Milo and I sat in back, on two vinyl bench seats borrowed from an impounded Toyota and bolted to the floor. Another hasty job; the stiff cushions wobbled and squeaked when we moved, and keeping still was driving Milo crazy. He’d finished two ice-cream sandwiches and a peanut-studded drumstick, balled up the wrappers, and tossed them in a corner. Muttering, “Gluttony rules.”
Behind the truck was an alley, and beyond that the high-fenced backyards of the pretty view houses on South Spalding Drive. Through a tiny, tinted heart-shaped window cut into one of the truck’s rear doors, we could see fifty feet north or south. During the hour we’d been there, eight cars had driven through. No movement from the houses. That was to be expected; this was Beverly Hills.
Bolted to our side of the partition was a small, color TV monitor with a digital readout that ticked off the passage of time. The tint was off: Bright Beverly Hills green had faded to olive, tree trunks were gray, the sky was butter-yellow.
A speaker that hung from a metal hook to the right of the monitor supplied the sound effects.
The only sound, now, was Franco Gull shifting his position on the redwood bench. He fooled with his hair, gazed off into the distance, studied the top of the table. Working at being disinterested, as he tried to get down some coffee in a Starbucks cup. Big cup, grande-mega-poobah, or whatever they called it.
During our second meeting, he’d worked at friendly. Telling me he understood I had good intentions. Letting slip, midway through the interview, that he’d suspected “something wasn’t right” with Sentries for Justice, but not knowing what to do about it.
Appreciative of his deal. This was his payment.
The miniature microphone that transmitted his occasional sighs was affixed to the bottom of the picnic table.
Wiring the table was the obvious way to go. Sam Diaz had taken one look at Gull, and said, “The way he sweats, I wire him, he might just go and electrocute himself.”
Other than that, Gull’s anxiety was no problem. He was supposed to be nervous.
Now, he waited.
We all did.
*
At five after five, Diaz said, “I’ve got someone approaching from the Roxbury side—across the bocci field.”
A figure—male, anonymous—could be seen in the upper-right quadrant of the monitor. Then lower, larger, as it got closer. As the man approached Gull’s park bench, Albin Larsen’s form took shape. Today, he wore a wheat-colored sport coat, tan shirt, tan pants. At least that’s what I assumed; the monitor dulled it down to off-white.
“That’s him,” said Milo.
“Mr. Beige,” said Diaz. “I coulda used black-and-white.”
“Yeah, he’s a riot.”
When Larsen got close to the bench, he acknowledged Gull with a small nod. Sat down. Said nothing.
Diaz fiddled with a dial and the bird sounds amplified.
Gull said, “Thanks for seeing me, Albin.” The speaker turned his voice tinny.
Larsen said, “You sounded upset.”
Gull: “I am, Albin.”
Larsen crossed his legs and glanced over at the children. Two kids remained. One maid.
Diaz fiddled with another dial, and his camera zoomed in on Larsen’s face. Passive. Impassive.
Diaz backed up, captured both men.
Gull: “The police have been questioning me, Albin.”
Larsen: “Really.”
Gull: “You don’t sound surprised.”
Larsen: “I assume it’s about Mary.”
Gull: “It started out about Mary, but now they’re asking questions that confuse me, Albin. About us—our group, our billing.”
Silence.
“Albin?”
“Go on,” said Larsen.
“About Sentries for Justice, Albin.”
Milo said, “Guy thinks he’s an actor.”
I said, “Today, he is.”
Albin Larsen still hadn’t responded.
We listened to birdcalls, a three-year-old’s shout.
Gull said, “Albin?”
Larsen said, “Really.”
Gull: “Really.”
Larsen: “What kinds of questions?”
Gull: “Whose idea was the program, how’d we hear about it, how long has it been going on, did all three of us participate. Then they got personal, and that’s what’s bothering me. How much I, personally, billed, could I verify the figures. Did Mary or you ever talk to me about intentional overbilling. They were really gung ho, Albin. Fascistic. Sounds to me like they suspect some kind of fraud. Is there something you and Mary never told me about?”
