Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He tugged the side of his mouth, ate some popcorn.

  Milo showed him the picture of the dead girl.

  Koppel chewed faster, swallowed hard. “Who’s that?”

  “Someone else who got killed.”

  “Someone else? Related to Mary?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “You’re saying what happend was part of something . . . that it wasn’t just Mary?”

  Milo shrugged.

  “What’s really going on, Lieutenant?”

  “That’s all I can tell you, sir. Does the name Flora Newsome mean anything to you?”

  Koppel shook his head. Glanced at the photo. “That’s her?”

  “What about Gavin Quick?”

  “I know a Quick,” said Koppel, “but not Gavin.”

  “Who do you know?”

  “Jerry Quick— Jerome Quick. He’s one of my tenants. Who’s Gavin? His son? The one who had the accident?”

  “You know about the accident.”

  “Jerry told me about it, said his son was having some emotional problems. I referred him to Mary.”

  “How long has Mr. Quick been your tenant?”

  “Four months.” He frowned.

  “Good tenant?” said Milo.

  “He pays his rent, but not always on a timely basis. I felt a little . . . used. Especially after I listened to his problems and gave him a referral. I’ve had to pay Jerry a few visits.” He smiled. “That’s not what it sounds like— no goons with baseball bats, we just talked, and, eventually, he paid.”

  “Why would I assume goons with baseball bats, sir?”

  Koppel flushed. “You wouldn’t. So what’s with Gavin?”

  “He’s deceased.”

  “Murdered also?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My God— what’s the connection to Mary?”

  “All we know at this time was that Gavin was her patient, and they’re both dead.”

  “My God,” Koppel repeated. “There’s a lot you can’t tell me.”

  “Is there something more you could tell us, sir?”

  Koppel considered that. “I wish there was. Mary and I— we rarely spoke, except when there was a business issue. Even then, there was little to talk about. I set up our partnership so she didn’t have to be hands-on. She had her practice, she didn’t need to be distracted. Because properties can be demanding. To make them work you have to give them attention like children. I’m on the road all the time.”

  “All those cars,” said Milo.

  “I know, I know, it probably seems eccentric, but I need to have reliable transportation . . . Jerry’s son? He was young, right? Just a kid.”

  “He was twenty.”

  Koppel’s face had turned an unhealthy color— bologna left too long in the fridge. “You can’t tell me anything?”

  “The truth is, we don’t know much ourselves.”

  “Quick’s son . . . the girl you showed me— Flora— was she a patient of Mary’s, as well?”

  “The girl we showed you hasn’t been identified yet, so I don’t know if she was one of Dr. Koppel’s patients. The files are confidential, we can’t get in there.”

  “All those questions you asked me,” said Koppel, “about the halfway houses. Are you saying you suspect one of my— one of those tenants had something to do with something really horrible? If you do, please tell me. I really need to know if you do.”

  “Do you think that’s a possibility, sir?”

  “How would I have a clue?” Koppel bellowed. One of his hands moved spasmodically, knocked against the popcorn bowl, sent it flying.

  Yellow rain. When it settled, Koppel was covered with kernels and husks and dust.

  He stared at us, breathing heavily. Milo went into the kitchen and unrolled a paper towel from a wooden spool. He came back and began brushing Koppel off. Koppel snatched the paper away and flailed at himself. When he finally stopped, yellow grit clung to his sweatshirt and his pajamas.

  He sat there, staring at us, still panting.

  Milo said, “What else can you tell us about Jerome Quick?”

  Koppel didn’t answer.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m sorry. For losing my temper. But you’re freaking me out. First Mary, now Jerry Quick’s son. That girl.”

  Milo repeated his question.

  “He didn’t pay his rent on time, that’s it. His excuse was the up-and-down nature of his business. He trades metals, makes deals on scrap. Once in a while he has a windfall that carries him for a while; other times, he loses money. To me it sounded more like gambling than business. Had I known, I never would have rented to him.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He came to me through a leasing agent. In the past they’d been reliable,” said Koppel. “It’s not as if his rent is prohibitive. I keep all my rents reasonable, want the turnover low.”

  He looked down and picked stray bits of popcorn from his pajamas. Dropped the first few into the bowl. Ate the rest.

  “His son. Poor Jerry. Guess I’ll need to cut him some slack.” Suddenly, he stood with surprising grace, brushed himself off some more, sat back down.

  “What kind of emotional problems did Jerry Quick describe?”

