Therapy (16 page)

“Yes. I read it in the paper. It was horrible. I cried.” She had a slightly nasal, little-girl voice and narrow hands with smooth fingers. A diamond chip ring banded the third finger of her left hand.

More than a boyfriend.

“You cried,” said Milo.

“I did. I felt terrible. Despite what Gavin put me through. Because I
knew
what he’d been through. Knew it was the CHI making him do it.”

Milo blinked.

“Closed head injury,” I said.

Beth Gallegos nodded and spooned sugar into her tea but didn’t drink. “CHIs are weird that way. Sometimes nothing shows up on scans, but people change drastically. I’m sure Gavin wouldn’t have done those things if he hadn’t been injured.”

“You’ve had other brain-damaged stalkers?” said Milo.

Gallegos’s hand flew to her mouth. “No, God forbid I should ever go through that more than once. I’m just saying the brain controls everything, and when it’s compromised, you get problems. That’s why I did everything I could to avoid making it a criminal situation for Gavin.” Her eyes got wet.

“The way I see it, ma’am, he left you no choice.”

“That’s what everyone told me.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“My family.”

“Your family local?”

“No,” she said. “My parents live in Germany. My father’s a captain in the Army. At first, I didn’t tell them what was going on because I knew how my dad would react.”

“How’s that?”

“For sure he’d have gotten himself a leave, flown right over, and had a stern talk with Gavin. Once he did find out, I had a hard time convincing him not to do exactly that. That’s part of what led me to file charges. I had to assure Dad I was taking care of myself. But I had to do it, no matter what. It was just getting too intense, and Gavin obviously needed help.”

“You never told your family, but they found out.”

“My sister told them. She lives in Tucson and I confided in her and made her promise not to tell.” She smiled. “Of course, she didn’t listen to me. Which I understand, I’m not mad. We’re close, she had my best interests at heart.”

“Anyone else tell you to file charges?”

“What do you mean?”

Milo looked at her ring.

Beth Gallegos said, “He wasn’t my fiancé, then. Actually, we started dating right before I filed charges.”

Milo tried to put warmth in his smile. “What’s the lucky young man’s name?”

“Anson Conniff.”

“When’s the big day?”

“Fall.” Gallegos’s dark eyes picked up some wattage. “Lieutenant, why all these questions about me and my family?”

“I need to tie up loose ends.”

“Loose ends? Lieutenant, please don’t get me involved. I really can’t go through it again—please.”

Raising her voice. The coffee shop was nearly empty, but the few patrons present turned to stare. Milo glared at them until they turned away.

“Go through what, ma’am?”

Gallegos whimpered and wiped her eyes. “Legal stuff, the courts—I never want to see an affidavit again. Please keep me out of it.”

“I’m not out to cause you grief, Ms. Gallegos, but I do need to talk to anyone Gavin had conflict with.”

Gallegos shook her head. “There was no conflict. I never yelled at Gavin, never complained. It’s just that the problem got out of hand. He needed to deal with it.”

“Did he stop?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Completely.”

Her eyes danced to one side. I said, “You never heard from him again?”

She picked at her napkin, shredded the corners, created a small pile of confetti that she collected and placed on her saucer.

“It was basically over,” she said. “It was over.” Her voice shook.

Milo said, “Beth, you’re obviously a good person. That means you’re also a very poor liar.”

Gallegos glanced at the coffee shop door, as if plotting her escape.

Milo said, “What happened?”

“It was just once,” she said. “A month ago. Not really a problem call, a nothing call, that’s why I never told anyone.”

“Where’d he find you?”

“Here. At the office. I was between patients, and the secretary handed me the phone. He told her he was a friend. She has no idea about my . . . history with Gavin. When I heard his voice I . . . it made my heart pound, and I broke into a sweat. But he was . . . okay. Nothing weird. He said he was sorry for what he’d done, wanted to apologize. Then he told me he’d met someone and was getting his life together, and he hoped I’d forgive him. I said I already had, and that was that.”

“You figure he was telling the truth?” said Milo. “About meeting someone.”

“He sounded sincere,” she said. “I told him congratulations, I was happy for him.” She exhaled. “He sounded more . . . mature. Settled.”

“Did he tell you about the person he’d met?”

“No. He sounded happy.”

“He’s happy, he doesn’t bug you.”

“That, too,” she said, “but at the time what I thought was, ‘Gavin’s finally getting it together.’ ” She touched the handle of her teacup, swirled the bag. “I never disliked him, Lieutenant. All I ever felt for him was pity. And fear, when things got really intense. But I was happy things were working out for him.”

I said, “Anson’s probably happy, too.”

“I didn’t tell Anson about the call.”

“Too upsetting.”

“He’s been through enough with me,” she said. “We just started dating when the stalking began. It’s not a great way to start a relationship.”

Milo said, “Anson must’ve been pretty upset.”

