Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  We said nothing.

  She said, “He’s a pussy hound, Detective. For that, I could’ve hooked up with a basketball player. Even one on the bench.” Her laughter was brittle. “I was a good Lakers Girl, went home after the games, didn’t party, held on to my morals. Nice Catholic girl, told to marry well. I married a psychologist, figured I’d be getting some stability.” She punched the tasseled pillow. Flung it to one side and hugged herself.

  “Mrs. Gull—”

  “Patty. I’ve had it, he’s history.”

  “You’re getting divorced?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “You take stock of your life, and say ‘This is what I have to do,’ and it seems so obvious. Then you step back and all the complications rain down on you. Kids, money— it’s always the woman who gets screwed moneywise. I’ve stayed out of Franco’s business affairs. He could hide everything, and I wouldn’t know.”

  “Have you talked to a lawyer?”

  “Not officially. I have a friend who’s a lawyer. She was a Lakers Girl, too, but unlike me, she was smart enough to go all the way with her education. I always wanted to get an MBA, do something in the corporate world. Maybe in sports, I love sports. Instead . . .” She threw up her hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re here about her.”

  “Dr. Koppel.”

  “Dr. Mary Lou fuck-another-woman’s-husband Koppel. You think Franco killed her?”

  Patty Gull examined her fingernails.

  “Should I think that, Mrs. Gull?”

  “Probably not. The papers said she was shot, and Franco doesn’t own a gun, wouldn’t have a clue how to use one. Also, he wasn’t with her that night. I know because I got up in the middle of the night and drove by her house looking for his car, and it wasn’t there.”

  “What time was this, ma’am?”

  “Must’ve been close to two in the morning. I went to bed at ten, like I always do. Big swinging life and all that. Franco came in before I could fall asleep and we had another fight and he left and I went to sleep. When I woke up and he wasn’t there and it was nearly two, I really lost it.”

  “Because he hadn’t come home.”

  “Because,” said Patty Gull, “he wasn’t being penitent. You’re having serious problems and you claim you’re penitent and then you have another fight. What do you do? You approach your wife on bended knees and beg her forgiveness. That’s the constructive thing to do. The caring, giving thing. Franco would tell a patient to do that. What does he do? Stalk out, turn off his car phone, and stay away.”

  “So you went looking for him.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Figuring Dr. Gull would be with Dr. Koppel.”

  “Doctor this, Doctor that. You’re making it sound like a medical convention. He was fucking her. I found them together before.” She grabbed for the same pillow, snatched it up, bounced it on a bony knee. “Bastard and bitch didn’t even try to be subtle. We live four blocks apart. I mean, rent a room for God’s sake, don’t soil your own nest.”

  “You found them at her house.”

  “You bet.”

  “When?”

  “A month ago. This is after Franco promised he’d finally deal with his problem.”

  “Being a pussy hound.”

  Hearing her own words repeated seemed to shock her. She said, “Uh, yes. He’s always been . . . it’s always been difficult. I’ve been more patient than Mother Teresa, they should canonize me. And then I find him with her— that was too much— she wasn’t even attractive. Now we’re talking another level of shoving it in my face.”

  “How’d you find them?” said Milo.

  “Oh, you’re going to love this,” said Patty Gull. “This is great. Franco gave me the old b.s. about working late. Then he had his answering service call me just before nine to let me know he was still tied up, it would be even later. I knew right away something was up. Franco doesn’t see emergency patients. Most of what he does is hand-hold bored Beverly Hills bitches. So I decided to drive over to the office and confront him. Enough is enough, right? So I tell Maria to watch the kids and I start driving to the office and something, I still don’t know what it was, makes me take McConnell. ’Cause it’s north, it’s basically on the way. And I pass her house, and there’s his car. Parked in front, parked right in front. Is that gall, or what?”

  “Pretty blatant.”

  “I parked, ran up those stairs all the way to her backyard, and there they were in the back room. She’s got this big-screen TV and on it was a porn video and apparently the bitch and the bastard were feeling playful, decided to imitate whatever filth they were watching.”

  “Wow,” said Milo.

  “Wow, indeed. They didn’t even bother to lock the door, and I just walked in, walked right past them and they were so into what they were doing that they didn’t even hear me. It wasn’t until I switched off the TV that they opened their eyes.”

  She closed her own. Remembering.

  “That was delicious,” she said. “The expressions on their faces. The way they looked at me.”

  “Shock,” said Milo.