  “He didn’t get specific. At first I wasn’t sure I even believed him. He brought it up when we were having one of our rent discussions. Second month’s rent, and he’s already twenty days late. I dropped by to talk about it, and he gave me a sob story about how he’d been cheated out of a deal, lost big, and now on top of it his kid was having psychological problems.”

  “Which he didn’t specify.”

  “I wasn’t interested. Figured he was just trying to make me feel sorry for him. The way the referral came about is I called his bluff, said, ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you get him some help?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, I need to do that.’ And I said, ‘My ex-wife’s a psychologist, and her office is close to your house. You want her number?’ He said sure, and I gave it to him. Like I said, I thought it was a dodge. So he actually followed through.”

  Milo nodded. “How’s he been with the rent since then?”

  “Chronically late.”

  “Dr. Koppel never told you about the referral?”

  “She’d never do that,” said Koppel. “Confidentiality, she was big on that. The whole time we were married she never talked about patients. That’s another thing I admired about her. Her ethics.”

  “Mr. Koppel,” said Milo, “where were you the night your ex-wife was murdered?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where was I? I was here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Don’t rub it in,” said Koppel. “That night . . . let’s see, that night I think I ran into Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher— in the front unit. Both of us were taking out the garbage. Are you going to ask her? If you do, could you please not mention that I’m her landlord?”

  “It’s a secret?” said Milo.

  “I like to keep a low profile. That way I can come home and relax and not have tenants calling me up for repairs.”

  “A private home would accomplish that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m eccentric,” said Koppel. “The problem with a house is too much maintenance, and my whole life’s about that. Also, I don’t need the space.”

  “Not a lot of stuff.”

  “What’s so sane about accumulating stuff?”

  “So you were here all night, sir?”

  “Like I always am. Unless I’m on the road.”

  “How often are you on the road?”

  “One, two days a week.”

  “Where do you stay?”

  “Motels. I like Best Western. But I was home that night.”

  Milo got up. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Koppel, tweezing popcorn from his clothes.

  CHAPTER 29

  “The sensitive tycoon,” said Milo, when we were back on the
sidewalk. “You buying it?”

  “I think when it comes to money he’d be something to reckon with. You’re not going to check with Mrs. Cohen, the art teacher?”

  “What, to verify his alibi? All she saw was him taking out the garbage. Five minutes out of a whole evening, big deal.”

  “You see him as a suspect?”

  “He’s landlord to a bunch of cons, and he was shelling out twenty-five grand a month to Koppel. Now that she’s dead, not only do the payments stop, he gets all her real estate. That’s a hell of a lot of motive. Also, he goes on about being an efficient businessman but keeps an entire floor of a Beverly Hills building vacant. I’d love to get in there, find out what Charitable Planning is really all about.”

  “Group therapy,” I said. “If Sonny was really as enamored of Mary as he made out, I can see him holding the space vacant for her.”

  “What, you don’t see him as a potential bad guy?”

  “The way you lay it out, he definitely belongs on the radar screen. But what motive would he have for killing Gavin and the blonde?”

  He didn’t answer. We headed for my car.

  I said, “How’s the surveillance on Gull going?”

  “He goes to work, returns home. I’m sure his lawyer told him to keep a clean nose.”

  “The lie about Gavin’s referral could be Jerry Quick wanting to hide the fact that he got Mary Lou’s name from Sonny. Because if we interviewed Sonny, we’d know he’s a deadbeat tenant. Having it come from a physician makes it sound a lot more respectable.”

  “I guess,” he said. “But his kid was killed, you’d think he’d want to be forthcoming.”

  “Another thing,” I said, “is that Sonny sent Gavin directly to Mary Lou, but Gull ended up with the case anyway. Then it reverted to Mary. Sonny may be involved somehow, but I can’t shake the notion that Gavin’s death was connected to his treatment. Same for Flora Newsome. We’re talking two patients and their therapist, all dead.”

  “All skewered,” he said. “Someone they all knew. Or who knew them. But maybe nothing to do with the treatment. Some con sent over by Sonny to clean the building spotted them and decided to play. Some real psychopath who’s worked the system and passed himself along as a nonviolent parolee. I’ll ask Sonny for a list of maintenance guys, see who pops up. Meanwhile, let’s go over to the Quick house, again. Maybe Jerry and Sheila returned from wherever it was they went, and I can have a go at Gavin’s mess.”

  *

  I took Gregory Drive all the way to Camden. As we pulled up to the Quick house, Milo said, “Same as before: her car’s here, his isn’t. Don’t bother getting out, this probably won’t take long.”

  He sprang out of the Seville, trotted to the front door, rang the bell. Tapped his foot. Rang again. Shook his head and was about to leave when the door swung halfway open.

