Therapy (13 page)

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 dispatcher. 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.”

He returned to the talk show. The host was berating a caller for not taking personal responsibility for her obesity. He cut her off and on came a commercial for an herbal weight-loss concoction.

He said, “What do you think of these shows?”

“The exuberance of free speech,” I said. “And bad manners. You a fan?”

“Nah, I get enough nastiness on the job, but according to today’s paper, our girl Mary Lou’s scheduled to be on in an hour.”

“Really,” I said. “You going to listen?”

“I believe in continuing education.”

CHAPTER

14

M
ilo went to talk to Lorraine Ogden while I sat at his desk and reviewed the Gavin Quick murder book. Nothing new. I turned to the Flora Newsome file.

No progress there, either. Milo returned five minutes letter, red-faced, shaking his head.

I relinquished his chair, but he perched on the desk edge, stretched his legs, loosened his tie. “My sensitivity failed. I brought up Nichols and she told me she’d worked the hell out of the case and I had no business second-guessing her. She said I should stick to my own case, the more she thought about it, they weren’t that similar after all, keep her out of it. Then she shoved this in my face.”

He handed me a crumpled piece of paper that I smoothed. Ballistics report from the crime lab, stamped PRIORITY and initialed by Detective L. L. Ogden. Comparisons between the .22 used to kill Gavin and the blonde and the gun that had terminated Flora’s life. A tech named Nishiyama had signed off on the test.

Similar weapons, probably cheap, imported semiautomatics, but no match.

“With a cheapie,” I said, “you could use one, toss it, get another.”

“Anything’s possible, but a match would’ve been a helluva lot nicer. Now I’ve pissed off a colleague and gotten no closer to a solve.”

“She’s a D-II, you’re a lieutenant. I thought the lines of authority were clearer.”

“In title only. My lack of administrative duties cuts both ways, everyone knows I’ve got no juice.” He rifled though his messages. “Looks like no luck yet on the blonde . . .” His eyes shifted to his Timex. “Koppel’s on the air.”

He switched on his desk radio and tuned in the talk station. Another host, same level of derision. A rant about racial profiling; this guy hated it.

Milo said, “Sure, let’s inspect Grandma’s shoes at the airport while Mr. Hamas waltzes through.”

The host said, “Okay, folks, this is Tom Curlie at the top of the hour, and we’ve got a hot guest coming any minute. Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, noted psychiatrist, and anyone who listens to the show knows she’s been on before and knows she’s smart . . . and anyone who doesn’t listen, who the hell needs you heh-heh . . . today we’ll be talking about . . . what’s that . . . my engineer, the ever-charismatic Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel is running late . . . better do something about the punctuality, Doc. Maybe see a psychiatrist heh-heh-heh . . . meanwhile let’s talk about car insurance. Have you ever been rear-ended by one of those lunatics who seem to be everywhere like invaders from outer space? You know what I’m talking about: space-outs, cell-phone freaks, and just plain lousy dri-vers. Has one of them bendered your fender? Or worse? Then you know the value of good insurance, and Low-Ball Insurance is the best value around . . .”

Milo said, “Koppel’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“Why let facts get in the way?”

Tom Curlie finished his spiel and segued to a prerecorded commercial for do-it-yourself legal forms. Then a woman with a sultry voice reported on the weather and freeway traffic.

Another commercial came on—Tom Curlie rhapsodizing about something called a Divine Mochalicious that could be had at any branch of CafeCafe, then he said, “The enigmatic yet pedestrian Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, our psychiatric guest, has still not arrived at the studio and that said headshrinker cannot be reached on her cell phone.
Tsk, tsk,
Mary Lou. You are now officially off the privileged roster that makes up guests on the Tom Curlie show because Tom Curlie stands for punctuality and personal responsibility and all the other virtues that have made this country great. Even though this country, in a lapse of judgment, elected a president who don’t talk good . . . okay, who needs her, folks? Let’s talk about psychiatrists and why they’re so doggone nuts themselves. I mean, is that just my imagination, or are they all just a little bit off? So what’s that all about, gang? Someone becoming a headshrinker because her own head’s too doggone big for her own good? Or is it a matter of a rotten childhood heh-heh-heh? How do you guys feel about that, c’mon, call and let me know at 1 888 TOM CURLIE. Here we go, those lines are lighting up and my first call is Fred from Downey. Hey, Fred. Had
your
head shrunk lately?”

“Hey, Tom. First of all I wanna tell you that I listen to you every day, and that you’re really coo—”

“Excellent judgment, Fred, but what about those psychiatrists—those head docs, those voodoo incantators, those
shrinks
? Think they’re rowing with one paddle, blinking with one eye, suffering from brain freeze, dancing with shadows in the hall of mirrors? Is that what it boils down to, Fred? They become shrinks because they need to get shrunk?”

“Well, Tom, as a matter of fact, Tom, I know about those people. It was just about twelve years ago that I was sitting out under the stars minding my own business and they abducted me and implanted these electrodes in my—”

Milo flicked off the radio.

“Civilization and its discontents,” I said.

