Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Rodriguez pointed to us, and Nichols surged ahead of him and swaggered in our direction.

  “Round one, ding,” muttered Milo.

  Nichols reached us, and said, “Police? About what?” His voice was thin and shockingly high. I bet many a phone caller had asked to speak to his mother. I bet Roy Nichols never got used to it.

  Milo extended a hand.

  Nichols showed us a dusty palm, muttered, “Dirty,” and lowered it to his side. He rolled his neck. “What do you want?”

  “To talk about Flora Newsome.”

  “Now? I’m working.”

  “We’d appreciate a few minutes, Mr. Nichols.”

  “About what?” A flush rose from Nichols’s bull neck and made its way up his cheeks.

  “We’re taking a fresh look at the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”

  “I knew her all right, but I don’t know who killed her. I’ve already been through all that crap with some other cops— I’m on the job, man, and they pay me by the hour. They’re Nazis, man. I stay too long in the bathroom, they dock me. If it was a union job, they couldn’t do that, but it isn’t, so give me a break.”

  “I’ll square it with Mr. Rodriguez.”

  “Right,” said Nichols. He toed dirt, rolled his neck some more.

  “Just a few minutes.”

  Nichols cursed under his breath. “At least let’s get out of the fucking sun.”

  *

  We walked to a corner of the site shaded by two portable toilets. The chemicals had failed, and the stench was aggressive.

  Nichols’s nostrils flared. “Reeks. Perfect. This is all bullshit.”

  “You get upset pretty easily,” said Milo.

  “You would, too, if your time was money and someone wasted it.” Nichols unsnapped the leather lid of his wristwatch and peered at the dial. “Those first cops spent days with me, man. What a hassle. I could tell right away they thought I was a suspect because of the way they played around with me.”

  “Played?”

  “One’s nice, the other’s an asshole. A he and a she. He faked being the nice one. I’ve seen enough TV to know the game.” He ran a hand over his skinhead. “Now, you. What, you’re getting overtime, trying to stretch it out?”

  Milo stared at him.

  Nichols said, “Didn’t they tell you I had a perfect alibi for when Flora was killed? Watching the game in a sports bar, then I shot pool and played some darts and got drunk. A buddy drove me to my house just after midnight, and I threw up all over the living room couch. My wife tucked me in and didn’t give me shit until she woke me up two hours later after stewing on it and then she reamed me. So I’m accounted for, okay? A whole bunch of people verified it, and your buddies know it.”

  Milo glanced at me. Both of us thinking the same thing: His wife hadn’t mentioned that.

  “You have any theories about who killed Flora?”

  “No.”

  “None at all?”

  Nichols licked his lips. “Why should I?”

  “We’ve heard you do have a theory.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Flora’s sex drive. Or lack thereof.”

  “Shit,” said Nichols. “You’ve been talking to Lisa. What do you expect her to say? We’re getting divorced, she hates my fucking guts. Didn’t she tell you I was home that night? Shit, she didn’t. See— she hates my guts.”

  “What about your theory?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I told her that, but I was talking out of my butt— like you talk to your wife, you know.”

  Milo smiled.

  “They need you to talk,” said Nichols. “Females.” He opened and shut his hand several times, miming chatter. “You come home after a hard day’s work and just wanna chill and they want to talk. Myah myah myah. So you tell them what they want to hear.”

  “Lisa wanted to hear about Flora’s sex drive?”

  “Lisa wanted to hear that she was hot, the hottest, hotter than anyone else I ever met in my life.” Nichols humphed. “That’s what that was all about.”

  Milo stepped closer to Nichols. “You stroked Lisa by putting down Flora? Any particular reason you chose Flora as the bad example?”

  Nichols edged back.

  “Did Flora have sexual problems, Roy?”

  “If you call not being able to do it problems,” said Nichols.

  “She couldn’t have sex?”

  “She couldn’t come. She had no feelings down there, used to lie there like a . . . a carpet. She didn’t like to do it. Wouldn’t come out and say so, but she had a way of letting you know.”

  “What way was that?”

  “You’d touch her, and she’d get this . . . upset look. Like she— like you hurt her.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a fun relationship.”

  Nichols didn’t answer.

  Milo said, “Still, you went out with her for what— a year?”

  “Less than that.” Nichols’s eyes widened. “I know what you’re getting at.”

  “What’s that, Roy?”

  “That I got mad at her because she wouldn’t put out, but it wasn’t like that. We didn’t fight, I never did anything but be cool with her. I took her out to movies, dinner, whatever. Spent money on her, man, and it wasn’t like I was getting anything back.”

  “Uneven trade,” said Milo.

  “This is making me sound bad.” Nichols’s meaty shoulders flexed. He smiled. “Big deal how I sound, I have a total four-plus alibi, so you can think what you want.”

  “Did you break up with Flora because of her sexual problems, Roy?”

