Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “You’re still in touch with Roy.”

  “His folks were our neighbors back when we lived in Culver City. Roy and Flora grew up together, like brother and sister. Roy’s folks own an aquarium— one of those fish stores. Roy doesn’t likes animals, isn’t that funny? Him I haven’t seen for a while; it’s his folks I occasionally talk to. His mother told me about the divorce. I think what she was really saying was that Roy should’ve been smart and stuck with Flora.”

  “What’s Roy’s full name?”

  “Nichols. Roy Nichols, Jr. I told the other detectives, it should all be in the records.”

  “Did Flora like animals?”

  She shook her head. “She and Roy saw eye to eye on that. Neat, both of them. Everything had to be tidy. With all that, you’d’ve thought Roy would pick a cleaner job.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a carpenter, frames up houses. I suppose it’s cleaner than plumbing.”

  “Construction,” I said.

  “You bet.”

  *

  I spent another quarter hour in the pine-paneled room, learned nothing more, thanked her, and left.

  I reached Milo at his desk and told him about Roy Nichols.

  “Bad temper, doesn’t like animals, works construction,” he said. “Something else Lorraine and Al didn’t think to include.”

  “Evelyn Newsome said they talked to him and cleared him.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . let me run him through the county data bank just in case . . . I’ve got a Roy Dean Nichols with a birth date that would make him the right age . . . and look at this: two priors. A DUI last year and a 415 the year before that. Two months after Flora was killed.”

  “Disturbing the peace can mean anything,” I said. “Given the DUI, it was probably alchohol-related.”

  “I’m pulling up his DMV as we speak . . . here we go, an address on Harter Street. That’s Culver City, not far from Flora’s place in Palms. Are you on your way back to the alleged city? I can meet you at the station, and we’ll pay this joker a visit.”

  “The Valley parole office isn’t far from Evelyn Newsome’s house. I was going to drive by, maybe go in and have a look.”

  “Don’t waste your time. Flora only worked there for three days before they transferred her to a temporary branch office on Sepulveda and Venice. One of those projects funded by a federal seed grant. Small storefront offices, they opened half a dozen all over the city. Shorter distance for the cons to travel, heaven forfend we tax the poor souls. The hope was that the bad boys would be more compliant about checking in.”

  “You’re talking in past tense,” I said.

  “You got it. No better compliance and a few million bucks down the drain, the offices were shut down. Flora stayed on until the funds ran out, so she didn’t hate the job badly enough to quit. Didn’t make much of an impression either. Her supervisor remembers her as quiet, said she mostly filed and answered the phone. He doubts she’d get involved with a con.”

  “Why?”

  “He said she kept to herself and that not many cons came in.”

  “Enough came in to bother her,” I said. “And Sepulveda and Venice is really close to her apartment. I’d like to know how many of the cons assigned to that office had sex-crime histories.”

  “Good luck. Parole’s as bureaucratic as it comes. State office, everything’s filtered through Sacramento, and now that the satellites have closed, the records are somewhere in outer space. But if it shakes out that way, I’ll start digging. Meanwhile, Roy Nichols’s place is also close by, and he has a record that says impulse control’s a problem. And isn’t it you guys who make a big deal about psychopaths not liking animals?”

  “Cruelty to animals,” I said. “Flora’s mother said Nichols is a neat-freak.”

  “There you go, yet another quirk. Just the type to clean up a crime scene thoroughly. He’s worth looking into, right? See you in— what, twenty, twenty-five?”

  “Zoom zoom zoom.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Milo’s unmarked idled at the curb, in front of the station. He was at the wheel, smoking and tapping his finger.

  I drove up next to the driver’s window. He handed me a staff permit, and I parked in the lot across the street. When I returned, the unmarked’s passenger door was open. We were heading south before I closed it.

  “Big hurry?”

  “I pulled Roy Nichols’s file. The 415 wasn’t just some drunk breaking glass. Though you were right about it being booze-stoked. Nichols beat some guy up at a sports bar in Inglewood, did a real number on him, broke some bones. The report says Nichols thought the guy was leering at his date, a woman named Lisa Jenrette. They traded words, and one thing led to another. What got Nichols out of a felony assault charge was several other patrons swore the other guy had thrown the first punch and that he had come on to Nichols’s date. One of those habitual assholes, always picking fights. Nichols compensated part of his medical bills and pleaded down to Disturbing. He served no time, promised to stay away from the bar, and took a rage control class.”

  He sped side streets to Olympic, turned left, headed for Sepulveda. “A severe jealousy problem could lead to the kind of overkill they found in Flora’s bedroom.”

  “Evelyn Newsome said Nichols was the one who ended the relationship.”

  “So maybe he changed his mind, got possessive. Alex, I read the medical report on the guy he pounded. Shattered face bones, dislocated shoulder. One witness said Nichols was about to stomp the guy’s head into pulp when they managed to pull him off.”