“Malcontents is more like it. Maybe Lorraine’s right, and I should keep focused on Gavin. I’m gonna call the kids who were in the crash with him, see what that dredges up. Also, see if I can have a go with the girlfriend—Kayla Bartell—without her old man hovering.”

“Still planning to reinterview Koppel?”

“That, too.” He settled in his chair. “She’s obviously not in her office, or that idiot could’ve contacted her. Let me make some calls first, then how about we drop by in two hours? Or later, if that cramps your style.”

“Two’s fine. Want me to try to talk to Kayla?”

“If you saw her on the street, I’d say fine,” he said. “But what with it being B.H. and the father so uptight, we’d better stick to protocol.”

“Visits limited to an official police presence.”

“Such as it is.”

*

I drove home listening to Tom Curlie. Mary Lou Koppel never showed up, and Curlie didn’t mention her again. He alternated between commercials and call-ins from sad, angry listeners, then brought on his next guest—a personal injury lawyer who specialized in suing fast-food chains for racial discrimination and brewing their coffee too hot.

Curlie said, “I don’t know about all that, Bill, but as far as I’m concerned, you can jail ’em for just plain lousy food.”

*

Instead of heading home, I continued on to Beverly Hills and drove past the Quick house. The same white minivan occupied the driveway, but the baby Benz was gone. The drapes were closed, and the day’s mail had collected on the front step. A gardener pruned a hedge. An anorexic woman walked by with a black Chow on leash. The dog looked drugged. A block and a half up, traffic zipped by on Wilshire. A family had been torn apart, but the world kept spinning.

I turned the Seville around, aimed it north through the business district, entered the Flats, cruised by the Bartell mansion. In daylight, the house was even more outsized, square and white as a fresh bar of soap. The fencing looked like a prison barrier. The four-car garage doors were closed but a red Jeep Grand Cherokee idled just inside the electric gates.

I parked and watched from across the street as the gates opened and Kayla Bartell sped through. She was on her cell phone and turned right without checking for cross traffic and sped toward Santa Monica Boulevard. She talked nonstop, animatedly, on a cell phone, with no idea I was following as she rolled through the stop sign at Elevado and ran the one at Carmelita. Without signaling, she hung a risky left turn on Santa Monica and continued east, one hand still grasping the phone. The other steered, and sometimes she removed it to gesticulate and swerved into other lanes. For the most part, motorists kept their distance from her, until another young woman in a Porsche Boxster honked and flipped her off.

Kayla ignored her, kept gabbing, weaved her way to Canon Drive, drove south, and parked in the service alley behind the Umberto hair salon. A valet held open the driver’s door, and Kayla sprang out wearing a lacy black midriff top, black leather pants, and high-heeled boots. On her head was a silver lamé baseball cap. Her blond ponytail protruded through the adjusting band.

No tip for the valet, just a smile. Someone had told her that was enough.

She entered the salon with a bounce in her step.

*

“Two-hundred-dollar haircut,” said Milo. “Ah, youth.”

We were in the Seville, and I was driving east on Olympic, toward Mary Lou Koppel’s office.

I said, “You reach the boys who were in the accident?”

“Both of them, and they back up what the Quicks told us. Gavin was in the back, sandwiched between them. When the car hit the mountain, they were belted and got jostled from side to side. But the impact squeezed Gavin forward, and he hit his head on the driver’s seat. He shot out like a banana out of a peel, one described it. Both said Gavin was a good guy but that he’d changed big-time. Stopped being social, withdrew from them. I asked if he’d slowed down mentally, and they hesitated. Not wanting to put him down. When I persisted they admitted he’d dulled. Just wasn’t the same guy.”

“Anything about obsessive behavior?”

“No, but they hadn’t seen him for a while. They were pretty shook-up about his being murdered. Neither had any clue who’d want to hurt him, and they didn’t know about any blonde he’d dated other than Kayla. Who one of them called ‘a spoiled little witch.’ ”

“The anonymous blonde,” I said.

“I called the TV stations,” he said, “asked if they’d run the death shot. They said no, too scary, but if I got an artist’s rendition that toned it down, they might. If airtime permitted. I sent a copy of the photo to one of our sketchers, we’ll see. Maybe the papers would run the actual photo. Grant the poor kid her fifteen seconds of fame.”

“Too scary,” I said. “Are they watching the same tube I am?”

He laughed. “The media talk about public service, but they’re out to sell commercial time. Alex, it was like pitching a story to some showbiz asshole. What’s in it for
memememe
—okay, here we are, why don’t you circle around to the back, see if Mary Lou’s Mercedes is there?”

*

It wasn’t, but we parked anyway and went into the building.

The door to the Pacifica-West Psychological Services suite was unlocked. This time, the waiting room wasn’t empty. A tall woman in her forties paced and wrung her hands. She wore a gray leotard set, white athletic socks, pink Nikes, had long legs, a tiny upper body, short, black, feathered hair combed forward. Her eyes were blue and sunken and pouched and too bright, her face was glossy and raw, the color of canned salmon. Skin flaked around her hairline and ears; recent skin-peel. Her expression said she was used to being mistreated but was learning to resent it. She ignored us and continued pacing.