Therapy (17 page)
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
CHAPTER
19
“T
hat
girl
,” said Sheila Quick. “She was hired to
help
Gavin, so instead she goes and gets him into
trouble
.”
Her living room looked the same, but drawn drapes turned it funereal, and the space had gone stale. The cigarette box from which Jerome Quick had lifted his smokes was empty. Sheila Quick wore a black cotton robe with a zipper up the front. Her ash hair was turbaned by a black silk scarf. Her face was tight and white and old, and she wore pink mules. Above the slippers, her feet were knobby and blue-veined.
She said, “Unbelievable.”
Milo said, “What is, ma’am?”
“What she did to him.”
“You see Gavin’s arrest as Beth Gallegos’s fault.”
“Of course I do! Do you know how Gav met her? She was a therapist at Saint John’s, was supposed to be helping Gav get back his dexterity. She
knew
what he’d been through! She should’ve been more
understanding
!”
Milo and I said nothing.
“Listen,” said Sheila Quick, “if she was so concerned about her safety, why’d she take so long to complain? And then what does she do? Goes straight for the police, dials 911 like it’s some big-deal emergency when all Gav did was knock on her door—I know she said he pounded but no one else heard any pounding and Gav told me he just knocked and I believe my son!”
“You don’t think she should’ve called 911.”
“I think if she was so convinced there was a problem, she had ample opportunity to come to us. Why didn’t she? All she had to do was call and let us know she thought Gavin was a little . . . eager. We’d have talked to him. Why’d she let this alleged problem linger if it was so bad? You’re professionals. Does that make sense to
you
?”
Milo said, “She never got in touch with you beforehand.”
“Never, not once. See what I mean?”
Milo nodded.
“And then all of a sudden Gav’s arrested and we have to hire a lawyer and go through all that rigamarole.” Her smile was sickly. “Of course, in the end they dismissed it. Obviously, it was nothing.”
Gavin had pled to a misdemeanor and been sentenced to therapy.
Sheila Quick said, “Lieutenant, I certainly hope you don’t think what happened to my Gav was related to anything he
did
. Or anyone he knew.”
“It couldn’t be anyone he knew?”
“Of course not, we know only nice people. And Gavin . . .” She began to cry. “Gavin, after the accident, he didn’t have anyone in his life except his father and me and his sister.”
“No friends,” I said.
“That’s the point!” she said, pleased, as if she’d solved a difficult puzzle. “It was no one he knew because he really didn’t know anyone. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, Lieutenant, and I’m certain my baby just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“A stranger,” said Milo.
“Look at September 11. Did any of those people know the pigs who killed them? It’s exactly like that—evil’s out there and sometimes it bites you and now the Quick family’s been bitten.”
She sprang up, raced to the kitchen, came back with a plate of Oreos.
“Eat,” she ordered.
Milo took a cookie and finished it in two bites, passed the plate to me. I placed it on a side table.
“So tell me,” said Sheila Quick. “What progress have you made?”
Milo brushed crumbs from his trousers to his hand, searched for somewhere to put them.
“Just drop it all on the rug, Lieutenant. I clean every day. Sometimes twice a day. What else is there to do around here? Jerry’s already back at work, doing his businessman thing. I envy that about him.”
“Being able to concentrate?” I said.
“Being able to cut himself off. It’s a male thing, right? You men cut yourselves off and go out and hunt and prowl and make deals and do whatever it is you think you’re supposed to do, and we women are stuck waiting for you as if you’re some kind of conquering heroes.”
“Mrs. Quick,” said Milo, “you’re not going to like this question, but I have to ask it anyway. Did Gavin ever run into any problems with women other than Beth Gallegos?”
Sheila Quick’s hands closed into fists. “No, and the very fact you’re suggesting it—I tell you that’s just so . . . distorted—shortsighted.” She ripped the scarf-turban from her head and began kneading the fabric. Her hair was elaborately pinned, compressed tightly to her skull. White roots showed through the blond.
Milo said, “I’m sorry, but I need to—”
“You need to, you need to—what you need to do is find the madman who killed my son.”