Silence. Eleven seconds.
Larsen said, “Who asked these questions?”
“The same cops who were by the first time, along with some idiot from Medi-Cal.”
Silence. Gull moved closer to Larsen. Larsen didn’t budge.
Sam Diaz said, “This one’s cagey. Bet he’s dry as a bone.”
Fourteen seconds; fifteen, sixteen.
Gull: “Is something going on, Albin? Because if there is, I need to know. I’m the one they’re harassing, and I don’t know what to tell them. Is there something I should know?”
Larsen: “Why would there be?”
Gull: “They—they seem so sure of themselves. As if they’re really onto something. I know you and Mary wanted me to see more Sentries patients, but I told you, I really wasn’t into it. So why would they be bothering me? I had nothing to do with the program.”
Silence. Nine seconds.
Gull: “Right, Albin?”
Larsen: “Maybe they think you’re knowledgeable.”
Gull: “I’m not.”
Larsen: “Then you should have nothing to worry about.”
Gull: “Albin, is there something to worry about?”
Larsen: “What did you tell them about your billings?”
Gull: “That I billed for the few patients I saw, and that was it. They were skeptical. I could see it in their faces. Just about came out and called me a liar and said they found what I was telling them hard to believe. Even though it was true—you know that, Albin.”
Eleven seconds.
Gull: “Come on, Albin. Is there some billing thing I don’t know about?”
Larsen: “This is really upsetting you.”
Gull: “Don’t play shrink with me, Albin.”
Larsen placed a palm over his heart and smiled faintly.
Gull: “I ask you a straightforward question, and you come back with ‘This is really upsetting you.’ I’ve been through the wringer with those fascists, this isn’t the time for Rogerian bullshit, Albin.”
Sixteen seconds. Then Albin Larsen stood, and Sam Diaz said, “Uh-oh.”
Larsen walked several feet away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Closer to the play area. A professor thinking deep thoughts.
Franco Gull glanced back in the direction of the truck. Helpless expression on his moist face. Looking right at us.
Milo said, “Idiot.”
Larsen returned to the table and sat back down. “You’re obviously upset, Franco. Mary’s death and what it means for us is upsetting.”
Gull: “That’s the thing, Albin. I get the feeling—from them, the police—that they think Mary’s death had something to do with Sentries. I know that’s sounds crazy, but if that’s what they think, who knows where it will lead?”
Four seconds.
Larsen: “Why would they think that?”
Gull: “You tell me. If you know something I should know, you have to tell me, it’s only fair. I’m on the hot seat—you have no idea how they treat you when they suspect you of something. They phone me incessantly, have me break appointments and come in for interrogations. Have you ever been in a police station, Albin?”
Larsen smiled. “From time to time.”
Gull: “Yeah, probably some place in Africa, whatever. But you haven’t been a suspect. Let me tell you, it’s not fun.”
Thirteen seconds.
&
nbsp; Gull: “They call it interviewing, but it’s interrogation. I swear, Albin, I feel like some character out of a goddamned movie. One of those Kafkaesque things, Hitchcock, everything happens to the unsuspecting fool, and I’m he.”
Larsen: “It sounds dreadful.”
Gull: “It’s horrendous. And disruptive—it’s starting to affect my work. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on patients when the next message on my machine could be from them? What if they start shoving paper at me—subpoenas, whatever it is they use. What if they try to comb through my records?”
Larsen: “Did they use the word ‘subpoena’?”
Gull: “Who remembers? The point is, they’re rooting around like truffle pigs.”
Larsen: “Rooting. That’s all it is.”
Gull: “Albin, I feel I’m not getting through to you.” He took hold of Larsen’s shoulders. Larsen didn’t move, and Gull’s hands dropped. “Why are they focusing on Sentries? Tell me the truth: What were you and Mary up to?”
Silence. Six seconds.
