Therapy (20 page)

“Dr. Koppel’s murder.”

Gull’s sad eyes tightened. “Are we talking about anything else?”

Albin Larsen speared a tomato but didn’t eat it.

“It’s a major loss,” said Gull. “For her patients, for us, for . . . Mary was vibrant, brilliant, dynamic. She was someone I learned from, Detective. It’s hard to comprehend that she’s really
gone
.”

He glanced at Larsen.

Larsen toyed with a lettuce leaf, and said, “To be snuffed out like that.” He wiped his eyes. “We’ve lost a dear friend.”

Franco Gull said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

Milo placed his elbows on the picnic table. “I know you gentlemen are bound by confidentiality, but a viable threat nullifies that. Are either of you aware of any patient ever making a threat against Dr. Koppel? Any patient who resented her deeply?”

“A patient?” said Gull. “Why would you even think that?”

“I’m thinking anything, Doctor. Covering all bases.”

“No,” said Gull. “There are no patients like that. Absolutely not.” He groped for a napkin, took another swipe at his brow.

Milo glanced at Albin Larsen. Larsen shook his head.

Milo said, “Dr. Koppel dealt with troubled people. It seems a logical place to start.”

“Logical in the abstract,” said Gull, “but it doesn’t apply to our practice. Mary didn’t treat sociopaths.”

“Who did she treat?” said Milo.

“People with everyday problems of adjustment,” said Gull. “Anxiety, depression, what used to be called neurosis. And basically sound individuals facing choice points.”

“Career guidance?”

“All kinds of guidance,” said Gull.

“You don’t call ’em neurotic anymore, huh?”

“We avoid labeling, Detective. Avoid stigma. Therapy’s not treatment in the way a medical procedure is—a doctor doing something to a passive patient. It’s contractual. We see ourselves as partners with our patients.”

“Doctor and patient working as a team.”

“Exactly.”

“Problems of adjustment,” said Milo. “You’re absolutely certain there were no dangerous people in Dr. Koppel’s practice.”

Albin Larsen said, “Mary would not have enjoyed working with violent individuals.”

“And she did only what she enjoyed?”

“Mary was busy. She could choose her patients.”

“Why wouldn’t she enjoy working with violent people, Dr. Larsen?”

“Mary was committed to nonviolence.”

“We all are, Doctor, but that doesn’t mean we’re insulated from the uglier aspects of life.”

Larsen said, “Dr. Koppel was able to insulate herself.”

Milo said, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard radio tapes where Dr. Koppel talked about prison reform.”

“Ah,” said Larsen. “I’m afraid that was my influence. Was I on the tapes, as well?”

“Don’t think so, Doctor.”

Larsen’s mouth got tiny. “It was a topic I got Mary interested in. Not in a clinical sense. She was a socially aware individual, had a human as well as an academic interest in the larger social issues. But when it came to her practice, she concentrated on the everyday problems of everyday people. Women, mostly. And doesn’t that say something about the likelihood of her murderer being a patient?”

“Why’s that, Dr. Larsen?”

“Criminal violence is usually male-generated.”

“You’ve got an interest in criminal psychology?” said Milo.

“Only as part of the social rubric,” said Larsen.

Franco Gull said, “Albin’s being modest. He’s done terrific things as a human rights advocate.”

“From that to private practice,” I said.

Larsen glanced at me. “One does what one can in a given time.”

Milo said, “Human rights doesn’t pay the bills.”

Larsen turned to him. “I’m sorry to say, you’re correct, Detective.”

“So,” said Milo, “no psychopaths on Dr. Koppel’s patient roster.”

A statement, not a question, and neither psychologist responded. Albin Larsen ate a shred of lettuce. Franco Gull examined his gold watch.

Milo whipped out the picture of the blond girl. “Either of you gentlemen recognize her?”

Larsen and Gull examined the death shot. Both shook their heads.

Gull licked his lips. Sweat beaded atop his nose, and he wiped it away with irritation. “Who is she?”

“Was,” said Larsen. “She’s clearly deceased.” To Milo: “Is this related in some way to Mary’s murder?”

“Don’t know, yet, Doctor.”

“Did Mary know this girl?” said Gull.

“Don’t know that either, Doctor. So neither of you have seen her around the office.”

Gull said, “Never.”

Larsen shook his head. Tugged at a button of his sweater-vest. “Detective, is there something we need to know about? In terms of our own safety?”

“Are you worried about your safety?”

“You’ve just showed us a picture of a dead girl. I assume you feel her death is related to Mary’s. What’s really going on here?”

Milo put the photo back in his pocket. “All I can advise you is to exercise normal caution. Should either of you come up with a threatening patient—or anyone else from Dr. Koppel’s life who seems suspicious—you’d do best to let me know.”

