Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “That sound you’re hearing in the background is Mr. Orwell groaning.”

  I laughed. Waited. Listened to Olivia humming and muttering to herself.

  “Nothing,” she said, finally. “Not on any databases I can find. But not everything makes it into the computer in a timely fashion, there are good, old-fashioned printed lists. I don’t keep them here, have to go over to the main office. Which is locked for the night . . . give me some time, darling, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Olivia.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Come over sometime, Alex. Bring Allison. Is she a vegetarian or something like that?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “Oh, lucky you,” she said. “Then definitely bring her over. I’ll marinate some skirt steaks, my skirt steaks are famous. You bring Allison and some wine. I could use some adorable people in the house.”

  *

  Six-thirty. Milo called me from his desk.

  “Jerry Quick’s CPA was cagey, but I managed to get a few things out of him. First of all, I got a clear impression Quick is not a big-money client. Secondly, Quick’s income comes in spurts, he’s got no regular income coming in, just whatever deals he can close, and the CPA never sees the checks, just writes down what Jerry tells him. His main gripe was that Jerry’s income was unstable, so establishing estimated tax was a hassle.”

  “Not a big-money client,” I said. “How’s he’s been doing recently?”

  “Couldn’t get the guy to spill specifics, but he did say Quick was late to pay his bill.”

  “Same thing Sonny Koppel complained about, so maybe Quick’s living on the edge. House in Beverly Hills, a Mercedes, albeit one that’s a few years old. Appearances are important. Toss in Gavin’s medical bills, and there’d be pressure.”

  “Sure,” he said. “It would explain Quick getting into something iffy and lucrative. But what it doesn’t explain is why would Sonny and the others want him involved? Guy’s a middling metals dealer. What could he offer?”

  “Guns are metal.”

  “From therapy to guns? A burgeoning crime syndicate?”

  “It’s just what came to mind,” I said. “Dealers like to deal. Quick travels around buying scrap. Don’t police departments scrap confiscated weapons?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Anything’s possible, but there’s still nothing to connect Quick or anyone to therapy mischief, let alone arms mischief. And I still can’t locate the bastard. I got hold of his home phone records, but there’re no calls to any airlines. No travel-related stuff of any kind. Couldn’t find any business phone, so I asked Sheila about it. She said he uses prepaid cells. Which is just what you’d do if your business was shady. Meanwhile, Sheila still has no idea where he is. So maybe you were right and he is on the lam.”

  “How’s she taking that?”

  “She was pretty soused but did sound a little scared. As in maybe this is more than just another of Jerry’s business trips. When she sobers up, it’ll be worse; lucidity can be a bitch. I also bopped over to Quick’s office. Closed, no sign of Angie Blue-Nails, mail’s piled up in front of the door, all junk solicitations.”

  “Maybe his important mail goes somewhere else.”

  “That would not shock me,” he said. “I phoned Angie’s apartment in North Hollywood. No answer. On the other fronts, Mr. Raymond Degussa works as a bouncer at a club in East Hollywood. Petra doesn’t know him, but she checked Hollywood files, and Degussa’s name came up on a patrol call. Hassle at the club, Degussa got into it with an unruly patron, patron called the cops, showed them a shiner, claimed Degussa threatened to kill him. But there were no witnesses, and the complainant was stoned and hostile and obnoxious, so no charge.”

  “Death threats,” I said. “Sweet guy.”

  “I’m sure he mans the velvet rope with tact and diplomacy. Other than that one incident, he’s kept his nose clean. Here’s something juicier: Bennett Hacker, our probably errant PO, did circulate through some of the satellites, including the one where Flora Newsome temped, but he was only there two weeks.”

  “That’s long enough,” I said. “How’s your schedule tonight— say in an hour?”

  I told him about Albin Larsen’s appearance at the bookstore. “We could drop by to observe, have a chance to see Larsen in another context. Unless you think that would alarm Larsen.”

  “Another context,” he said. “Not a bad idea. In terms of alarming Larsen, we’ve got a cover story. We wanted to talk to him about Mary Lou and Gull and with his being such a busy little shrink and our not wanting to disrupt his practice, we figured this would be the best way.”

  “In addition to being a cover, it would make him think the focus is still on his partner. Is Binchy still watching Gull?”

  “Yes. Gull’s keeping a low profile . . . little bookstore jaunt tonight . . . sure, let’s do it.”

  I gave him the address.

  He said, “Let’s meet, say half a block east, corner of Sixth. Arrive a little early— seven-fifteen.”

  “Scoping out the scene?”

  “Hey,” he said, “no cheap seats for us.”

  CHAPTER 33

  I got to Broadway and Sixth at 7:10. Traffic was lazy. The sky was hammered tin.

  Evenings are inevitably cool in Santa Monica; tonight marine winds whipped the June air frigid. Winds rich with kelp and rot, the metallic-sweet promise of rain. A couple of homeless guys pushed shopping carts up the boulevard. One muttered and sped past me. The other took the dollar I offered, and said, “Hey, man. You have a better year, okay?”

  “You, too,” I said.