“The young lady he was with, ma’am. We still haven’t been able to identify her.”
Sheila got up and snatched the plate of cookies from where I’d placed them. She returned to the kitchen, swung the door closed, stayed in there.
“As predicted,” said Milo, “a pretty scene. I know she’s gone through hell but ten to one she was a harpy before.”
Minutes passed.
He said, “I’d better go in there and finish up with her. Be kind to yourself and stay here.”
Just as he rose, the kitchen door swung open, and Sheila Quick stomped through. She’d unpinned and brushed her hair but applied no makeup. Milo sat back down. She stopped directly in front of us, placed her hands on her hips.
“Is there anything else?”
“The girl Gavin was wi—”
“Don’t know her, never seen her, can’t change that. No one in the family knows her, including my daughter.”
“You asked Kelly.”
“I called and asked her if Gavin was dating anyone, and she said she hadn’t heard that.”
“Were the two of them close?”
“Of course. Kelly’s my bright one, she knows her way around.”
I said, “Any plans for her to come back?”
“No. Why should she? She’s got a life. Even though I don’t.”
She stared at me. “Gavin was a good human being. A handsome human being, of course girls liked him. Which is why that Gallegos woman is so off base. Gavin didn’t need to chase some little . . . nurse type.”
“When did he and Kayla Bartell stop dating?”
“Don’t know,” she snapped. “Why don’t you ask her? The . . . she hasn’t even been by to see me. Not once. Not a condolence note.” A pink mule tapped the carpet. “Are we finished?”
Milo said, “You’ve heard about Dr. Koppel.”
“She got murdered,” said Sheila Quick. “I read about it yesterday.”
Matter-of-fact, no emotion.
“Any thoughts about that, Mrs. Quick?”
“It’s terrible,” she said. “Everyone’s getting murdered. What a city—I’m thirsty. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks, ma’am. Let me toss a few names at you. Please tell me if any of them are familiar. Anson Conniff.”
“No. Who’s he?”
“Flora Newsome?”
“No.”
“Brian Van Dyne, Roy Nichols?”
“No, no,
no
. Who
are
these people?”
“Not important,” said Milo. “Nothing you need to worry about. Thanks for your time.”
“Time,” said Sheila Quick. “I’ve got too much of that.”
CHAPTER
20
S
heila Quick turned her back on us, and we saw ourselves out.
Just before we reached the car, Milo’s cell phone beeped. He took the call, big hand concealing the little blue gizmo. “Sturgis . . . oh, hi. As a matter of fact, yes we are . . . right here, at the house . . . yes . . . that so? . . . where’s that? When? Sure, that would be fine. Thank you, ma’am, see you soon.”
He snapped the phone shut. “That was Eileen Paxton, Sheila’s ‘baby sister.’ She’s in Beverly Hills for a meeting, was planning to visit sis, drove by, saw us go in, and decided to wait until we were finished. She’d like to talk.”
“About what?”
“ ‘Family issues’ is how she put it. She’s a few blocks away, on Bedford, some Italian place, corner of Brighton.”
“Time for tiramisu,” I said.
He touched his gut and grimaced. “Even I have limits.”
“How disillusioning.”
*
The Italian place was named Pagano and it featured three wobbly outdoor tables that blocked most of its share of the sidewalk. Eileen Paxton sat at one of them, wearing a slim-cut black pantsuit and backless high-heeled sandals and sipping a café latte. She saw us, smiled, wiggled a pinkie. Her hair was trimmed shorter than a few days ago, tinted a couple of shades lighter, and her makeup was more intense. She wore diamond stud earrings and a jade necklace, looked as if she was celebrating something.
She said, “I’m so glad we could get together.”
Passersby brushed us. Milo edged closer to her, and said, “Here or inside?”
“Oh, here. I like the rhythm of the city.”
This particular city was barely a village, a precious display of conspicuous wealth. The rhythm was set by power-walking pedestrians and oversized engines belching toxins. Milo and I sat down and ordered espresso from an overly moussed waiter with drugged eyes. Eileen Paxton looked content, as if this was a quiet, restful place for
al fresco
dining.