Larsen: “We were attempting to inject some compassion into the American criminal justice system.”
Gull: “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I mean nuts and bolts, the billing. It’s the billing they’re latching onto. They just about came out and said they suspect us of Medi-Cal fraud, Albin. Were you fooling with the billing?”
Larsen: “Why would I do that.”
Milo said, “Cagey bastard.”
Gull: “I don’t know. But they suspect something. Before this thing spins out of control, I need to know if there’s any truth to their suspicions. Even if it was some kind of mistake, some paperwork thing. Did you—or Mary—do anything—anything at all—that would give them fuel? Because I think they’re after blood, Albin. I really do. I think Mary’s death got them thinking in a whole bizarre direction. Obsessive. Like that patient of Mary’s who died—you know I treated him. Gavin Quick. Kid was four-plus OCD in addition to all his other problems. I was happy to dump him on Mary but I swear, Albin, dealing with them I started to feel I was being forced into some OCD soap opera. The same questions, over and over and over. As if they’re trying to break me down.”
Eighteen seconds.
Gull: “You’re not saying anything.”
Larsen: “I’m listening.”
“Fine . . . you know how it is with obsession. The patient gets into something and keeps going at it. Which is okay when you’re the therapist and can establish boundaries. But being on the receiving end—these are not sophisticated people, Albin, but they are persistent. They perceive the world in hunter-prey terms and have no respect for our profession. I’m feeling like I’m set up to be the prey, and I don’t want that. And I shouldn’t think you’d want it, either.”
Larsen: “Who would?”
Milo said, “Such empathy.”
Sam Diaz said, “If this guy was hooked up to the poly, the needles wouldn’t even be quivering. Gull, he’d make the machine explode.”
Gull waved his hands. Diaz backed the camera several feet farther, establishing postural context.
Larsen just sat there.
Thirty-two seconds of silence passed before Gull said, “I have to say, I’m feeling a little . . . dismissed, Albin. I asked you substantive questions, and you’ve given me nothing but bland reassurance.”
Larsen placed a hand on Gull’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing for me to tell you, my friend.”
Gull: “Nothing?”
Larsen: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Three seconds. “Nothing to lose sleep over.”
Gull: “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’s being—”
Larsen: “Would it make you feel better if I spoke to them?”
Gull: “To the police?”
Larsen: “To the police, to the Medi-Cal people. Anyone you like. Would it make you feel better?”
Gull glanced back toward the truck, then he returned his attention to Larsen. Larsen was watching the children, again.
Gull: “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. It would make me feel substantially better, Albin.”
Larsen: “Then I will do that.”
Six seconds.
Gull: “What will you tell them?”
Larsen: “That nothing . . . untoward has gone on.”
Gull: “And that’s true?”
Larsen gave Gull’s shoulder another pat. “I’m not worried, Franco.”
Gull: “You really think you can clear things up.”
Larsen: “There’s nothing to clear up.”
Gull: “Nothing?”
Larsen: “Nothing.”
Milo said, “Cold bastard. He’s not gonna spill, so much for this.”
Sam Diaz’s chair squeaked. He said, “Want another drumstick?”
“No, thanks.”
“Maybe I’ll try one of those orange bars, the vanilla half looks pretty creamy.”
On the monitor, Franco Gull ran his hands through his curls. “Okay, I sure hope so. Thanks, Albin.”
He rose to go.
“No, no, no,” said Milo. “Stay put, you idiot.”
The remaining maid collected her young charges and left.
Larsen stayed Gull with a hand on Gull’s cuff. “Let’s sit for a while, Franco.”
Gull: “Why?”
Larsen: “Enjoy the air. This beautiful park. Enjoy life.”
Gull: “You’re finished with patients for the day?”
Larsen: “I am, indeed.”
Ninety seconds. Neither of them talked.
At a hundred thirty-nine seconds, Sam Diaz said, “Approaching male. From the Roxbury side, again.”