  “Me? I had a great year,” he said, indignant. He wore a salmon-colored cashmere sport coat, stained and frayed, that had once belonged to a large, rich man. “I beat the shit out of Mike Tyson in Vegas. Took his woman and made her my bitch.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It was reeeel good.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, leaned into the breeze, and shoved on.

  A moment later, Milo rounded Sixth and strode toward me. He’d changed at the station, wore baggy jeans and an old, oatmeal-colored turtleneck that added unneeded bulk. Desert boots clopped the sidewalk. He’d folded something stiff and shiny into his hair, and it spiked in places.

  “Kind of authorial,” I said. “One of those Irish poets.” To me he still looked like a cop.

  “Now all I need is to write a damn book. So, who wrote the one tonight?”

  “A Harvard professor. George Issa something, the Middle East.”

  We began walking toward the store. “Issa Qumdis.”

  “You know him?” I said.

  “Heard the name.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I read the papers. Even when they don’t run photos of dead girls. Speaking of which, I hit the clubs, trying to locate Christa/Crystal. But tonight, we intellectualize— here we are. Looks like college days, huh?”

  His college had been Indiana U. Most of what I knew about his student years had to do with being in the closet.

  We stood outside the bookstore as he inspected the facade. The Pen Is Mightier was a half-width storefront, glass above salt-eaten brick, with signage reminiscent of a Grateful Dead poster. Most of the blackened window was papered with flyers and announcements. Tonight’s reading was heralded by a sheet of paper headlined “Prof. George I. Qumdis Reveals The Truth Behind Zionist Imperialism.” Next to that was the sticker of a boutique coffee brand, the legend “Java Inside!” and a B rating from the health department.

  “B,” said Milo, “means a permissible level of rodent droppings. I’d stay away from the muffins.”

  No coffee or muffin smells inside, just the must of old, wet news pulp. Where the walls weren’t hidden by rough pine bookshelves, they were exposed block. Bookcases on wheels were arranged haphazardly at the center. Pocked vinyl floors were the color of too-old custard. A twenty-foot ceiling was spaghettied by ductwork and ladders— not library rollers on rai
ls, just foldable, aluminum ladders— supplied for those willing to climb their way to erudition.

  A heavyset, long-haired Asian kid sat behind the register, nose buried in something bound in plain brown wrappers. A sign behind him said NO SMOKING, but he puffed on an Indian herbal stick. Another sign said READING IN BACK over a pointing hand. The clerk ignored us as we filed past and began squeezing through the choppy maze created by the portable cases.

  The book spines I could make out covered a host of isms. Titles shouted back in the hoarse adolescence of dime-store revolution. Milo scanned and frowned a lot. We ended up in a small, dark clearing at the rear of the store, set with thirty or so red plastic folding chairs that faced a lectern. Empty chairs. On the rear wall was a sign that said BATHROOMS (UNISEX).

  No one but us.

  For all his talk of good seats, Milo remained on his feet, retreating until he was back in the bookcase maze, positioning himself at a slant.

  Perfect vantage spot. We could watch and remain out of view.

  “It’s good we’re early,” I whispered. “Big crush and all that.”

  He glanced over at the seats. “All those folding chairs. You could do group therapy.”

  *

  For the next ten minutes no one showed up, and we passed the time browsing. Milo seemed distracted, then his face loosened and took on a meditative cast. I browsed and by the time the first people began trickling in, I’d received a quick education on 1. How to build homemade bombs, 2. How to farm hydroponically, 3. Vandalism in the service of the greater good, and 4. The ethical virtues of Leon Trotsky.

  The audience dispersed itself among the chairs. A dozen or so people, divided into what seemed to be two groups: twentyish, pierced-and-branded, dreadlocked rage hobbyists in expensive shredded duds, and sixtyish couples swathed in earth tones, the women helmeted by severe gray bobs, the men frizzy-bearded and shadowed by cloth caps.

  The exception was a thickset, wavy-haired guy in his fifties, wearing a navy pea coat buttoned to the neck and crumpled houndstooth pants, who positioned himself front row center. His jaw was a stubbled shelf. He wore black-rimmed glasses, had wide shoulders and serious thighs, and looked as if he’d just finished organizing dockworkers. He sat stiffly, folded his arms across a barrel chest, scowled at the lectern.

  Milo studied him, and his eyes slitted.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Angry fellow up in front.”

  “Probably not unusual for this crowd.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Lots to be angry about. It’s comfier and cozier in fucking North Korea.”

  *

  Seven-forty, forty-five, fifty. No sign of Albin Larsen or the speaker or a bookstore staffer. Quiet audience. Everyone just sitting and waiting.

  Just before eight, Larsen entered the room with a tall, dignified-looking man wearing a glen plaid, suede-elbowed hacking jacket, brown flannel trousers, and shiny peanut-butter-colored demiboots. I’d expected someone Mideastern, but Professor George Issa Qumdis had the ruddy complexion and magesterial bearing of an Oxford don. I put him at fifty-five to sixty, a comfortably lived middle age. His longish salt-and-pepper hair curled over the collar of a crisp white shirt. His rep tie probably meant something. Haughty nose, hollow cheeks, thin lips. He half turned his back on the audience and glanced at an index card.

