned Evelyn Newsome at ten the next morning. A woman with a vigilant voice answered, “Yes?” When I told her who I was, she softened.

  “The police were very very nice. Is there something new?”

  “I’d like to stop by to chat, Mrs. Newsome. We’ll be reviewing old ground, but—”

  “A psychologist?”

  “We’re taking a look at Flora’s case from all angles.”

  “Oh. That’s fine, sir. I can always talk about my Flora.”

  *

  Ethel Street just south of Magnolia was a twenty-minute ride over the Glen, past Ventura Boulevard, and into the heart of Sherman Oaks. This side of the mountains was ten degrees hotter than the city and dry enough to tickle my sinuses. The marine layer had burned off, endowing the Valley with blue skies.

  Evelyn Newsome’s block was lined with modest, well-kept one-story houses, most of them nailed up posthaste for returning World War II vets. Old-growth orange and apricot trees rose above redwood fences. Huge, scarred elms, top-heavy pines, and untrimmed mulberry trees shaded some of the properties. Others flaunted themselves, naked, in relentless Valley light.

  Evelyn Newsome’s new home was a pea green stucco bungalow with a fresh mock-shake roof. The lawn was flat, succotash-colored stubble. Birds-of-paradise flanked the front steps. A porch swing hung still in the baking, dormant air.

  A screen door covered the entrance, but the wooden door had been left open, offering full view of a dark, low living room. Evelyn Newsome’s daughter had been murdered two years ago, and her default phone voice was wary, but on some level she still trusted.

  Before I could ring the bell, a big, white-haired man in his seventies appeared and unlatched the screen.

  “Doctor? Walt McKitchen, Evelyn’s out in back waiting for you.” He held his shoulders high, had a florid face built around a purple cabbage nose and a tiny mouth. Despite the heat, he wore a blue-and-gray flannel shirt buttoned to the neck over triple-pleated gray wool slacks.

  We shook hands. His fingers were sausages breaded with callus. When he walked me to the back of the house he limped, and I noticed that one of his shoes was bottomed by a three-inch orthopedic sole.

  We passed through a tiny, neat bedroom and entered an equally small add-on den paneled in knotty pine and set up with a fuzzy green couch, prefab bookshelves full of paperbacks and a wide-screen TV. The air conditioner in the window was silent. A couple of black-and-white photos hung on the walls. Group portrait of a military battalion. A young couple, standing in front of this very house, the trees saplings, the lawn just dirt. To the man’s right was a bubble-topped thirties Plymouth. The woman held a SOLD sign.

  Evelyn Newsome sat on the fuzzy couch, rotund and hunched with cold-set white hair and kind blue eyes. On the redwood burl table in front of her was a teapot swaddled in a cozy and two cups on saucers.

  “Doctor,” she said, half rising. “I hope you don’t prefer coffee.” She patted the sofa cushion to her right, and I sat down. She wore a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar over maroon stretch pants. She was top-heavy, with thin legs; more sag to the material than stretch.

  “This is fine, thanks, Mrs. Newsome.”

  She poured. The cups were silk-screened HARRAH’S CASINO, RENO, NEVADA.

  “Sugar? Lemon or milk?”

  “Plain, please.”

  Walt McKitchen lingered near the doorway. Evelyn Newsome said, “I’m all right, hon.”

  McKitchen looked me over, saluted and left.

  “We’re honeymooners,” she said, smiling. “Mr. McKitchen used to visit his wife at the board-and-care where I lived. She passed away, and we became friends.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Thank you. I never thought I’d get out of that place. Arthritis. Not osteo, which everyone gets when they reach an age. Mine’s rheumatoid, it’s inherited. I’ve been achy my whole life. After Flora was gone I had nothing but pain. Now I’ve got companionship and my doctor’s come up with some new medication and I’m doing just fine. So it teaches you, things can get better.” She flexed her fingers and brushed at her hair.

  The tea was lukewarm and insipid, but she closed her eyes with pleasure. Placing the cup on the table, she said, “I’m hoping for some good news about my Flora.”

  “We’re just starting to reexamine the case.”

  She patted my hand. “I know, dear. I meant in the long run. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Is there anything you can think of that’s occurred to you since the first detectives—”

  “They weren’t bad,” she said. “A he and she, and he was black. They meant well. At first I had hope, then I didn’t. At least they were honest. Told me they’d gotten nowhere. The reason was my Flora was so good, no bad influences. So it had to be someone she didn’t know, and that makes it harder. At least that’s what they said.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Not about Flora being good, but there was something that bothered me. A while before it happened Flora had worked at a parole office. Right from the beginning, she hated it and when I asked her why she said she didn’t care for the people she had to deal with. I said, ‘then quit.’ She said, ‘Mom, it’s just temporary until I get my credential, and the pay’s good. Good jobs are hard to find.’ I mentioned that to the detectives, and they said they’d check it out, but they doubted it was important because Flora hadn’t worked there for nearly a year.”

  “What did Flora say about the people she had to deal with?”

  “Nothing more than that, and when I asked, she changed the subject. Didn’t want me to worry, I suppose. Flora was always protective of me. I’ve had my ups and downs, health-wise.” Her blues eyes sharpened. “Do you think there could’ve been a connection to that place? Is that why you’re here—” Her hand trembled. “The first detectives seemed sure it wasn’t important, but you know, it did bother me.”

  “There’s no evidence of a connection, but it’s being looked into.”

  “So you already know about it.”

  “Brian Van Dyne told us.”

  “Brian.” She smiled. She ran her finger over the Harrah’s logo.

  “Any problems between him and Flora?”

  “Brian?” She chuckled. “The two of them seemed already married. Both of them so conservative, you know? Flora liked him just fine, and he adored her.”

  “Conservative in what way?” I said.

  “Old for their age. Flora was always that way, she grew up fast. Then when she found Brian, I said, ‘She’s got her counterpart.’ Flora’s father was a man’s man. So is Mr. McKitchen. That’s my type, but Flora . . .” She shrugged. “I’m not being kind to Brian, Brian’s a nice boy. My theory is that Flora went for him because he was so different from her last boyfriend. Now that one was masculine enough, but he had other problems. But you’d know about that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The first detectives looked into him after I told them about his temper. They said he was under no suspicion whatsoever.”

  There’d been no mention of a former boyfriend in the file. I said, “I haven’t reviewed every page, Mrs. Newsome. What kind of temper problems are we talking about?”

  “Roy can be a nice young man, but he does fly off the handle. Flora used to say sometimes she had to walk on eggshells when Roy got in one of his moods. No
t that he hurt Flora, there was never a whisper of that, he never even raised his voice. It was his quiet that bothered her— she told me he’d drop into these long, cold silences where she couldn’t reach him.”

  “Moody,” I said.

  She said, “I don’t believe Roy had anything to do with what happened to Flora. He has a temper, oh sure, but he and Flora parted on friendly terms, and I’ve known his family forever.” She blinked. “Truth be told, Roy’d have no reason to resent Flora. He was the one who ended it. Ended up with another woman, cheap type if you ask me. Now they’re getting divorced, and isn’t that just a great big mess.”