“Ghost town,” he said. “ ‘Charitable Planning.’ You picking up eau de scam?”
“At the very least eau de shadow corporation,” I said. “You hassled Kristof. What about him bugged you?”
“He gave off eau de con in waves, and my nose is always sensitive to that.”
“I thought it might be more than that.”
“Like what?”
“A parolee hired by Koppel’s ex, working in the building where three murder victims spent some time. Flora Newsome’s job at the parole office. Before Koppel got killed, we were surmising about an ex-con.”
“Flora again,” he said, and resumed walking.
When we got outside, I said, “It doesn’t bother you?”
“What?”
“Sonny Koppel hiring a junkie parolee for building maintenance. The whole con connection?”
“Everything bothers me.” When we reached the car, he said, “In terms of Flora, what we were surmising about was her sleeping with a con. She mighta slummed, Alex, but I don’t see her getting anywhere near a burnout like Kristof.”
“So maybe Kristof’s not the only parolee on Koppel’s payroll. Maybe Koppel’s found himself a source of cheap labor. Mary Lou was into prison rehab. There could be some connection.”
“Larsen says he gave her the idea.”
“Larsen was disappointed we didn’t hear him on the interview tapes. Everyone’s got an ego.”
“Even shrinks?”
“Especially shrinks.”
He tried to pull the car door open. I hadn’t unlocked the Seville, his arm strained, and he grunted. By the time I’d turned the key, he’d wandered back toward the alley.
When he returned, he said, “It’s time to meet Mr. Sonny Koppel. Something else that shoulda been done right away. Woman gets killed, go straight for the ex, it’s goddamned Detection 101.”
“You’re dealing with three cases that point in all directions.”
He threw up his hands and laughed. “Supportive therapy again.”
“Reality.”
“If I wanted reality, I wouldn’t live in L.A.”
*
As we drove off, he sank into silence. I crossed Olympic, and he announced he’d face Sheila Quick alone for the toss of Gavin’s room. I dropped him at the station and returned home. Spike was waiting for me at the door, looking forlorn.
That was new. Generally, his game was nonchalance: remaining in the service porch when I came home, waiting me out when walk time approached, feigning sleep until I lifted his limp body and set four paws on the ground.
“Hey, guy.”
He snorted, shook a drizzle of saliva my way, licked my hand.
“Lonely, huh?”
His head dropped, but his eyes remained fixed on me. One ear twitched.
“Really lonely.”
He gazed upward and let out a low, hoarse moan.
“Hey,” I said, bending on one knee and ruffling his neck, “she’ll be home tomorrow.”
In the old days, I’d have added, I miss her, too.
Spike snuffled and rolled over. I scratched his belly. “How about some exercise?”
He snapped to attention. Pant, pant.
I had an old leash stored in my office closet, and by the time I brought it back he was jumping and yelping and scraping at the door.
“Nice to be appreciated,” I said.
He stopped fussing. His expression said, Don’t get carried away.
*
His stubby little legs and attenuated palate could handle a half mile up the Glen and back. Not bad for a ten-year-old pooch—in bulldog years, he was well past retirement. When we returned, he was famished and parched, and I filled his bowls.
While he ate, I called the most current number I had for Ned Biondi. Ned had retired as a senior writer for the Times years ago, talked about moving to Oregon, so when I got a no-longer-in-service message, I wasn’t surprised. I tried Oregon information, but he wasn’t listed.
I’d treated Ned’s daughter years ago, a brilliant girl with too-high standards who’d starved herself and nearly died. I supposed the fact that Ned hadn’t bothered to leave his forwarding was encouraging. The family didn’t need me anymore. How old would Anne Marie be, now—nearly thirty. Over the years, Ned had phoned to fill me in and I knew she’d gotten married, had a child, was still waffling about a career.