  Albin Larsen stepped up to the lectern and began talking in a low voice. No niceties, no thanking the audience. Right into the topic.

  Israeli oppression of the Palestinian people.

  Larsen spoke fluently with minimal inflection, smiling wryly as he noted the “profound historical irony” of Jews, the victims of oppression, becoming the world’s greatest extant oppressors.

  “How odd, how sad,” intoned Larsen, “that the victims of the Nazis have adopted Nazi tactics.”

  Murmurs of assent from the audience. Milo’s face was expressionless. His eyes shifted from Larsen to the audience and back.

  Larsen’s manner stayed low-key but his rhetoric poured out hot and vindictive. Each time he uttered the word “Zionism” his eyes fluttered. The audience began warming to the topic, nodding harder.

  Except for the burly guy in the pea coat. His hands had dropped to his knees and he was rocking very slightly in his front-center seat. Head canted away from the lectern. I caught a clear view of his profile. Tight jaw, clenched eyes.

  Milo studied him some more, and his own mandible tensed.

  Larsen went on a while longer, finally indicated George Issa Qumdis with an expansive wave, took out a sheet of paper, and offered morsels from the professor’s academic résumé. When he finished, Issa Qumdis walked to the podium. Just as he began to speak, footsteps behind Milo and me made both of us turn.

  A man had entered our aisle. Midthirties, black, well groomed, very tall, wearing a well-cut gray suit over a charcoal shirt buttoned to the neck. He saw us, smiled apologetically, retreated.

  Milo watched him edge away and hook a quick right turn. The black man never reappeared and Milo’s hands began to flex.

  Why all the tension? This was a lecture at a bookstore. Maybe too much work with too little outcome. Or his instincts were sharper than mine.

  Professor George Issa Qumdis unbuttoned his jacket, smoothed back his hair, smiled at the crowd, cracked a joke about being accustomed to lecturing at Harvard, where the audience hadn’t reached puberty. A few chuckles from the audience. The guy in the pea coat began rocking again. One of his hands reached behind his head and scratched vigorously.

  Issa Qumdis said, “The truth— the inalienable truth— is that Zionism is the most repugnant doctrine of all, in a world rife with malignant dogma. Think of Zionism as the pernicious anemia of modern civilization.”

  One of the pierced-and-brandeds snickered into his girlfriend’s ear.

  Issa Qumdis warmed to his topic, branding Jews who moved to Israel “nothing less than war criminals. Each and every one is deserving of death.” Pause. “I would shoot them myself.”

  Silence.

  Even for this audience that was strong stuff.

  Issa Qumdis smiled and smoothed his lapel, and said, “Have I offended someone? I certainly hope so. Complacence is the enemy of truth and as a scholar, truth is my catechism. Yes, I’m talking about jihad. An American jihad, where—”

  He stopped, openmouthed.

  The guy in the pea coat had shot to his feet, and shouted, “Fuck you, Nazi!” as he fooled with the buttons of his coat.

  Milo was already moving toward him as Pea Coat whipped out a gun, a big black gun, and fired straight at Issa Qumdis’s chest.

  Issa Qumdis’s snowy white shirt turned to crimson. He stood there, wide-eyed. Reached down and touched himself and came away with a red, sticky thumb.

  “You pathetic fascist,” he burbled.

  Still on his feet. Breathing fast, but breathing. No loss of balance. No death pallor.

  Red rivulets wormed down his shirtfront and filthied the edges of his jacket.

  Besmirched, but alive and healthy.

  The man in the pea coat fired again, and Issa Qumdis’s face became a crimson mask. Issa Qumdis cried out, wiped frantically at his face. Albin Larsen sat in his chair, amazed, immobile.

  “Oh my God,” someone said.

  “That’s pig’s blood!” yelled the man in the pea coat. “You Arab pig-fucker!” He charged toward Issa Qumdis, tripped, fell, righted himself.

  Issa Qumdis, blinded by blood, kept swiping at his eyes.

  Pea Coat raised his weapon. Black plastic paint gun. Shrieking, “Fascist!” a woman in the second row, one of the gray-hairs, shot to her feet and grabbed for the weapon. Pea Coat tried to shake her off. She clawed and scratched and got hold of his sleeve and hung on.

  Milo hurried to the front, zigzagging through the makeshift aisles, dodging chairs, as the woman’s companion, a bald, weak-chinned man wearing granny glasses and a red CCCP sweatshirt jumped up and began rabbit-punching the back of Pea Coat’s neck. Pea C
oat struck back at him, caught him on the shoulder, and the man fell back on his rear.

  Issa Qumdis had cleared his eyes, now, was staring at the melee. Albin Larsen stood behind him, stunned, as he handed Issa Qumdis a handkerchief and led him toward the back of the store.

  By the time Milo reached the fracas, another gray-hair had joined in and Pea Coat had been pounded to the ground. The woman who’d fought for the paint gun had finally gotten hold of it. She aimed downward, shot a torrent of blood at Pea Coat but he kicked her and her aim shifted and she hit her companion instead, reddening his jeans.

  “Shit!” he cried out. A flush captured his face. He began kicking viciously at Pea Coat’s prone body.