Alex 18 - Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  I refilled my wineglass and took a long swallow. Nice cabernet. The latest from the health mavens was that booze was good for you, if you didn’t overdo it.

  That was the key: knowing the boundaries.

  He said, “It all fits but I’m still short on proof. Can’t even get a home address on Degussa. The club he works for pays him cash under the table.”

  “Try the Marina,” I said. “Flora took Van Dyne there for brunch. Maybe because she’d been there with Degussa.”

  “Bobby J’s—yeah, I like that, if she was gaming that would be fun for her. I’ll drop by again, flash Degussa’s mug.”

  He hitched his trousers, and we left the steakhouse. He must’ve left a huge tip—cop’s tip—because the waiter followed us out to the sidewalk, thanked him, and shook his hand.

  Milo told him, “Enjoy,” and we returned to the unmarked.

  “With what we know now,” he said, “I should also be able to get some extra personnel for serious surveillance. This is good, Alex. Not anywhere near a slam dunk, but good.”

  “Nice to see you happy.”

  “Me? I’m always a ray of sunshine.” As if illustrating, he spread his lips in something that might have been a smile and switched on the police radio as he drove. Humming along, atonally, with the dispatcher’s droll recital of outrage and misery.

  Midway back to the station, he said, “There’s still the matter of how Jerry Quick fits into the scam.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t,” I said. “Gull knew him only as Gavin’s father, and maybe that’s the point. Jerry started following Gavin around. Because Gavin had been acting strange. Gavin didn’t know that and spotted his dad and copied down his license plate. In Gavin’s damaged mind, everyone was part of the conspiracy.”

  “Gavin was paranoid?”

  “Prefrontal damage can do that.”

  “A concerned father would be helping us, Alex, not destroying evidence and hiding out. Quick’s been gone, what—five days. What the hell is that all about?”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “Just because Gull wasn’t aware of Quick’s involvement doesn’t mean Quick’s a virgin. We’ve got a guy who hires a stripper as a phony secretary, uses prepaid phone cards, leaves condoms in his luggage to rub salt in wifey’s wounds, hits on his sister-in-law, doesn’t pay his bills on time. To me that’s precisely the kind of tainted citizen who’d love something like Sentries for Justice. I’ll buy the concerned dad bit up to a point—the point where Quick supplied Gavin with Christi Marsh. Which got her killed, too. Quick knows if it all comes out, he’s in big trouble with his family, not to mention the law. So he cuts out and leaves Sheila to fend for herself. This is not Ward Cleaver.”

  “I wonder how Sheila’s doing,” I said.

  “Ever the shrink. Feel free to drop by and do some therapy. God knows she needs it. Meanwhile, I’m gonna earn the salary the city pays me.”

  A block later: “Did I thank you for all your help?”

  “More than once,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Got to be civilized.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  South Camden Drive at two in the afternoon was a pretty scene.

  Temperate Beverly Hills weather, unfettered by seasons, nice houses, nice cars, nice gardeners mowing nice lawns. Up the block from the Quick house, an elderly man made his way along the sidewalk with the help of twin walkers and a tiny Filipina attendant. As I drove by, he smiled and waved.

  Happiness had so little to do with the state of your bones.

  The door to the white traditional was open, and Sheila Quick’s minivan idled in the driveway, exhaust pipe blowing delicate puffs of smoke that dissipated quickly in the warm, smooth air.

  Woman’s silhouette in the front passenger seat. I got out and approached the van, found Sheila Quick sitting stiffly, looking hypnotized, her window up.

  She didn’t notice me and I was about to knock on her window when a young woman came out of the house hefting an oversized blue duffel.

  When she saw me she froze.

  Tall, slim, dark hair drawn back in a careless ponytail. Pleasant face, less plain than in the family photo. She wore a hooded blue sweatshirt over jeans and white sneakers. Down-slanted eyes, her father’s large jaw. His slightly stooped posture, too; it made her look weary. Maybe she was.

  “Kelly?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Alex Delaware. I work with the L.A. Police—”

  “With the police? What does that mean?”