He crossed his legs, looked over at the frolicking children. An ice-cream truck cruised through the alley and rang its bell. Some of the kids began pointing and jumping.

Franco Gull said, “Is there anything else? I’ve got a totally booked afternoon.”

“Just a few more questions,” said Milo. “About the structure of your partnership with Dr. Koppel.”

“Albin told you, it’s not a formal partnership,” said Gull. “We share office space.”

“A purely financial arrangement?”

“Well,” said Gull, “I wouldn’t reduce it to just that. Mary was our dear friend.”

“What happens, now that Dr. Koppel’s dead, in terms of the lease?”

Gull stared at him.

Milo said, “I need to ask.”

“Albin and I haven’t talked about that, Detective. It’s all we can do to take care of Mary’s patients.” He looked at Larsen.

Larsen said, “I’d be in favor of you and I picking up Mary’s share of the rent, Franco.”

“Sure,” said Gull. To us: “It’s no big deal. The rent’s reasonable, and Mary’s share was smaller than ours.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Because,” said Gull, “she found the building for us, arranged an excellent lease, oversaw the entire renovation.”

“Good negotiator,” said Milo.

“She was,” said Larsen. “Her skills were facilitated by the fact that her ex-husband owns the building.”

“Ed Koppel?”

Franco Gull said, “Everyone calls him Sonny.”

Milo said, “Renting from the ex.”

“Mary and Sonny got along well,” said Gull. “The divorce was years ago. Amicable.”

“No problems at all?”

“He gave us a
sweetheart
lease, Detective. Doesn’t that speak volumes?”

“Guess so,” said Milo.

Gull said, “You won’t find anyone who knew Mary well who’s going to bad-mouth her. She was a fabulous woman. This is really hard for us.”

His chin trembled. He put his sunshades back on.

“Gotta be rough,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”

He made no move to leave.

Larsen said, “Is there anything else?”

“This is just a formality, Doctors, but where was each of you the night Dr. Koppel was killed?”

“I was home,” said Gull. “With my wife and kids.”

“How many kids?”

“Two.”

Out came the notepad. “And where do you live, Doctor?”

“Club Drive.”

“Cheviot Hills?”

“Yes.”

“So you and Dr. Koppel were neighbors?”

“Mary helped us find the house.”

“Through Mr. Koppel?”

“No,” said Gull. “As far as I know Sonny’s only into commercial. Mary knew we were looking to upgrade. She was taking a walk and noticed the FOR SALE sign and thought it might meet our needs.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A year—fourteen months.”

“Before that you lived . . .”

“In Studio City,” said Gull. “Why is this relevant?”

Milo turned to Larsen. “And you, sir. Where were you that night?”

“Also at home,” said Larsen. “I live in an apartment on Harvard Street in Santa Monica, north of Wilshire.” He recited the address in a soft, weary voice.

“Live by yourself?”

“I do.” Larsen smiled. “I read and went to bed. I’m afraid there’s no one to verify that.”

Milo smiled back. “What’d you read?”

“Sartre.
Transcendence of the Ego.
”

“Light stuff.”

“Sometimes a challenge is good.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Milo. “I’ll tell you, this
case
is a challenge.”

Larsen didn’t answer.

Franco Gull checked his watch again. “I really need to head back to the office.”

“One more question,” said Milo. “I know you can’t tell me about any deep dark patient secrets because of ethical restraints. But I do have a question that I think you are allowed to answer. Do any of your patients drive a dark Ford Aerostar minivan? Black, dark blue, maybe gray?”

Above us, the elm canopy rustled and the high, gleeful sounds of childhood play drifted over. The ice-cream truck rang its bell and drove off.

Albin Larsen said, “A patient? No, I’ve never seen that.” His eyes drifted toward Gull.

Franco Gull said, “I agree. No patients I’m aware of drive a car like that. Not that I’d notice. I’m in the office when they park their cars, don’t know what any of them drive—unless it comes up in therapy.”

His brow was slick with sweat.

Milo scribbled in his pad and closed it. “Thanks, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”

“There’ll be more?” said Gull.

“Depends upon what we find in the way of evidence.”

“Fingerprints?” said Gull. “That kind of thing?”

“That kind of thing.”

Gull stood so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Makes sense.” Larsen got to his feet, too. Gull was a head taller and a foot and a half broader at the shoulders. High school football, maybe college.

We watched the two of them walk to their Mercedeses.

Milo said, “Now wasn’t
that
interesting?”

CHAPTER

23

“S
weaty fellow,” Milo murmured, as he called DMV.