“Wouldn’t anyone be?” Gallegos’s eyes got clearer. “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

“We are, Beth.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, anyone who had conflict with Gavin.”

“Anson didn’t have conflict—please, don’t go there—don’t draw Anson into this. He’d never hurt Gavin, or anyone else. He’s not like that.”

“Easygoing?” said Milo.

“Mature. Disciplined. Anson knows how to control himself.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“Work?” said Gallegos.

“His job.”

“You’re actually going to talk to him?”

“We have to, ma’am.”

Beth Gallegos placed her face in her hands and kept it there for several moments. When she revealed herself again, she’d gone pale. “I’m so, so sorry Gavin got killed. But I really can’t stand any more of this. When Gavin had his trial I was subpoenaed; it was horrible.”

“Testifying was rough.”

“
Being
there was rough. The people you see in the halls. The smells, the waiting. I waited an entire day and never was called to testify. Thank God. It really wasn’t much of a trial, Gavin admitted what he’d done. Later, he and his parents walked right past me and his mother looked at me as if I was the guilty one. I didn’t even tell Anson I was going, didn’t want him to lose a day’s work.” Her attention shifted to the left. She bit her lip. “No, that’s not the real reason. I didn’t want the case to . . . pollute my relationship. I want Anson to see me as someone strong. Please let us be.”

Milo said, “Beth, I have no interest in adding stress to your life. And there’s no reason to believe you—or Anson—
will
be involved any further. But this is a homicide investigation, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t talk to him.”

“Okay,” Gallegos said, barely audible. “I understand . . . stuff happens.”

“What’s Anson’s address?”

“We live together. At his place. Ogden Drive, near Beverly. But he won’t be there, he’s working.”

“Where?”

“He teaches martial arts,” she said. “Karate, tae kwan do, kickboxing. He was a regional kickboxing champ back in Florida, just got hired by a dojo near where we live. Wilshire near Crescent Heights. He also does youth work. On Sunday, for a ministry in Bell Gardens. We’re both Christians, met at a church mixer. We’re getting married in September.”

“Congratulations.”

“He’s a great guy,” said Gallegos. “He loves me and gives me my space.”

CHAPTER

18

I
drove east, toward Anson Coniff’s dojo.

Milo said, “Gavin had found someone to rock his world.”

“At least he saw it that way.”

“If we’re talking about the blonde, he was seeing straight. Why can’t I find out who the hell she is?”

A moment later: “A martial arts instructor. Maybe you can show off your whatchamacallit—those karate dances—”

“Katas,” I said. “It’s been years, I’m out of shape.”

“You make it to black belt?”

“Brown.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Not angry enough.”

“I thought martial arts helped control anger.”

“Martial arts is like fire,” I said. “You can cook or burn.”

“Well let’s see if Mr. Conniff’s the smoldering type.”

STEADFAST MARTIAL ARTS AND SELF-DEFENSE

One large room, high-ceilinged and mirrored, floored with bright blue exercise mats. Years ago, I’d taken karate from a Czech Jew who’d learned to defend himself during the Nazi era. I had lost interest, lost my skills. But walking into the dojo, smelling the sweat and the discipline, brought back memories and I found myself mentally reviewing the poses and the movements.

Anson Conniff was five-four, maybe 130, with a boyish face, a toned body, and long, lank, light brown hair highlighted gold at the tips.

Surfer-dude, slightly miniaturized. He wore white karate togs, a black belt, spoke in a loud, crisp voice to a dozen beginners, all women. An older, white-haired Asian informed us the class would end in ten minutes and asked us to stand to one side.

Conniff ran the women through a half dozen more poses, then released them. They dabbed their brows, collected their gym bags, and headed out the door as we approached.

Conniff smiled. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Milo flashed the badge, and the smile disintegrated.

“Police? What about?”

“Gavin Quick.”

“Him,” said Conniff. “Beth read about him in the paper and told me.” He laughed.

“Something funny, Mr. Conniff?”

“Not his death, I’d never laugh at that. It’s just funny that you’d be talking to me about it—kind of like a movie script. But I guess you’re just doing your job.”

Conniff flipped hair out of his face.

Milo said, “Why’s that?”

“Because the idea of my killing anyone—hurting anyone—is absurd. I’m a Christian, and that makes me prolife and antideath.”

“Oh,” said Milo. “I thought you might be laughing about Gavin Quick being dead. Because of what he did to Beth.”

The height disparity between Milo and Conniff was conspicuous. Karate and other martial arts teach you how to use an opponent’s size to your advantage, but pure conversation put Conniff at a disadvantage. He tried to draw himself up.

“That’s really absurd, sir. Gavin tormented Beth, but I’d never gloat about him or anyone else dying. I’ve seen way too much dying ever to gloat.”

“The Army?” said Milo.

