“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.”
“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.
“He’s a pretty careful guy. Is there any message you’d like me to give him? About which building had the break-in?”
“Thanks, but it would be better if we spoke directly.”
“Okay,” said Bogard. “I’ll tell him you were here.”
“No idea at all when he’ll be back?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say late afternoon. If he comes back
at all. You never know, with Sonny.”
Milo gave her a card, and said, “In case we don’t catch him today, please have him call.”
“Sure.” Cheryl Bogard returned to her cubicle, placed the card in front of her, looked up, and waved.
Milo started to leave, then changed his mind, went over to her, said something, listened to her reply.
As we stepped out into the hall, I said, “What did you ask her?”
“What was in the bag.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “Tootsie Rolls, M&Ms, Almond Joy. Ol’ Sonny brings candy for the girls. She said they were all watching their weight, ate very little of it. He finishes off what’s left.”
CHAPTER 28
A block up from Sonny Koppel’s corporate headquarters was a coffee shop with a forties-era starship poised for takeoff atop an aqua metal roof. Milo and I sat at the empty counter, sucked in the aroma of eggs crackling in grease, and ordered coffee from a waitress old enough to be our mother.
He cell-phoned DMV. The address on Edward Albert Koppel’s driver’s license was the building we’d just visited. He’d registered four cars: the Buick, a five-year-old Cutlass, a seven-year-old Chevy, and an eleven-year-old Dodge.
“Buys American,” I said.
“You saw him,” he said. “You figure Mary Lou would go for a guy like that?”
“They were married years ago, when he was in law school,” I said. “Maybe he looked different.”
“The Candy Man . . . his secretary sure seemed wholesome.” He gulped down his coffee, drummed his fingers on the counter. “Kindly boss, noble patriot, all-around unpretentious guy . . . if it seems too good to be true, it probably is, right? Ready to go?”
“Where to?”
“You’re going home, and I’m back to the Quicks’ for that toss of Gavin’s room. Did you have a chance to check the psych licensing board on Franco Gull?”
“Clean,” I said.
“That so? Well, maybe Gavin didn’t think so, and look what happened to him.”
*
It was two days before I heard from him again. Ned Biondi hadn’t called, and my thoughts had drifted away from murders.
Robin came by and picked up Spike. Despite the two days of bonding, he reverted to instant disdain for me at the sight of her Ford pickup. Running to Robin as she crouched in the driveway, leaping into her arms, making her laugh.
She thanked me for babysitting and handed me a small blue gift box.
“Not necessary.”
“I appreciate the help, Alex.”
“How was Aspen?”
“Mean-looking men with bubble blond arm candy, lots of dead animal pelts, the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.” She played with an earring. Spike sat obediently at her feet.
“Anyway,” she said.
When she moved in to kiss my cheek, I pretended not to notice, and pivoted in a way that made me unavailable.
I heard the truck door close. Robin was at the wheel, looking puzzled as she started up the engine.
I waved.
She returned the wave, hesitantly. Spike began licking her face, and she drove away.
I opened the blue box. Sterling cuff links, shaped like tiny guitars.
*
When Milo finally called, I was getting out of the shower. “Mr. and Mrs. Quick appear to have taken a vacation. The house is locked up tight. Her van’s there, but his car isn’t, and a neighbor said she saw them loading suitcases.”
“Taking some time off,” I said.
“I need to get into that room. I called the sister— Paxton— but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. Onward to Mr. Sonny Koppel. He may drive old cars and dress like a slob, but it’s not due to poverty. Guy has title to over two hundred parcels of real estate. Commercial and residential rentals, four counties, just like his girl said.”
“Definitely a tycoon,” I said.
“He’s also got all sorts of holding companies and limited corporations as shields. It’s taken me this long to winnow through the basics. This guy’s big-time, Alex, and from what I can tell he likes to partner with the government.”
“Federal?”