It didn’t take long to get the data. Three vehicles were registered to Franco Arthur Gull on Club Drive. A two-year-old Mercedes, a ’63 Corvette, and a 1999 Ford Aerostar.

“Well, well, well.”

He pulled the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, found a map, and jabbed his index finger. “Gull’s house is only a few blocks from Koppel’s, so on the face of it, one of his cars in the neighborhood isn’t weird. But the witness said the van drove away from his street. Seemed to be looking for something.”

I said, “Cruising back and forth at 2 A.M. isn’t neighborly. It’s the kind of thing stalkers do.”

“A shrink with problems in that area. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“A shrink the court refers stalkers to. Maybe Gavin found out somehow, and that’s why he dropped Gull and switched to Koppel.”

“Gull driving by Koppel’s house,” he said. “She wouldn’t have stood for that. Gavin tells her, he’s lighting a tinderbox.”

“On the other hand,” I said.

“What?”

“Three vehicles in the Gull family. The Mercedes for him and a vintage Vette for weekend fun. That leaves the Aerostar for the wife.”

“Suspicious wife,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Gull and Koppel were having a fling.”

“When you talked about evidence, Gull asked about fingerprints. It struck me as out of context. That could be because he knows his prints are in that batch you dusted at Koppel’s house.”

“More than partners. More than neighbors. She finds him a house close by, all the easier for drop-in fun. Mrs. G suspects and drives by at 2 A.M. Checking up. No wonder the guy’s perspiring like a marathon runner.”

I said, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s got a state license, so his prints are in the system.

He flipped the little blue phone open. “I’ll call the techs right now. Meanwhile, let’s visit the wife.”

“What about excavating Gavin’s room?”

“That, too,” he said. “but later.” Big grin. “All of a sudden, I’m busy.”

*

The Gull residence was a Tudor, not unlike Mary Lou Koppel’s, a bit less imposing on a flat lot with no view. Ballpark-quality lawn, the usual luxuriant beds of impatiens, a liquidambar sapling just beginning to turn color, staked in the crater vacated by a larger tree.

The Aerostar van was parked in the driveway. Deep blue. Two bumper stickers: MY CHILD’S AN HONOR STUDENT AT WILD ROSE SCHOOL. And GO LAKERS!

An Hispanic maid answered Milo’s knock. He asked for
“La señora, por favor,”
and she said
“Un momento,”
and closed the door. When it opened again, a petite, very slim blond-ponytailed woman in her thirties stood there, looking distracted. Milo’s badge changed nothing. She continued to look through us.

White-blond, ice-blue eyes, small bones, beautiful features. Even standing still, she seemed graceful. But dangerously slim; her skin bordered on translucence, and her black velvet sweats bagged. She’d done a fine job with her makeup, but the red rims around her eyes were impossible to conceal.

Milo said, “Mrs. Gull.”

“I’m Patty.”

“May we come in?”

“Why?”

“This is about a recent crime in the neighborhood.”

One slender hand drummed the other. “What,” she said, “another mugging in Rancho Park?”

“Something more serious, ma’am. And I’m afraid the victim’s someone you know.”

“Her,” said Patty Gull. Her voice had gone deeper, and any trace of distraction had vanished. Her hands separated, dropped, clamped on her hips. Her lower jaw slung forward. As fine-featured and aquiline as she was, her face took on a mastiff scowl.

“Sure, come in,” she said.

*

The living room was wood-shuttered and paneled in oak stained so dark it was nearly black. The decor looked as if it had been assembled in one day by someone with respect for convention, a tight deadline, and a nervous budget: middling antique copies, equine prints under glass, the kind of still-life paintings you can pick up at sidewalk sales. Further stabs at re-creating manor living were accomplished by a riot of floral chintz, too-shiny brass gewgaws, and artificially distressed surfaces. Just beyond the room was a hallway filled with toys and other child clutter.

Patty Gull perched on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, and we faced her from matching wing chairs. She took hold of a tasseled cushion, held it over her abdomen, like a hot-water bottle.

Milo said, “I noticed your bumper sticker. Someone a Lakers fan?”

“Me,” she said. “I used to be a Lakers Girl. Back when I was young and cute.”

“Not that long ago—”

“Don’t stroke me,” said Patty Gull. “I like to think I’ve held up pretty well, but I’m going to be forty in two years, and I screwed up my body giving my husband two gorgeous children. He pays me back by fucking other women whenever he can.”

We said nothing.

She said, “He’s a pussy hound, Detective. For that, I could’ve hooked up with a basketball player. Even one on the bench.” Her laughter was brittle. “I was a
good
Lakers Girl, went home after the games, didn’t party, held on to my morals. Nice Catholic girl, told to marry well. I married a psychologist, figured I’d be getting some stability.” She punched the tasseled pillow. Flung it to one side and hugged herself.