The information always came from Ned. I’d never achieved much rapport with his wife, who’d barely spoken to me during therapy. Once treatment was over, Anne Marie didn’t speak to me either, not even to return follow-up calls. I mentioned it once to Ned, and he grew apologetic and embarassed, so I dropped it. A year after discharge, Anne Marie wrote me an elegant letter of thanks on pink, perfume-scented stationery. The tone was gracious, the message clear: I’m okay. Back off.
No way could I call her to locate Ned. Someone at the paper would know where he was.
As I started to punch in the Times’s main number, call waiting clicked in.
Allison said, “Hi, baby.”
“Hey.”
“How’s your day been?”
“Not bad,” I said. “Yours?”
“The usual . . . do you have a minute?”
“Something wrong?”
“No, no. I was just—yesterday, when I came by—Alex, you know I like Robin, we’ve always gotten along. But when I drove up . . . seeing you two . . .”
“I know what it looked like, but she was just thanking me for taking Spike.”
“I know.” Her laugh was flimsy. “I called to tell you I know. Because maybe I let out a little jealous vibe. I was a little bugged. Seeing her kissing you.”
“Chastely,” I said. “On the cheek.”
She laughed again, then grew silent.
“Ally?”
“I couldn’t ascertain the site,” she said. “All I saw was two people who . . . you looked like a couple—you looked comfortable with each other. That’s when it hit me. All the history you have with her. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just started contrasting it with—it just seems as if we’re a ways off from that . . .”
“Allison—”
“I know, I know, I’m being neurotic and insecure,” she said. “I’m allowed to do that, once in a while, right?”
“Sure you are, honey, but in this case it’s not warranted. The only reason she was there was to hand off Spike. Period.”
“Just a peck on the cheek.”
“That’s it.”
“I don’t want you to think I’ve turned into some possessive, paranoid chick—oh, listen to me.”
“Hey,” I said, “if the situation were reversed, I’d react the same way. Robin has no interest in me, she’s happy with Tim. And I’m thrilled to be with you.”
“I’m your main squeeze.”
“You are.”
“Okay, I got my self-esteem injection,” she said. “Sorry for bugging you in the middle of the day.”
“You’re my girl, Dr. Gwynn. I find you smooching some dude, it won’t be a pretty sight.”
“Right. You, Mr. Civilized.”
“Don’t test me.”
She laughed, this time with heart. “I can’t believe I made this call. The last thing I want is to be possessive.” Her voice caught.
“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s nice to be possessed.”
“It is . . . okay, no more Ms. Mawkish. I’ve got three more patients coming and each needs to perceive me as all-knowing. Then, it’s over to the hospice.”
“Any free time at all?”
“I wish. The hospice is having a potluck dinner for all the volunteers, so I’m eating there. The only breathing time I have is right now, last-minute cancellation. What I should be doing is charting and returning calls, not whining to you.”
“I’ll be over in twenty.”
“What?” she said.
“I’m coming over. I want to see you.”
“Alex, my next patient’s due in forty. The dr
ive, alone, will eat up—”
“I want to kiss you,” I said. “That won’t take long.”
“Alex, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m okay; you don’t have to indulge my—”
“This is for me. I’m going to be in the neighborhood, anyway. Talking to a doctor at St. John’s.” Though I hadn’t made the appointment.
“Baby,” she said, “I can assure you that whatever it was that tweaked my anxiety has passed.”
“I want to see you,” I said.
Dead air.
“Ally?”
“I want to see you, too.”
*
While driving to Santa Monica, I got Dr. Leonard Singh’s number from Information, found out he was on rounds, would be back in an hour. I told his secretary I’d be stopping by and hung up before she could ask why.
When I reached Allison’s office building, she was waiting out on the sidewalk, dressed in a sky-blue cashmere cowl neck sweater and a long, wine-colored skirt, drinking something from a cardboard cup and kicking the heel of one boot. Her black hair was tied back with a clip, and she looked young and nervous.
I swung into the no parking zone in front and she got in the passenger seat. The cup gave off coffee and vanilla fumes.