“Federal, state, county. A lot of his holdings seem to be cofinanced by public funds. We’re talking low-cost housing projects, senior citizen residences, landmark buildings, assisted care. And guess what: halfway houses for parolees. Including the one on Sixth Street where Roland Kristof crashes. The state legislature says we have to pay for the board and care of felonious individuals, and Koppel’s cleaning up.”
“Public-spirited,” I said.
“It’s a great arrangement. Find some building or construction project that’s eligible for bond money or a grant, split your costs with John Q, take all the income. In terms of Koppel’s background, all I can find is that he did his undergrad work and law school at the U. But he never practiced, and I can’t locate any record of his taking the bar. Somehow he got bankrolled and built up an empire.”
“Is the office building where Pacifica practices a government deal?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” he said. “But not because it’s in Beverly Hoohah. Koppel owns two B.H. properties— a senior residence hotel on Crescent Drive and a shopping center on La Cienega— that were financed with tax bucks. The hotel qualifies for an HUD gift and the strip mall got a FEMA grant because the stores that stood there before were earthquake-damaged.”
“He knows how to work the system,” I said.
“He works it well. The only time his name appears on court documents is when he sues someone or someone sues him. Mostly the former— back-rent and eviction cases. Once in a while he gets tagged with a slip-and-fall by a tenant. Sometimes he settles, sometimes he fights. When he fights, he wins. He distributes his business among eight different law firms, all downtown, all white-shoe. But get this: He doesn’t even live in a house, let alone a mansion. His primary residence— and it was hard to find— is an apartment on Maple Drive in Beverly Hills. Which sounds nice, but it’s not one of the fancy condos, just an old building, kind of shabby, six units. One of Koppel’s limited partnerships owns the place, and Koppel lives in a two-bedroom at the back. The manager doesn’t even know her tenant’s really her boss, because she referred to Koppel as ‘the heavy guy, real quiet’ and said the owners were some Persians who lived in Brentwood. On several of his rentals, Koppel hires a couple named Fahrizad to serve as his front.”
“Elusive fellow,” I said.
“Let’s challenge that.”
*
Sonny Koppel’s stretch of Maple Drive lay between Beverly Boulevard and Civic Center Drive. Mixed-use neighborhood, the west side filled by a granite-clad behemoth that served as Mercedes Benz headquarters, a high-profile, extravagantly landscaped office complex that catered to entertainment lawyers and film agents, and construction dust from a fulminating high-rise.
Across the street were two-story apartment buildings, souvenirs of the postwar building boom. Koppel’s was one of the dingiest examples, an off-gray traditional with a cheap composite roof. Three upstairs units, three down, a scratchy lawn, struggling shrubs.
Koppel’s Buick was parked in back, squeezed into one of the half dozen slots in the open carport. We cruised and found each of Koppel’s other cars parked within two blocks, each with Beverly Hills street parking permits that were up-to-date.
An Olds, a Chevy, a Dodge. Gray, gray, dark green. Lots of dust on the first two. The Dodge had been washed recently. I idled the Seville as Milo got out and examined each vehicle. Empty.
I parked, and we headed for Koppel’s building.
*
Sonny Koppel answered the door palming popcorn out of a chartreuse plastic bowl. The fragrance brought to mind the theater-lobby smell of Pacifica’s building. Before Milo had his badge out, Koppel nodded as if he’d been expecting us and beckoned us in. He wore a royal blue U. sweatshirt over plaid pajama bottoms and fuzzy brown slippers.
Five-eight, 270 at least, with a melon gut and thinni
ng reddish brown hair that frizzed above a high, glossy pate. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his stubble looked like dandruff. Saggy blue eyes, pendulous lips, short, thick limbs, beefy hands with stubby nails.
Behind him, an old nineteen-inch RCA TV blared financial news from a cable station. Koppel lowered the volume.
“My girls told me you were by,” he said, in a sleepy basso. “It’s about Mary, right? I was wondering if you’d get in touch— here, sit, sit.”
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