  “That was part of it, wouldn’t it be for anyone normal? But it’s not like we were even really going together. We were neighbors, grew up together. Our parents hung out, we had barbecues together, whatever. Everyone kind of threw us together, know what I mean?”

  “Parental matchmaking,” I said.

  He looked at me with gratitude. “Yeah, exactly. ‘Flora’s such a nice girl.’ ‘Flora would make a great mom.’ And she dug me, she definitely did, so why not, she wasn’t half–bad-looking, coulda been hot if she knew how to dress. And how to screw. But we hung out more than we went out, you know? Even so, I spent money on her, lots of lobster dinners. When we broke up everything was cool.”

  “She wasn’t upset?”

  “Sure she was, but it wasn’t any big hysterical scene, know what I mean? She cried a little, I told her we’d be friends, and that was that.”

  I said, “Did you remain friends?”

  “There was no . . . animosity.”

  “Did you continue to see each other?”

  “No,” said Nichols, regarding me with wariness now. He cupped his clean head with one big hand, scratched loose a flake of sun-baked skin. “I’d see her at my folks’. There was no bad feelings.”

  Milo said, “Those lobster dinners. Any particular place?”

  Nichols stared at him. “I can eat lobster anywhere, but Flora liked this place in the Marina, out by the harbor.”

  “Bobby J’s.”

  “That’s the one. Flora liked to look at the boats. But then one time I offered to arrange a cruise around the Marina, and she said she got seasick. That was Flora. All talk.”

  “Flora was scheduled to go to Bobby J’s for brunch the morning after she got murdered. She and her new boyfriend.”

  “So?”

  Milo shrugged.

  Nichols said, “New boyfriend? What, I’m supposed to know that? Don’t make like I was the old boyfriend and she threw me over and I gave a shit because that is total bullshit.”

  “Roy,” said Milo, “Flora’s problems aside, I assume you and she did sleep together?”

  “Tried is more like it. Flora could make like her legs were glued together. And it was always like you were hurting her. You wanna know my opinion, that is how she ran into trouble.” Nichols’s chin jutted defiantly. “What if she led some guy on, then wouldn’t come through? Some
dude not as understanding as me. For all I know, that boyfriend of hers snapped. He seemed like a wimp, but isn’t it always the quiet ones?”

  “You met him?”

  “One time. Flora brought him by my folks’ house. Thanksgiving, it was evening, after we finished stuffing our pie-holes. I was mellowing out on the couch, like when I eat that way don’t make me move, man. Lisa and my mom were washing up and my dad and me were both blissed out watching the tube and boing goes the doorbell. In comes Flora all dressed up, arm in arm with this pale-faced wimp-ass dude with this wimp-ass mustache, and he’s looking uncomfortable, like what the fuck am I doing here? She claims she came by to visit my folks, but I know she’s there to show me she’s doing okay without me. That’s how women are.”

  Nichols tapped his upper teeth on his lowers. “Like Mr. Teacher’s gonna impress me. You check him out?”

  “You don’t think much of Van Dyne.”

  “I got nothing against him, I was happy he had her, maybe he could deal with her.” Nichols smiled. “Or maybe he couldn’t. That’s your job to find out. Now can I go back and earn some bucks?”

  “Where were you Monday night, say between 7 and 11 P.M.?”

  “Monday? Why? What happened Monday?”

  Milo stepped closer. He and Nichols were eye level, their noses inches apart. Nichols’s chin continued to jut, but his eyes flickered, and he flinched.

  “Answer the question please, Roy.”

  “Monday . . . I was at my parents’.” The admission made Nichols flush again. This time the color reached his brow. “I’m living there till I find a new place.”

  “You’re sure you were there Monday night.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m up every day at four-thirty in the morning so I have time to work out and shower and eat a good breakfast and be on the job at six-thirty. I work my ass off all day, come home, lift some more, eat, watch TV, go to sleep by eight-thirty. That’s my swinging life, and I’m cool with it, okay? What I’m not cool with is you coming by and hassling me for no reason. I’ve got no obligation to talk to you, so now I’m going back to work.”

  We watched him swagger away.

  I said, “And our first nominee in the Mr. Charm contest . . .”

  Milo said, “On the edge.”

  “Teetering.”

  “You see him as our bad guy?”

  “If his alibis don’t check out, I’d definitely be interested.”

  “Flora was killed between midnight and two. He claims a buddy drove him home just after twelve, and his wife woke him at two. That sounds awfully cute, and I didn’t see any mention of it in the file.”

  I said, “What if he came home a bit earlier and Lisa woke him up closer to one? She browbeat him, got everything off her chest, and hit the sack, left him furious and frustrated, unable to go back to sleep. He got out of bed, left the house, and drove over to someone else who’d frustrated him. High stress is a trigger for some sexual killers. And plenty of organized types maintain outwardly stable marriages while brutalizing other women.”