Another figure, well in the distance, was crossing the park diagonally, from the east. Striding across the lawn, passing just north of the play area, and continuing into the shadow of the Chinese elms.
Diaz aimed the camera at him, zoomed in.
Good-sized man, broad-shouldered, barrel chest. Blue silk shirt turned teal green by the monitor, worn untucked over blue jeans.
Dark hair combed straight back. Graying mustache, but Raymond Degussa had shaved off his soul patch.
Milo said, “Bad guy, get ready for anything, Sam.”
He unsnapped his holster but didn’t remove his gun. Unlatching one of the ice-cream truck’s rear doors, he got out, closed the door quietly.
I turned back to the monitor. Gull and Larsen remained silent. Gull’s back was to Degussa as Degussa made his way over to the picnic table. Larsen saw Degussa, but didn’t react.
Then Franco Gull turned, and said, “What’s he doing here?”
No answer from Larsen.
Gull: “What’s going on, Albin—hey, let go of my sleeve, why are you holding me back, let go, what the hell’s going on—”
Degussa made a beeline for the table. Was six feet away, reaching under his shirt, when Gull broke free from Larsen’s grasp.
Larsen just sat there.
Degussa pulled out a small gun, toylike, pointed it in Gull’s direction. Probably a cheap .22, you could throw them away and buy another on the street for chump change.
Five feet from Gull, nice clean target. I thought about Jack Ruby picking off Oswald. Where was Milo?
Gull ducked and shoved Larsen in the path of Degussa’s gun and screamed, “Help!” as he dropped to the grass and rolled away. Diaz’s camera remained narrowly focused.
Degussa circled around Larsen to get a good shot at Gull. Larsen ducked, helping him along. Gull had tried to get up, but he was caught—legs stuck under the picnic bench, torso twisted.
He placed his hands atop his head, creating a useless shield.
Degussa leaned over the bench.
Aimed.
Crack. The sound of a single pair of hands clapping once.
A hole appeared on Degussa’s forehead—black tinted deep brown by the monitor, the same shade as Degussa’s customized Lincoln. His mouth dropped open. He frowned. Annoyed.
He lifted his g
un arm, still trying to shoot. Let it drop. Tumbled face-first onto the table. The .22 flew out of his hands and landed on the dirt. Albin Larsen dove for it. The man could mobilize when needed.
Sam Diaz said, “Oh, man, I should be out there.”
“Where’s Milo?”
“Don’t see him—I’m calling for backup, then I’m outta here, Doc. You stay inside.”
He got on the police radio. I watched Albin Larsen bend and retrieve Degussa’s gun. Gull had freed his legs, and he swung them at Larsen, missed, sprang up, turned to run.
Larsen examined the gun, then aimed it, turning his back to the camera.
Crack. Crack. Two bursts of applause. Two holes materialized on the back of Larsen’s sport coat, within an inch of each other, just right of the center seam.
Diaz was saying, “Another one just went down, this is Code Three Plus, friend.”
Larsen straightened. Stretched his neck, as if plagued by a sudden pinch. The spot on his jacket became a brown stain. His right hand reached back, scratching an itch.
He changed his mind. Rotated, showed the camera a partial profile.
Expressionless. More dreadful applause, and something puffed in the center of Larsen’s neck. At the juncture of ruddy neck flesh with tan shirt.
Larsen reached for that, too. His arms shot out spastically and flopped to his sides.
His body lurched forward, onto the grass.
Gull was twenty feet away, staring, screaming.
Birdsongs on the speaker.
Still life on the monitor.
The Starbucks cup hadn’t even moved.
*
The truck’s rear door burst open, and Milo threw himself in.
Ghostly white, breathing hard. “Someone’s up there,” he panted. “Has to be one of the houses on Spalding, a backyard. Has to be a rifle, I was pinned next to the van.”
Diaz returned to the cab, slid the partition open. “Backup’s on its way. Gotta be a long-range scope. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Seconds later—seventeen seconds, according to the monitor—came the sirens.
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 40