She said, “How did my sister seem to you?”
Milo punted to me.
I said, “She looked a bit depressed.”
“What you need to know is that’s not all because of what happened to Gavin. Sheila’s got long-standing psychological problems.”
“Long-standing depression?”
“Depression, anxiety, difficulty coping, you name it. She’s always been moody and high-strung. I’m the baby, but I always took care of her. When she married Jerry, I had my concerns.”
“About the marriage?”
“About Sheila being able to handle marriage,” she said. She turned her head quickly, flashed teeth at Drug-eyes. “Gio, could I have some of those lovely little pistachio biscotti? Thank you, you’re a true dear.” Back to us: “To Sheila’s credit, she worked at her marriage and seemed to do okay. Even though Jerry’s no prize.”
“He’s got problems, too?”
Her squint was furious. “Jerry’s sexually predatory. Hits on anything with a vagina and, for all I know, anything with anything else. He hit on me. I’ve never told Sheila, it would’ve destroyed her and the marriage, and I didn’t want that on my conscience.”
But you’re telling us.
I said, “When did this happen?”
“A month after they were married. Barely back from their honeymoon. I was also married, and the four of us spent a weekend in Arrowhead—my first husband’s family owned a place on the lake, great place with a double dock. Everything was rolling along nicely until one day Sheila went down for a nap—she runs out of steam easily—and my then-hubby had to go to town on business—he was an investment banker. That left just Jerry and me. I went down to sun on the dock in my bikini, and a few minutes later, Jerry came by. We weren’t alone ten minutes before he made his move. And I’m not talking subtle. Hand down the bikini bottom.” She clawed her hand, made a swooping motion. “He does
not
have a gentle touch.”
The plate of hard cookies arrived along with our espressos. Eileen Paxton patted the waiter’s hand, selected a crescent, broke it in half, nibbled the tip.
“What did you do?” I said.
“I yanked Jerry’s goddamn hand out of there, told him what I’d do to his balls if he ever tried that again. He’s despised me ever since, and the feeling’s mutual. Not just because of that. Because of what he does to my sister.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s cheated on her consistently throughout the marriage.”
I didn’t answer.
She said, “Trust me, I know the bum. All those business trips, doing God knows what. The looks he gives me when we’re alone. Gives other women—the girls he hires as secretaries.”
“What about them?”
“Sluts. They’re supposed to be doing secretarial work, but don’t look as if they know how to type. He goes off doing his thing, doing God knows what, and Sheila basically lives alone. She has no friends, no social network. Which is the way it was when we were growing up. I always had a huge social circle. Sheila had trouble relating.”
I said, “Doing God knows what. Sheila said he was a metals dealer.”
“So I’ve heard,” Paxton said airily. She chewed on a biscotti.
“You have doubts?”
“He must do something, the bills get paid. Yes, he travels around trading aluminum, whatever. But when my husband—my new one—tried to talk to him about investing, Jerry wasn’t interested. And Ted’s a fabulous broker, someone who could help Jerry. My sense is Jerry isn’t great at what he does, has to hustle just to keep his head above. He moves his office every few years, travels all the time.”
“Hires sluts as secretaries.”
She hesitated. “Maybe I was being a little harsh. I just know what he did to me on the dock that day. And the way his eyes rove.”
I said, “You’re thinking this could be related to Gavin.”
“I want you guys to have all the facts, and I know no one else will give them to you. The family’s screwed up, and Gavin was a weirdo. I know Sheila and Jerry are going to tell you he was just a regular kid before the accident, but that’s not the way it was. Gavin had problems.”
“What kinds of problems?”
Eileen Paxton rubbed the biscotti against her top teeth, as if caressing the enamel. Her tongue snaked out and tickled the pastry, then she took a hard bite and chewed slowly.
“I wouldn’t be telling you this except I don’t want you misled.”
“We appreciate that, ma’am,” said Milo.