  “Beyond shock.” Patty Gull smiled. “It was like someone from another planet— another galaxy— had landed a UFO in that room. And I just stood there, let them know with my stare that they were busted scum and there was nothing they could do to change that. Then I walked out and drove back home. Twenty minutes later, Franco showed up, looking like he had cancer. I bolted the door and didn’t let him in and told him if he tried to trespass, I’d call the police. He left, I knew he would, he always leaves. I didn’t see him until the next day. He went to work and was a good little psychologist and came home and tried to talk to me using his psychologist voice. The only reason I let him in was by that time I’d spoken to my friend the lawyer, and she’d slowed me down.”

  “She advised you not to file.”

  “I was ready to do it, I really was, but she said life would get really complicated faster than I could imagine. So I allowed the bastard to come home, but he’s not allowed to touch me, and I don’t talk to him unless the kids are present.”

  Milo said, “That was a month ago. Between then and the night Dr. Koppel was killed, have you driven past her house?”

  “All the time.”

  “How often?”

  “Every other day,” said Patty Gull. “At least. Sometimes every day. It’s on my way to go shopping, whatever, so why not? I figure if I do serve Franco, I might as well pile up the evidence. My friend says even with no-fault divorce, the more you can get, the better.”

  “Have you seen his car there, since?”

  “No,” she said. “Unfortunately. Maybe they’re doing it in the office. Or at some motel.”

  She clenched her eyes shut.

  Milo said, “You do think they continued their affair after you discovered them.”

  Her eyes flipped open. “That’s what Franco does. Fucks and fucks and fucks. He’s sick.”

  “How many other women has he—”

  “No,” said Patty Gull. “I don’t want to go there. Some things are private.”

  “Were any of them his patients?” said Milo.

  “I don’t know about that. Franco’s business was his domain. That was the deal.”

  “The deal.”

  “The marriage deal. I gave up my career and my entire life for him and had kids, and he went out and provided.”

  “He provide pretty well?”

  She waved a languid hand around the dark, floral room. “He did okay.”

  “Nice place.”

  “I conceived it myself. I’m thinking of going back and studying decorating.”

  “Mrs. Gull, in terms of the other women—”

  “I said I don’t want to go there, okay? What’s the difference? I don’t know if he fucked his patients. I do know he fucked her. But he didn’t kill the bitch. I told you, he wasn’t there that night. And he doesn’t have the guts.”

  “Where was he that nig
ht?”

  “Some hotel, I forget— ask him which one.”

  “How do you know he was there?”

  “Because he called me and left his room number, and I called him back and he was there— the place on Beverly and Pico, used to be a Ramada, I don’t know what it is now.”

  “What’d you guys talk about?”

  “Nothing pretty,” she said. “Now please leave. I have things to do.”

  “Don’t be offended by this question, ma’am, but where were you—”

  “I didn’t kill the bitch either. Guns scare me, I’ve never even touched one. That’s one thing Franco and I have in common. We’re for outlawing guns, just despise what guns have done to our country. Besides, that night Franco wasn’t there with her, so why would I bother paying the bitch a visit?”

  “You had reason to resent Dr. Koppel. Why not have a chat?”

  “At that hour?”

  “You were out driving at that hour.”

  “Five minutes, back and forth,” said Patty Gull. “Just to see. I looked for his Benz, didn’t see it, drove back home, took an Ambien, and slept like a baby.”

  Milo said nothing.

  “Detective, if resentment was enough of a motive, I’d be killing tons of women, not just her.” She laughed, this time with genuine glee. “I’d be one of those serial killers.”

  *

  Out came the picture of the dead girl. “Know her, ma’am?”

  Patty Gull’s bravado crumbled. Her mouth opened and her jaw shook. “Is she— she is, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “No, no, of course not— is she one of Franco’s— did he—”

  “Right now, we don’t know who she is.”

  “So why are you showing it to me— take it away, it’s horrible.”

  Milo began to comply, but her hand shot out and held the photo in place.

  “She looks like me. Not as pretty as I was at that age. But pretty enough, she’s a pretty girl.” She placed the photo in her lap, continued to stare.

  “She looks like me. It’s horrible.”

  CHAPTER 24

  We left Patty Gull sitting in the room she’d decorated.

  Outside, Milo said, “Scary lady. Am I sweating?”

  “She hates her husband but is sure he didn’t kill Koppel, provides what she thinks is an alibi. But her not seeing Gull’s car at Koppel’s the night of the murder says nothing. It’s a two-car garage, he could’ve moved his inside. Especially after being caught once. Or, he made sure to park several blocks away. A third possibility is he checked into the hotel and took a cab.”

  “Hell,” he said, “he could’ve walked, it’s a mile and a half.” We headed for the car. “If he did call a taxi, I can find out. Gull interests you, the way he does me?”

  “He’s smart enough to cover his tracks the way our boy’s been doing. And even if Patty’s exaggerating, his record with women is interesting. Also, he and Gavin didn’t get along. What if it was more than poor therapeutic rapport? What if Gavin learned something that made him a threat to Gull?”