I leaned over, cupped her chin in my hand, kissed it.
She said, “I want lips,” and drew me close.
We connected for a long time. When we broke, she said, “I have staked my claim. Want a sip?”
“I don’t do girlie coffee.”
“Ha.” She has a soft, sweet voice, and her attempt at a growl made me smile. “That, my darling, is the primeval sound of the alpha female!”
I eyed the cardboard cup. “Alpha females drink that?”
She glanced down at the beige fluid. “In the postfeminist age one can be simultaneously girlie and strong.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s next? You drag me into your cave?”
“I wish.” She removed the clip, shook her hair loose, pushed thick, black strands behind one ear. Her skin was milk white, and I touched the faint, blue veins that collected at her jawline.
She said, “Alpha female, who’m I kidding? I mewl, and you hurry over. My professional advice is don’t encourage that kind of dependent behavior, Alex.”
“What’s your nonprofessional advice?”
She took my hand. The minutes ticked away, too hurried.
She said, “Does ‘not a bad day’ mean you’ve made some progress on Mary Lou?”
I told her about Patty and Franco Gull.
“Is Gull really a suspect?”
“Milo’s looking at him pretty closely.”
“Murderous shrink. There’s another PR coup for our profession.”
“You told me Gull came across slick. Do you recall anything else about him?”
She thought about it. “He just impressed me as really into image. The way he carried himself, the clothes, the hair. I’m certainly not surprised he’s promiscuous. He had that swagger—physical confidence, like someone who developed charisma early.”
“I was thinking high school jock.”
“That would fit,” she said. “If it turned out he slept with his patients, I wouldn’t be shocked either.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just a feeling.”
“But you never actually heard anything to that effect.”
“Never heard anything about him except that he was Mary Lou’s partner. Maybe that colored my judgment. Because of her reputation. For being expensive and publicity-hungry. To me, Gull came across the same way.”
“Albin Larsen doesn’t,” I said.
“He’s more of a professor.”
“Apparently he’s some sort of human rights advocate. Maybe they brought him into the group for respectability. When we interviewed him and Gull, Gull was sweating and Larsen seemed to be holding his tongue. As if he found Gull a bit . . . distasteful.”
“It doesn’t sound as if Mary Lou and Gull were very discreet about their affair,” she said. “So maybe Larsen knew.” She shook her head. “Leaving his car parked in front of her house. I’m enough of a shrink to think accidents are pretty rare. My sense is they both wanted Gull’s wife to find out. Pretty cruel.”
I said, “Maybe Koppel saw herself as an alpha female.”
“A true alpha wouldn’t need to steal someone else’s man,” she said. She glanced at the dash clock. “I’ve got five minutes.”
“Shucks.”
“So what happens to the practice now that Mary Lou’s gone?”
“Gull and Larsen say they’ll take any patients who want to continue with them and refer the rest out.”
“If even a small percentage of her patients transfer, that could be quite an income boost.”
I stared at her. “You see a profit motive, here?”
“I agree with you, there’s dominance and anger at play and probably some sexual overtones. But profit would a nice side benefit. And if Gull’s your murderer, it would fit. What would be more intoxicating to a psychopath than eliminating someone he once possessed sexually and looting her business? It’s basic warfare.”
Coins of color spotted her ivory cheeks. Robin had always been repelled by these kinds of discussions.
“You,” I said, “are an interesting girl.”
She said, “Interesting but weird, huh? You drop by for some romance, and I’m analyzing at warp speed.”
Before I could answer, she kissed me full on the lips, sat back suddenly.
“On the other hand,” she said, “analyzing is what they sent us to school for. Gotta go. Call me soon.”
*
Dr. Leonard Singh was tall and slightly stooped, with nutmeg skin and clear, amber eyes. He wore an exquisite Italian suit—navy blue overlaid with a faint red windowpane check—a yellow spread-collar shirt, a glistening red tie with matching pocket foulard, and a jet-black turban. His beard was full and gray, his mustache Kiplingesque.