  I caught a glimpse of Sheila Quick’s drawn face.

  Milo talked to her. Turned to me. Mouthed, “Come in.”

  *

  “We were at my sister’s house in Westlake Village,” she said. Her hair was turbaned by a blue towel, and she wore a quilted beige robe patterned with butterflies and clematis vines. Stains on the robe. Her face was drawn and chalky, eyes stripped of illusion.

  “You and your husband?” said Milo.

  “Jerry wanted to get away for a couple days.” She spoke slowly, slurred, worked hard at forming words. I’d guessed tranquilizers, then I smelled her breath. Lots of wintergreen but not enough to mask the alcohol.

  The three of us were standing in her dining room. The space felt heavy, smothering. Where light hit the furniture it exposed a coating of dust.

  “Your husband wanted to get away,” said Milo.

  “From the stress.” Sheila Quick’s lips curled in distaste.

  I said, “You didn’t want to go?”

  “Eileen,” she said. “She thinks her house is the greatest . . . that paddle tennis court of hers. As far as she’s concerned why wouldn’t I want to go?”

  She looked to me for confirmation. I nodded.

  “Jerry,” she said. “Whatever Jerry wants, Jerry gets. You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think Jerry wanted to stick me there. So he stuck me there. And went on his merry way.”

  “He didn’t stay at Eileen’s.”

  “I was supposed to be happy because Eileen has a pool and that paddle tennis court. It’s not even a full tennis court, it’s half of that.” She took hold of my sleeve. “We were going to build a pool, Gavin liked to swim.”

  She threw up her hands. “I hate chlorine. It makes me itch. Why would I be happy just ’cause there’s a pool? I wanted Jerry to bring me back. Finally, he called, and I told him to bring me back.” Woozy smile. “So, here I am.”

  “Where’s Jerry?” I said.

  “Working. Somewhere.”

  “Out of town?”

  She nodded. “As usul— usuizul . . . it’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Jerry hates Eileen. But wanted to stick me in her house so he could Godknowswhat . . . It wasn’t right.”

  She ticked her fingers, talked in a singsong. “Eileen has her house, I have my house.”

  “You like your privacy,” I said.

  “I don’t like her pool. It itches. I don’t play paddle tennis. She and her husband go to work, I’m left there with all the . . . all the quiet. What am I supposed to do all day? But Jerry . . . Eileen asked me last week to come over, and Jerry told her forget it. Then he changed his mind. What’s that all about? I’ll tell you what it’s about.”

  But she didn’t.

  Milo said, “Where’s Mr. Quick currently traveling?”

  “Who knows? Who knows where he goes? He’s like a bird.” She waved her hands. “Bye-bye birdie, flew the coop. I stay here. I never leave here, this is my house. Jerry doesn’t call. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

  She squeezed my arm. “It’s in . . . consistenant. One day, she’s a stuck-up bitch who thinks her shit is perfume. Unquote. Next day he’s driving me there and going back to clean up Gavin’s room, then he’s off. Doing his thing. His thingamjig.”

  “He cleaned Gavin’s room,” said Milo.

  “He sure did! You know what I think? I think that was it.”

  “What was?”

  “He knew I’d get mad if he cleaned up Gavin’s room, so he snuck around me.”

  “He cleaned the room while you were at Eileen’s.”

  “It was a mess,” said Sheila Quick. “We have no disagreement on that, no question about it being a mess. A big. Fat. Mess. Gavin used to be neater, then he had an accident.” She let go of my sleeve, swayed, held on to a chair for balance. “Did I tell you about that?”

  I said, “Why do you think Jerry decided to clean up the mess?”

  “Ask him.” Smile. “Except you can’t. ’Cause he’s not here. He’s never here. I’m always here.”

  The cords of her neck tightened. “I didn’t want him to clean Gav’s room. I would’ve gotten mad, I loved the mess. It was Gav’s mess, what was the rush?”

  She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. I guided her to a sofa.

  Milo went up the stairs.

  *

  He came down ten minutes later. I’d gone into the kitchen, found a coffeemaker half-filled with lukewarm coffee, warmed it in the microwave, and brought it to Sheila Quick, guessing on nondairy creamer and one packet of artificial sweetener. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The counters were grimy. Not far from the machine was a nearly empty bottle of Tanqueray gin and a tube of Binaca breath spray.

  I held the cup as she drank. Her mouth was still trembling and she dribbled and I wiped her chin.

  She glanced up at me. “You’re nice. Good-looking, too.”

  Milo strode into the living room. “Ma’am, I recall a computer in Gavin’s room.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Where is it?”