  “Sleeping with a patient,” he said. “Somehow Gavin finds out about it— hanging around the office, being obsessive. He talked about uncovering scandal, now he found one. But then why would Gull kill Koppel? They were lovers.”

  “Maybe her indiscretions didn’t extend to murder. She figured out what had happened to Gavin and threatened to turn Gull in. Or the affair was no longer useful to Gull. Or both.”

  “You’re talking about one cold guy.”

  “Not that cold,” I said. “He sweats easily. I’m talking about a guy who experiences anxiety but still loves taking risks. Someone who sleeps with another woman four blocks from his house, gets busted, and possibly goes back for more.”

  “Mary Lou threatening to turn him in . . . she sure wasn’t forthcoming when I spoke to her. Then again, maybe Gull hadn’t broken it off with her, yet. If he did it a few days later, he’d have two scorned women to deal with . . . what do you think about Patty’s seeing a resemblance in the dead girl?”

  “It didn’t strike me,” I said. “I saw it as Patty having ego problems, but maybe she’s onto something.”

  “Gull murdering the old lady symbolically? Right from the beginning you saw this as a symbolic deal.”

  “If Gull’s our guy, it could also tie in with Flora Newsome. She was Mary Lou Koppel’s patient, so Gull would have had opportunity to see her. Combine Flora’s feelings of sexual inadequacy, Gull’s view of himself as a cocksman and the prestige of his position, and you’ve got fertile ground for an easy seduction.”

  “Gull does her, then kills her. His lover’s patient, talk about taking risks.”

  “By the time Flora was killed, she was dating Brian Van Dyne. Maybe Dr. Gull doesn’t take well to rejection. By a patient or a lover.”

  “Evil shrink,” he said. “All that sweating. Someone that calculating, you’d think he could keep it under control.”

  “It’s one thing to be cool when you’re calling the shots, be it seduction or murder,” I said. “Setting up the scene, choreographing, dominating because you’ve picked submissive partners. Being investigated by the police changes all that. All of a sudden, he’s placed in the one-down position.”

  “My charm intimidates him?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So the best bet is come on strong with the bastard, bulldoze over him.”

  “You got it,” I said. “Method acting.”

  “The curtain rises,” he said. “Let’s boogie.”

  *

  We drove to Franco Gull’s office building, parked in an empty slot next to Gull’s Mercedes, and headed for the rear door. A janitor was vacuuming the ground-floor carpeting. All six doors to the Charitable Planning suite were closed, and the corridor smelled of inactivity and that same popcorn fragrance.

  That same feeling of disuse, and I said so to Milo.

  Milo hadn’t taken his eye off the janitor. Now, he went over to the guy. Skinny guy, midthirties, with the burnished skin of the hard-drinking homeless, a three-day stubble, lank brown hair, scared-rabbit eyes. He wore a UC Berkeley sweatshirt over baggy gray sweatpants and filthy sneakers. His fingernails were black at the edges. He kept his head down and pushed the vacuum cleaner, trying to pretend a big, hefty detective wasn’t heading his way.

  Milo moved in that surprising, quick way he can muster, bending and flicking off the machine. When he straightened, he’d pushed closer, and his smile was all the man could see. “Hey.”

  No answer.

  “Quiet afternoon down here on the ground floor.”

  The man licked his lips. Very scared rabbit. “Yeah,” he finally said.

  “What’s Charitable Planning all about?”

  “Beats me.” The man had a whiny, congested voice, the kind that makes everything sound evasive. His shoulders rose and fell, rose again, and remained bunched up tight around his scrawny neck. Broken blood vessels explored his nose and cheeks. His lips were cracked and dry, and tattoos snaked their way up his wrist.

  Milo glanced at them, and the man tried to slide his hand back into his sleeve.

  “UC Berkeley, huh?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “Alma mater?”

  Headshake.

  “Work here long?”

  “A while.”

  “How long’s a while?”

  “Ah . . . mebbe a . . . month, two.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I do a bunch of buildings for the owner.”

  “Mr. Koppel.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ever see anyone actually work at Charitable Planning?”

  “Ah . . . ah . . .”

  “That a tough question?” said Milo. “Required you to think?”

  “I . . . ah . . . I want to answer right.”

  “Truthful or right?”

  “Truthful.”

  Milo took hold of the man’s right wrist, slid
the sleeve of the sweatshirt up a scrawny forearm. Grimy skin was specked with discs of scar tissue, most of it concentrated in the crook. The tattoos were blue-black sparked with intermittent red blotches, clearly homemade. Poorly rendered naked women with oversized breasts. A dull-eyed snake with dripping fangs.