He was surprised to see me in his waiting room, even more surprised when I told him why I was there. But no guardedness; he invited me into the cramped, green space that served as his hospital office. Three spotless white coats hung from a wooden rack. A glass jar of peppermint sticks was wedged between two stacks of medical charts. His medical degree was from Yale, his accent by way of Texas.
“Dr. Gull,” he said. “No, I don’t really know him.”
“You referred Gavin Quick to him.”
Singh smiled and crossed his legs. “Here’s the way that happened. The boy came to me through the ER. I was one of two neurologists on call, just about to go off service, but someone I’ve worked with asked me to do the consult.”
Jerome Quick had given me a name. The family doctor, a golfing buddy . . .
“Dr. Silver,” I said.
“That’s right,” said Singh. “So I saw the boy, agreed to follow him, did what I could. Given the situation.”
“Closed-head injury, nothing obvious on the CAT scan.”
Singh nodded and reached for the candy jar. “Care for some late-afternoon sucrose?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself, they’re good.” He pulled out a peppermint stick, bit off a section, crunched, chewed slowly. “Cases like that, you’re almost hoping for something blatant on the CAT. You’re don’t actually want to see tissue damage, because those situations are usually more severe. It’s just you want to know what the insult to the brain is, want to have something to tell the family.”
“Gavin’s situation was ambiguous,” I said.
“The problem with a case like Gavin’s is you just know he’s going to have problems, but you can’t tell the family exactly what’s going to happen or if it’s going to be permanent. When I found out he’d been murdered, I thought, ‘Oh my, there’s a tragedy.’ I called and left a message with his folks, but no one’s returned it.”
“They’re pretty torn up. Any thoughts about the murder?”
“Thoug
hts? As in who mighta done it? No.”
“Gavin’s symptoms had persisted for ten months,” I said.
“Not a good sign,” said Singh. “On top of that, all his symptoms were behavioral. Psychiatric stuff. We cellular types prefer something concrete—a nice solid ataxia, something edematous that we can shrink down and feel heroic about. Once we veer off into your field, we start to feel at loose ends.”
He took another bite of peppermint stick. “I did what I could for the boy. Which consisted of monitoring him to make sure I wasn’t missing something, then I prescribed a little occupational therapy.”
“He had fine motor problems?”
“Nope,” said Singh. “This was more supportive in nature. We knew he’d experienced some cognitive loss and personality change. I thought some sort of psychological support was called for, but when I suggested a psych consult to the parents, they didn’t want to hear about it. Neither did Gavin. So I backed off and offered O.T., figuring maybe that would be more palatable to them. It was, but unfortunately . . . you know about Gavin’s experiences with his therapist.”
“Beth Gallegos.”
“Nice gal. He tormented her.”
“Have you seen that before in CHI cases?”
“You can certainly have obsessive changes, but no, I can’t say I’ve seen anyone turn into a stalker.” Singh nibbled the broken edge of the peppermint stick.
“So the family was resistant to psychotherapy,” I said.
“Highly resistant.” Singh smiled, sadly. “I got the impression this was a family big on appearances. Dr. Silver said so, too. Though he didn’t know them well.”
“Really,” I said. “I got the impression he was a family friend.”
“Barry? No, not at all. Barry’s an OB-GYN, he’d only recently started treating the mother for premenopausal symptoms.”
Jerome Quick had lied about Silver being a golfing buddy. A small lie, but why?
I said, “So what was your connection to Dr. Gull?”
“I don’t have one,” said Singh. “After Gavin got into trouble because of what he did to Beth, the father called me, saying the boy had been arrested and that the court down in Santa Ana was going to lock him up unless they could show sort of mitigating circumstances. What he wanted from me was a letter stating that the boy’s behavior was a clear result of his accident. If that wasn’t enough, he wanted me to testify for Gavin.”
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 20