  First-year law student, trained to parse? Or she’d chosen the profession because it fit her nature?

  I said, “I’m a psychologist who consults to LAPD. I’ve been involved in your brother’s—”

  Hearing “psychologist” she turned her head toward her mother. She said, “I just got in to town, don’t know anything about that.”

  A cheery voice behind me said, “Hi!”

  Sheila Quick had rolled down her window and was waving and smiling. “Hello, again!”

  Kelly Quick lifted her duffel, came forward, interposed herself between me and her mother.

  “He’s with the police, Kell.”

  “I know, Mom.” To me: “Excuse me, but we’re kind of in a hurry.”

  “Getting away for a while?”

  No answer.

  “Where to, Kelly?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Aunt Eileen’s?”

  “I’d rather not say.” Kelly Quick edged past me, to the rear of the van, lifted the hatch, and loaded her duffel. Two large suitcases were already there.

  Sheila Quick said, “Still no sign of Jerry! For all I know, he’s dead!”

  Still cheerful.

  “Mom!”

  “No need to be dishonest, Kelly. I’ve had enough dishonesty to last me—”

  “Mo-ther! Please!”

  Sheila said, “At least you said ‘please.’ ” To me: “I raised them to be polite.”

  I said, “Where you heading?”

  Kelly Quick got between us, again. “We’re in a hurry.” Her mouth twisted. “Please.”

  Sheila Quick said, “This one is smart, nothing wrong with her brain. She was always a great student. Gavin had the charm and the looks, but Kelly had the grades.”

  Kelly Quick’s eyes misted.

  I said, “Could we talk, Kelly? Just for a moment?”

  Fluttering eyelashes, cock of hip. A hint of the adolescence she’d barely left.

  “Fine, but just for a moment.”

  We walked a few yards past the van. Sheila Quick called out, “Where are you two going?”

  “Just one sec, Mom.” To me: “What?”

  “If you’re heading to your aunt Eileen’s, that’ll be easy enough to find out.”

  “We’re not—we can go anywhere we want.”

  “Of course you can, I’m not here to stop you.”

  “Then what?”

  “Have you heard from your father?”

  No answer.

  “Kelly, if he’s gotten in touch and given you instructions—”

  “He hasn’t. Okay?”

  “I’m sure he instructed you not to talk. I’m sure you think you’re helping him out by obeying.”

  “I don’t obey anyone,” she said. “I think independently. We need to get going.”

  “You can’t say where?”

  “It’s not important—it really isn’t. My brother was murdered, and my mom . . . she’s having problems. I need to take care of her, it’s as simple as that.”

  “What about your dad?”

  She looked at the sidewalk.

  “Kelly, he could be in serious trouble. The people he’s dealing with shouldn’t be underestimated.”

  She raised her eyes but stared past me.

  “No one knows better than you about your mother’s vulnerability. How long do you think you can take care of her?”

  H
er head snapped back toward me. “You think you know.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “Please,” she said, “don’t make matters worse.”

  Tears blurred her eyes. Old eyes in a young face.

  I stepped aside, and she returned to the van, got in the driver’s seat, locked the door. As she started up the engine, Sheila prattled and gesticulated.

  Festive mood. Kelly was grim, hand planted on the wheel. Not going anywhere until I did. I pulled away from the curb.

  When I reached the corner, I looked back in my rearview mirror and the van was still there.

  *

  Milo was out, so I asked for Detective Sean Binchy.

  He said, “So you think Mr. Quick phoned his daughter?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “So she probably knows where he is. Think I should put a BOLO on the van?”

  “I’d check with Milo about that. When will he be back?”

  “He didn’t say,” said Binchy. “Something about going over to the Marina for lunch. I think there was more to it, but that’s what he said. Usually he ends up explaining.”

  *

  An hour later, Milo showed up at my house and explained.

  “Had a nice cool drink at Bobby J’s,” he said, rubbing his gut. “Found a waitress who recalls Flora and Degussa eating there several times. Brunch and dinner. She remembered them because she thought they were an odd couple.”