  “Have a tiff with the wife, take it out on the ex.”

  I said, “He seems under lots of stress now. A sexually charged fellow back to living with his parents.”

  “Gavin and the blonde,” he said. “A couple about to get it on pushes his button because he’s all pent up sexually.”

  “His alibi for Gavin and the blonde is even flimsier because he and his parents don’t share a room. He could’ve easily sneaked out without their knowing. Even if they claim otherwise, they’re his parents.”

  Nichols continued toward the framework without looking back. We watched him climb up to the second floor, strap on his tool belt, stretch, and pick up his nail gun. He took another stretch— aiming for casual before pressing the gun to a crossbeam.

  Snap snap snap.

  Milo said, “Let’s get outta here,” and we returned to the car. He got back on Sepulveda and drove north, toward L.A. The boulevard was crammed and slow. The air— hot, unyielding— seemed to press upon the sides of the unmarked. Lots of stares. Everyone knew it was an unmarked. Even if we’d been in a VW, Milo’s restless eyes would have given him away.

  He said, “What I’d like to know is why Lorraine and Al didn’t bother putting Nichols in the murder book.”

  “You going to ask her?”

  “That’s my way, bub. Open, honest, sincere.”

  “That should be fun.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I’ll be sensitive.”

  He flipped on the police radio, listened to felony calls for a few moments, muttered, “I love this city,” and squelched the volume.

  I said, “Even if Nichols is innocent, he gave us useful information.”

  “Flora’s sexual problems?”

  “Maybe the reason she went for therapy. That would explain her not telling Van Dyne. Now that I think about it, he also described her as not very passionate on the surface. The timing fits: She began treatment after getting dumped by Nichols and before meeting Van Dyne. Nichols claims he was gentlemanly, but I’m sure he was brutally clear about why he was ending the relationship.”

  “Mr. Tactful,” he said. “ ‘Hey, bitch, unglue your legs or I’m outta here.’ ”

  “Once Flora got over the hurt, maybe she decided she did have a problem. Seeking a woman therapist for a sexual issue makes sense.”

  “Koppel does sex therapy, too?”

  “There seems to be very little she doesn’t do.”

  The light turned red, and he rolled to a stop. A jumbo jet swooped down low on its approach to LAX. When the noise cleared, I said, “Assuming Nichols’s alibis do check out, do you have the stomach for another theory?”

  “At this point, I’ll take astrology.”

  “As part of treatment, Koppel enouraged Flora to be more assertive and adventurous, and she began taking risks. It’s standard operating procedure in cases like hers.”

  “What kind of risks?”

  “Striking up conversations with strangers, maybe even getting picked up. And she picked up the wrong guy. Which could lead us right back to the parole office. What if Flora connected with a con? Someone aggressive and hypermacho— someone like Roy Nichols but with no boy-next-door history to rein him in. The murder could’ve been a sexual escapade taken too far. Or Flora changed her mind and paid for it horribly.”

  “A Mr. Goodbar thing,” he said. “That girl was a teacher, too . . . but she was single, had a secret life. Flora was engaged to Van Dyne. And she was dating Van Dyne when she got killed. You saying Ms. Prim stepped out on her fiancé with a felon?”

  “If it was a felon, she met him before she began with Van Dyne. I’m saying she could’ve kept another man on the side.”

  “Secret lives.”

  “Or perhaps Flora broke off with the con after she met Van Dyne, but he wasn’t willing to accept that. There was no sign of forced entry. That could mean someone Flora knew, or an experienced burglar. Or both.”

  “Flora told her mother and Van Dyne she hated the job at the parole office because of the lowlifes. You think she was lying?”

  “People compartmentalize their lives.”

  The light turned green, and we rolled along with the traffic sludge. The sky was brown at the horizon, bleeding to dishwater where the sun struggled through. He fooled with the radio dial again, listened to more police calls, lowered the volume.

  “Cheating on Van Dyne with Mr. Bad Boy,” he said. “Or maybe Van Dyne found out something he shouldn’t have and went ballistic. Hell, for all we know, Van Dyne’s not as innocent as he comes across.”

  I thought about that. “Flora’s mother implied that Van Dyne was less than manly. That could’ve come from Flora. And his alibi turned out to be no better than Roy’s.”

  “So maybe the sexual problems weren’t limited to her. What if Ol’ Brian can’t cut the mustard? That could get a quiet boy plenty frustrated.” He turned up the volume, seemed to be lulled by the nonstop patter of the dispa
tcher. The traffic swell pitched us forward a few more yards, and he switched abruptly to AM. Tuning in a talk show, he listened to the host berate a caller for admiring the president, lowered the volume yet again.

  “Ogden and Al McKinley didn’t include Nichols in the file, but they spent two days questioning him. Sweet old Brian didn’t even get that . . . but what the hell, it’s not even my case. Unless it ties in to Gavin and the blonde.”