“Growing up, sir. My brother was born with lung disease and passed away when he was nine. This was back in Des Moines, Iowa. Most of those nine years were taken up by Bradley going in and out of the hospital. I was three years older and ended up spending a lot of time at hospitals. I saw someone die once, the actual process. A man, not that old, brought into the emergency room for some kind of seizure. The doctors thought he’d stabilized and sent him up to the ward, for observation before discharge. The orderlies took him on a gurney in one of those big patient elevators, and my parents and I just happened to be riding in the same elevator at the same time because we’d gone down to X-ray with Bradley. The man on the gurney was joking, being friendly, then he just stopped talking, gave this sudden
stare
off into nowhere, then his head flopped to the side and the color just drained from his face. The orderlies began pounding his chest. My mother slapped her hand over my eyes so I couldn’t see, and my father started talking nonstop, keeping up a patter, so I couldn’t hear. Baseball, he talked about baseball. By the time we got off the elevator, everyone was quiet.”

Conniff smiled. “I guess I’m just not very death-oriented.”

“As opposed to?”

“People who are.”

“You’re protection-oriented,” said Milo.

Conniff motioned around the dojo. “This? It’s a job.”

Milo said, “Where were you last Monday night?”

“Not killing Gavin Quick.” Conniff relaxed his posture.

“In view of the topic, you’re being kind of lighthearted, sir.”

“How should I be? Mournful? That would be dishonest.” Conniff tightened his black belt and widened the space between his feet. “I mourn Gavin Quick in the sense that I mourn the loss of any human life, but I’m not going to tell you I cared for him. He put Beth through incredible misery. But Beth insisted on dealing with it in her own way, and she was right. The stalking stopped. I had no reason to want to hurt him.”

“Her own way,” said Milo.

“Avoiding him,” said Conniff. “Going through the legal system. I wanted to confront Gavin—on a verbal level. I thought a man-to-man talk might convince him. Beth said no, and I respected her wishes.”

“Man-to-man.”

Conniff rubbed his palms along the sides of his tunic. His hands were small and callused. “Yes, I can get protective. I love Beth. But I didn’t hurt Gavin Quick. I’d have no reason to.”

“Where were you Monday?”

“With Beth. We stayed in. Even if you don’t trust me, you should trust Beth. She’s all about forgiveness, operates at a high level, spiritually.”

“What’d you have for dinner?” said Milo.

“Who remembers . . . let’s see, Monday, so it was probably leftovers. Sunday we barbecued steaks and had a lot of leftovers . . . yeah, definitely, leftover steak. I cut it up and sautéed it with peppers and onions, did a stir-fry. Beth cooked up some rice. Yeah, for sure. We stayed in.”

“Ever been in psychotherapy, Mr. Conniff?”

“Why is that your business?”

“Covering bases,” said Milo.

“Well, I find the question kind of intrusive.”

“Sorry, sir, but—”

“I’ll answer it anyway,” said Conniff. “My entire family went into therapy after Bradley died. We all saw a wonderful man named the Reverend Dr. Bill Kehoe, and I talked to him by myself a few times, as well. He was the pastor of our church and a fully qualified clinical psychologist. He saved us from despair. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“That’s the only time you had therapy,” said Milo.

“Yes, Lieutenant. It took a while—a long while—to stop feeling guilty about Bradley’s dying and my surviving, but I got there. Life’s darned good, nowadays.”

Milo reached into his pocket and brought out the death shot of the blonde. “Ever see this girl?”

Conniff studied the picture. “Nope. But I know the look. Pure dead. That’s the look that flavored my childhood. Who is she?”

“Someone who died alongside Gavin Quick.”

“Sad,” said Conniff. “There are always sad things in this world. The key is to push past all that and lead a spiritual life.”

*

Back in the car, Milo ran Conniff’s name through the data banks. Two parking tickets.

“No con, but he’s a strange one, no?”

“Tightly wound,” I said.

“The type to clean up carefully.”

“He says he was with Beth.”

“I’ll ask Beth,” he said.

“Her say-so will be enough?”

“Like he said, she operates at a high level.”

*

A call from the car produced the same story from Beth Gallegos.

Steak stir-fry.

We returned to the station where Milo found a faxed artist’s rendering of the dead girl and a message to call Community Relations.

“Look at this,” he said. “Michelangelo’s rolling in his crypt.”

The drawing was sketchy, lacking in character, useless. He crumpled and tossed it, phoned CR downtown, listened, hung up, grinding his teeth.

“This city, everything’s a goddamn audition. They talked to the papers, and the papers aren’t interested. Maybe it’s even true.”

“I can call Ned Biondi. He retired from the
Times
a few years ago, but he’d know who to talk to.”

“Now that the PR idiots have given me an official ‘no,’ I can’t just go off and hot-dog. But maybe in a few days, if we still can’t ID her.” He peered at the Timex, muttered, “How’s your time and your intestinal fortitude?”

“A visit to the Quicks?” I said. “Sure.”

“You do tarot readings too?”