  “The teacher and the thug.”

  “She said Degussa flirted with her shamelessly, and Flora just sat there and took it. She also said Degussa ate funny—all hunched over his food, like someone was going to steal it.”

  “Prison etiquette,” I said. “She ever see Flora with Van Dyne?”

  “Nope. Either it wasn’t on her shift, or ol’ Brian didn’t make an impression. Extra kudos to you for the Marina lead. I found an address there for Bennett Hacker.”

  “Thought he lived on Franklin.”

  “As of seven months ago he’s got two addresses, apartment on Franklin, condo on Marina Way. Maybe his weekend getaway.”

  “Guess what paid for it,” I said. “I wonder how much kickback he got from Sentries.”

  “Total billing was over a million and a quarter during the sixteen-month period, so there’d be enough for everyone. Larsen and Mary could have shot him and Degussa a third and still ended up comfy.”

  “Maybe that’s what they used Gull’s phony billings for.”

  “That’s Zevonsky’s job to iron out. I’m concentrating on four homicides, meaning when Bennett Hacker leaves the parole office today, he gets tailed. I found a nice, unobtrusive car in the department pool, plan to be downtown in half an hour. Binchy’ll be in radio contact. Wanna come along, maybe take pictures if my hands aren’t free?”

  I said, “Smile and say cheese.”

  *

  “Nice and unobtrusive” was a dark gray Volvo station wagon with black-tinted windows and an I LOVE L.A. bumper sticker. The interior smelled of tobacco and incense. On the passenger seat was a Polaroid camera and five film cartridges. I placed them on my lap.

  “Hot wheels.”

  “Confiscated from a drug dealer,” he said. “Peppier than it looks, he installed a turbocharger.”

  “Drug dealers drive station wagons?”

  “Life’s full of surprises,” he said. “This one was a junior at the U., selling ecstacy to his frat brothers. Daddy’s a surgeon, Mommy’s a judge. It used to be her car.”

  As he drove toward downtown, I filled him in on my encounter with Kelly and Sheila Quick.

  “The high-achieving kid,” he said. “Quick called her home to help out.”

  “He knows he’s in trouble, and he wants his family out of the way. And he needs someone to take care of Sheila.”

  “Another stash at Eileen Paxton’s house?”

  “When I mentioned that, Kelly clammed up.”

  At the next red light, he scanned his notepad for Paxton’s numbers and punched in her office. He got her on the phone, talked very little, did plenty of listening, hung up and clicked his teeth together.

  “Sheila and Kelly were indeed supposed to show up at her place tonight, but Kelly just called, said there’d been a change of plans, wouldn’t specify what they were. Paxton tried arguing with Kelly but Kelly hung up and when Paxton called back, the car phone was switched off. Paxton says Kelly was always stubborn. Says her sister’s deteriorating psychologically, she’s never seen her this bad. She was just about to call me. Sheila look that bad to you?”

  “Pretty fragile,” I said. “Everything she thought she had is slipping away. Sean wondered if he should put a Be-on-the-Lookout on the van.”

  “Sean’s been watching too much TV. Sheila and Kelly aren’t suspects, they’re a couple of scared women. With good reason. A BOLO would put them in the cross hairs, and hell if I’m gonna do that.”

  He got on the 405, transferred to the 10 East. Two exits later: “Wonder if the Quicks have passports.”

  “Family escape?” I said. “If Jerry’s got enough money saved up, could be.”

  “Makes me feel sorry for him,” he said. “Until I think about all those impaled bodies. For all we know he flew somewhere already and is having wifey and daughter meet him. Or he just cruised across the border to Mexico.”

  “Wifey and daughter and Angie Paul?” I said.

  He clicked his tongue. “Yeah, there would be that little problem . . . I’ll have Sean check with the airports and the border patrol, then do another look-see at Angie’s place.”