“Mrs. Gull—”

“Patty. I’ve had it, he’s history.”

“You’re getting divorced?”

“Maybe,” she said. “You take stock of your life, and say ‘This is what I have to do,’ and it seems so obvious. Then you step back and all the complications rain down on you. Kids, money—it’s always the woman who gets screwed moneywise. I’ve stayed out of Franco’s business affairs. He could hide everything, and I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer?”

“Not officially. I have a friend who’s a lawyer. She was a Lakers Girl, too, but unlike me, she was smart enough to go all the way with her education. I always wanted to get an MBA, do something in the corporate world. Maybe in sports, I love sports. Instead . . .” She threw up her hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re here about her.”

“Dr. Koppel.”

“
Dr.
Mary Lou
fuck-another-woman’s-husband
Koppel. You think Franco killed her?”

Patty Gull examined her fingernails.

“Should I think that, Mrs. Gull?”

“Probably not. The papers said she was shot, and Franco doesn’t own a gun, wouldn’t have a clue how to use one. Also, he wasn’t with her that night. I know because I got up in the middle of the night and drove by her house looking for his car, and it wasn’t there.”

“What time was this, ma’am?”

“Must’ve been close to two in the morning. I went to bed at ten, like I always do. Big swinging life and all that. Franco came in before I could fall asleep and we had another fight and he left and I went to sleep. When I woke up and he wasn’t there and it was nearly two, I really lost it.”

“Because he hadn’t come home.”

“Because,” said Patty Gull, “he wasn’t being
penitent
. You’re having serious problems and you claim you’re penitent and then you have another fight. What do you do? You approach your wife on bended knees and beg her forgiveness. That’s the
constructive
thing to do. The caring,
giving
thing. Franco would tell a
patient
to do that. What does
he
do? Stalk out, turn off his car phone, and stay away.”

“So you went looking for him.”

“Damn straight.”

“Figuring Dr. Gull would be with Dr. Koppel.”

“Doctor this, Doctor that. You’re making it sound like a medical convention. He was
fucking
her. I found them together before.” She grabbed for the same pillow, snatched it up, bounced it on a bony knee. “Bastard and bitch didn’t even try to be subtle. We live four blocks apart. I mean, rent a room for God’s sake, don’t soil your own nest.”

“You found them at her house.”

“You bet.”

“When?”

“A month ago. This is
after
Franco promised he’d finally deal with his problem.”

“Being a pussy hound.”

Hearing her own words repeated seemed to shock her. She said, “Uh, yes. He’s always been . . . it’s always been difficult. I’ve been more patient than Mother Teresa, they should
canonize
me. And then I find him with
her
—that was too much—she wasn’t even attractive. Now we’re talking another level of shoving it in my face.”

“How’d you find them?” said Milo.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” said Patty Gull. “This is great. Franco gave me the old b.s. about working late. Then he had his answering service call me just before nine to let me know he was still tied up, it would be even later. I knew right away something was up. Franco doesn’t see emergency patients. Most of what he does is hand-hold bored Beverly Hills bitches. So I decided to drive over to the office and confront him. Enough is enough, right? So I tell Maria to watch the kids and I start driving to the office and something, I still don’t know what it was, makes me take McConnell. ’Cause it’s north, it’s basically on the way. And I pass her house, and there’s his car. Parked in front, parked right in
front
. Is that
gall,
or what?”

“Pretty blatant.”

“I parked, ran up those stairs all the way to her backyard, and there they were in the back room. She’s got this big-screen TV and on it was a porn video and apparently the bitch and the bastard were feeling playful, decided to imitate whatever filth they were watching.”

“Wow,” said Milo.

“Wow, indeed. They didn’t even bother to lock the door, and I just walked in, walked right past them and they were so into what they were doing that they didn’t even hear me. It wasn’t until I switched off the TV that they opened their eyes.”

She closed her own. Remembering.

“That was delicious,” she said. “The expressions on their faces. The way they
looked
at me.”

“Shock,” said Milo.

“Beyond shock.” Patty Gull smiled. “It was like someone from another planet—another galaxy—had landed a UFO in that room. And I just stood there, let them know with my stare that they were busted scum and there was nothing they could do to change that. Then I walked out and drove back home. Twenty minutes later, Franco showed up, looking like he had cancer. I bolted the door and didn’t let him in and told him if he tried to trespass, I’d call the police. He left, I knew he would, he always leaves. I didn’t see him until the next day. He went to work and was a good little psychologist and came home and tried to talk to me using his psychologist voice. The only reason I let him in was by that time I’d spoken to my friend the lawyer, and she’d slowed me down.”