  We drove in silence for a while, then he said, “Rage control class. You think that stuff works?”

  “Maybe sometimes.”

  “There’s a hearty endorsement for you.”

  “I think it takes more than a few mandatory lectures to alter basic temperament.”

  “The lightbulb has to want to change.”

  “You bet.”

  “More tax dollars flushed,” he said. “Like those satellite parole offices.”

  “Probably.”

  “Well,” he said, “that really pisses me off.”

  *

  Roy Nichols’s house was a slightly larger, pure white version of Evelyn Newsome’s bungalow that bore the signs of ambitious but wrongheaded improvement: overly wide black shutters that would’ve fit a two-story colonial, a pair of Doric columns propping up the tiny porch, a Spanish tile roof, the tiles variegated and expensive and piled too high, a three-foot sash of bouquet canyon stone veneered to the bottom of the facade. This lawn was lush, unblemished, the bright green of a Saint Paddy’s parade. Five-foot sago palms flanked the steps— five hundred dollars’ worth of vegetation. Dwarf junipers ringed the front, trimmed low to the ground with bonsai precision.

  In the driveway something hulked under a spotless black cover. Milo lifted a corner of the cover on a shiny black Ford pickup with a freshly chromed bumper. Raised suspension, custom wheels. A sticker protected by a plastic coating said: How Am I Driving? Call 1-800-SCRU YOU begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 1-800-SCRU YOU end_of_the_skype_highlighting.

  We walked to the front door. A security firm sticker was centered on a black lacquer door. Pushing the bell elicited chimes. Oh-oh-say-can-you-see?

  “Hold on!” A woman opened. Tall, young, pretty but washed out, she had a heart-shaped face, wore a filmy black tank top over white terry-cloth shorts. No bra, bare feet. Great legs, a shaving nick on one glossy shin. Her hair was white-blond with no luster, bunched above her head in a careless thatch. Pink nail polish on her fingers, chipped badly. Darker polish on her toes, in even worse shape. Behind her was a room full of cardboard cartons. New cartons with crisp edges, sealed with brown tape and marked CONTENTS followed by three blank lines.

  She folded her arms across big, soft breasts. “Yes?”

  Milo showed her the badge. “You’re Mrs. Nichols?”

  “Not anymore. You here about Roy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”r />
  She sighed and waved us in. But for a few feet inside the door, the entire room was filled with the packing boxes. A child-sized mattress stood propped against a tied-off garbage bag.

  “Moving?”

  “Soon as I can get the movers over here. They say by tomorrow, but they’ve already missed one appointment. The house is already sold, I’ve got to vacate by next week. What did Roy do?”

  “You’re assuming he did something.”

  “You’re here, right? I didn’t do anything, and neither did Lorelei. My daughter. She’s four years old, and if she wakes up from her nap, I’m going to kick you guys out.”

  “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Ma’am,” she said, amused. “I’m Lisa. Nichols, still. I’ll probably go back to my maiden name, which is Jenrette, and I always thought was a lot prettier than Nichols. Right now I’ve got other things to keep me busy. So what’s he done?”

  “Could be nothing. We just want to talk to him.”

  “Then go over to his job site. He’s working in Inglewood. On Manchester, near the Forum. They’re fixing up an office building. I know he’s making good money but try getting a penny out of him. Thank God his parents are cool. They want Lorelei to live decently, even though she’s not theirs, biologically. I told ’em I’d stay in L.A. and they could see her if they make it easy for me; otherwise, I move back to Tucson, where my folks are.”

  “Roy’s tight with a buck,” said Milo.

  “Roy’s like a stingy old man except when it comes to his projects.”

  “What kinds of projects?”

  “His truck, his single-malt collection, fixing up the house. Did you have a look at this place— he never stopped fooling with it. If there weren’t so many boxes, I’d show you all the paneling he did in the back rooms. Rosewood paneling, expensive stuff, in all three bedrooms. Made it dark as a funeral parlor, but he claimed it would help the resale value. So what happens, we put the house up for sale and we get a buyer and the first thing they’re going to do is rip out the paneling.”

  “That couldn’t have made Roy happy,” I said.

  “Roy’s not happy about anything.”

  “Moody.”

  She turned to me. “Sounds like you know him.”

  “Never met him.”

  “Lucky you.”

  *

  Milo asked if she’d seen Roy recently.

  “Not for a month. He’s living with his parents, four blocks away. You’d think he’d drop by to see Lorelei.”

  “Not a single visit?”

  “I bring Lorelei over once a week. Sometimes Roy’s there, but even if he is, he doesn’t play with her. To him it matters that she isn’t his.” Her eyes misted. She shifted her weight, uncrossed her arms, looked down at the carpet. “Listen, I’ve got calls to make. Why won’t you tell me what he’s done? I mean, if he’s dangerous, shouldn’t I know?”