  He switched to the fast lane, made the call to Binchy at seventy miles per. “Sean, I’ve got a few tasks for you—really? Think so? Okay, yeah, sure, give it to me.” To me: “Could you copy this down?”

  I found a gum wrapper in the glove compartment and wrote down the name and the 805 number he recited.

  He gave Binchy his orders and hung up. “When it rains, it El Niños. What just might be a solid tip on Christina Marsh just came in. This guy claims he’s her brother, saw her picture in the paper. Grad student at UC Santa Barbara, lives in Isla Vista. Once we finish with Hacker, I’ll see if it’s for real.”

  *

  California Department of Corrections, Parole Division, Region III, was located on South Broadway near First, in the heart of downtown. We got onto the 110, left the freeway at Fourth Street, drove south and got stuck in gridlock near Second. Milo had me call the parole office and ask for Bennett Hacker.

  “Can you sound like a con?”

  “Hey,” I said, deepening my voice. “Don’t crowd me, man.”

  He laughed. I maneuvered voice mail structured to make me give up, finally ended up talking to a brusque, hurried woman. How many felons would have the patience?

  She barked, “You one of his assignments?”

  “That’s what they tell me,” I said.

  “Got an appointment?”

  “No, but I—”

  “You need an appointment. He’s not here.”

  “Oh, man,” I said. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “He left,” she said. “Like a minute ago.”

  I gave up.

  *

  Milo cursed. “Three o’clock, and the guy takes off.”

  “She said a minute ago,” I said. “If he parks outside the building, maybe we can spot him leaving.”

  Traffic wasn’t moving. Then it crawled. And stopped. Four cars in front of us. Downtown shadows turned the sidewalk charcoal.

  “What the hell,” said Milo, slamming the station wagon into PARK. He got out and looked up and down Broadway. The right lane was closed, blocked by groupings of orange cones. The cones demarcated oblong excavations. The air smelled of asphalt, but no work crew was in sight.

  Milo flashed his badge at four startled drivers, got back in, watched them veer to the right, perilously close to the cones. He drove through the parting.

  “Power,” he said, waving his thanks. “Intoxicating.�
� He coasted another ten feet, found an illegal parking spot next to a cone-surrounded hydrant. Right across from the parole building. The sidewalks were crowded, and no one paid attention.

  Seconds later, a husky female parking officer approached, pad in hand. When she reached his window, out came the badge. He talked fast, gave her no chance to speak. She left glowering.

  He said, “I’d cast her in a prison movie. The ruthless matron with no heart of gold.”

  We waited. No sign of Bennett Hacker.

  “A minute ago, huh?”

  “Maybe there’s a rear exit,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t that be sad.”

  Five more minutes. Big, gray government building, lots of people coming and going.

  Three minutes later, Bennett Hacker was disgorged through the front door, in a crush of other civil servants.

  *

  He was easy to miss, stepping away from the crowd to light up a cigarette.

  But when the view cleared, he was still puffing. Wearing an ill-fitting gray sport coat over navy chinos, a dark blue shirt, a silver and aqua striped tie. Still smoking, he walked up the block to a hot dog stand.

  Milo cruised forward, and I took Hacker’s picture. Mouth full of chili dog.

  Hacker walked another block, eating and smoking. Unhurried. Not a care in the world.

  Following slowly enough so as not to be noticed was a challenge. Traffic either sat still or spurted ahead. Milo broke lots of traffic laws, managed to pull it off. I took Polaroids when I had a clear shot. The prints revealed the ultimate forgettable man: tall, lanky, unremarkably featured and colored. One noticeable trait: slightly pigeon-toed. It made him seem unsteady, almost drunk.

  At the next corner, Hacker finished the chili dog, tossed the greasy paper wrapping at a wastebasket, and missed. He turned without stopping to pick it up.

  “There you go,” I said. “You can bust him for littering.”

  “I’m keeping score.” Milo edged up to the corner.

  Hacker entered an outdoor municipal parking lot.

  Milo said, “We stay here and wait till he comes out. We’re looking for a ’99 Explorer. The reg says black, but that coulda changed.”