  Milo said, “You see him as potentially dangerous?”

  “What are you,” said Lisa Nichols, “some kind of shrink? We went to one, ’cause of the divorce. The court ordered it, and he did that— the shrink. Asked questions instead of giving answers.”

  “Roy hasn’t done anything. We just want to talk to him about a former girlfriend.”

  “The one who got murdered? Flora?”

  “You know about her.”

  “Just what Roy told me.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You’re not saying . . .”

  “No, ma’am. We’re reviewing the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”

  “I’ve got a four-year-old,” said Lisa. “You’ve got to be straight with me.”

  “You’re afraid of Roy,” I said.

  “I’m afraid of his temper. Not that he ever did anything to me. But the way he gets— crawling into himself.”

  Milo said, “What did he tell you about Flora Newsome?”

  “That she was . . .” She folded her upper lip between her teeth. “It’s going to sound . . .”

  “What, ma’am?”

  “He said she was cold. In bed. Not good sexually. He said she probably came on to some guy, then wouldn’t come through and that’s what happened to her.”

  “That was his theory, huh?”

  “Roy sees everything in terms of sex. If it was up to him . . .” Her head flipped away from us. “I’ve got to finish up packing. Lori will be up soon and my hands will be tied.”

  She gave us Roy Nichols’s parents’ address and phone number. Milo called there, spoke to the mother, lied about being a general contractor looking for framers and got the location of Nichols’s current job site.

  As we drove south on Sepulveda toward Inglewood, he said, “My guess is Flora wouldn’t put out enough for Nichols, and that’s why he dumped her. Ergo, his theory. Or, he was— what do you guys call it, when you put your own crap on someone else—”

  “Projecting,” I said. “No forced entry at Flora’s apartment is consistent with someone she knew. The overkill fits with a lot of background rage, and the sexual posing suggests the source of the rage.”

  “Wrought-iron fence post. Got to be some of those lying around construction jobs. More than ever, I want to know where this bastard was the night Gavin and the blonde were killed. Speaking of which, I sent two D’s over to the fancy hotels, then they talked to BHPD, and no one knows our Jimmy Choo girl. The hotels are probably lying, but the B. H. cops do keep a file of high-priced call girls, and she’s not in it. It’s just a matter of time. Someone’s got to miss her.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Roy Nichols’s supervisor was a compact middle-aged man named Art Rodriguez, with a graying beard and the excitability quotient of a stone Buddha. A DODGER BLUE sticker was emblazoned across his hard hat above an American flag decal. He wore an oversize Disneyland T-shirt under a chambray shirt, filthy jeans, and dusty work boots, held a folded racing form in one hand.

  We stood out in the dusty sun, just inside the chain-link border of the construction site. The job was tacking a side addition onto an ugly brick-faced two-story office building. The original structure was gutted and windowless but a sign— Golden Age Investments— remained atop the door hole.

  The new space was in the framing stage, and Roy Nichols was one of the framers. Rodriguez pointed him out— crouching on the second floor, wielding a nail gun. The air smelled of raw wood and pesticide and sulfur.

  Art Rodriguez said, “Want me to get him? Or you can put on hats and go up there yourselves.”

  “You can do it,” said Milo. “You’re not surprised we want to talk to him.”

  Rodriguez gave a tobacco-laced laugh. “This business? All my roofers are cons, and a whole bunch of the other trades are, too.”

  “Nichols isn’t a con.”

  “Con, potential con, what’s the difference? Everyone gets a second chance. It’s what makes this country great.”

  “Nichols impress you as a potential?”

  “I don’t get into their personal lives,” said Rodriguez. “Step one, they show up, step two, they do the freaking job. I get that from a few of them with any regularity, I’m a happy guy.”

  “Nichols dependable?”

  “He’s actually one of the good ones. Like clockwork. Here on the dot— kind of faggy, actually.”

  “Faggy,” said Milo.

  “Faggy,” Rodriguez repeated. “As in picky, prissy, choosy. Everything has to be just so, he reminds me of my wife.”

  “Picky how?”

  “He wants his lunch box kept away from dust, gets ticked when guys mess with his tools or don’t show up on time. Any change in routine ticks him off. He folds his jacket, for chrissake.”

  “Perfectionist.”

  “What’s your beef with him?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Hope it stays that way,” said Rodriguez. “He shows up, does the freaking job.”

  *

  Roy Nichols was six-three, an easy 250, with a hard, protruding belly, flour-sack arms and tree-trunk thi
ghs. Under his hard hat was a head shaved clean. The stubble that blanketed his face was fair, and so were his eyebrows. He wore a sweat-soaked earth-colored T-shirt under blue denim overalls, had a rose tattoo on his right biceps. His face was square and sun-baked, bottomed by a double chin, scored with deep seams that made him look older than his thirty years.