“Well, good,” said Paxton. “Because I do feel uncomfortable, divulging family issues.” She sipped latte like a cautious cat, licked foam from her upper lip.
“What kinds of problems did Gavin have?” I said.
“Like father, like son.”
“He was sexually predatory?”
“That sounds too harsh,” she said. “Gavin hadn’t developed into a predator. Yet. But he was . . . okay, there’s no reason not to tell you: Last year, Gavin ran into some legal problems over a woman.”
“Beth Gallegos,” said Milo.
Paxton’s face slackened with disappointment. “So you know.”
“It came up recently, ma’am. In fact, we were just talking about it to your sister.”
“You’re serious? Sheila must have gone bonkers. She blamed the victim, right?”
“Exactly, ma’am.”
“That’s always been her way of dealing with stress,” said Paxton. “My poor sister lives on another planet—well, yes, that was part of what I was going to tell you. But that was only Gavin’s most serious problem, there have been others.”
“Other women he stalked?”
“I know of at least one girl he harassed, and my guess would be more. Because that kind of behavior’s a pattern, right?”
“Sure,” said Milo. “Who’s the other victim?”
“Gavin had a girlfriend—some rich kid from the Flats, I only met her once, skinny little blond thing with a nose like a hawk. I found her kind of snotty. Her father’s a prominent jingle writer. Gavin got sexually aggressive with her, and she dumped him.”
“How do you know about this, ma’am?”
“Because Gavin told me.”
“Gavin talked to you about his personal issues?”
“From time to time.” Paxton smiled and caressed her own neck. “The young, hip aunt. He liked the fact that I’m in the industry, more in touch with pop culture than his parents. We’d chat from time to time. The time he told me about Little Miss Beverly Hills—I think her name was Katya, something like that—we were all out to dinner—right up the block at Il Principe, the food’s divine.”
“I’ll have to try it,” said Milo. “So this was a family dinner?”
“Gavin, Sheila, and I. Jerry was out of town. As usual.”
“How long ago?”
“Um, I’d say half a year, maybe more. Anyway, there we were enjoying the fabulous food—they cook sea bass in a wood oven, make their own pasta from scratch—and all of a sudden, Sheila wasn’t feeling well—another typical Sheila thing, she can’t enjoy anything, not even a good meal, without suffering—and she ran to the little girls’ room and stayed there for a while. Gavin started talking to me, he’d been looking kind of tense all night. Finally, I pried it out of him. He’d lost his girlfriend because she wasn’t interested in sex. He called her a ‘compulsive virgin.’ ”
She propped the chewed-down biscotti between her index fingers. Rolled it. Placed it on her plate. “I asked him what had happened, and he told me. While he was telling it, he really worked himself up. It was clear he was angry and frustrated.”
“About losing the relationship.”
“No, that was the thing. He said he couldn’t care less about having a girlfriend, it was not getting
sex
that griped him. It really made him angry.”
“This was after the accident.”
“Shortly after—maybe it was eight months ago. But Gavin was always easily frustrated. As a little boy he threw all kinds of tantrums.”
“Excitable,” I said. “And now he was all worked up about not getting sex.”
“He talked about sex as if it was his
right
. Said he and the girl, Katya, had been going together on and off since high school, it was about time she put out. Like there was a schedule you adhered to. Then he said everyone else was ‘fucking themselves blind,’ the whole world was one big fuckfest swimming in jizz and he deserved to swim, too, and she could just go to hell, he’d find someone else.”
“Lots of anger,” I said.
“He always had a bad temper. It got worse after the accident. It was like his emotional barometer was off—he just did or said what was on his mind. I mean, I’m his aunt and he’s talking about
jizz
in a booth at Il Principe. I was mortified. Important people dine at that place.”
“Gavin was talking loud?”
“His voice kept rising, and I had to keep telling him to lower it. I tried to reason with him, told him women weren’t machines, they needed to be cared for, sex could be fun, but it had to be mutual. He listened, actually seemed to be taking it in. Then he slid over in the booth, and said, ‘Eileen, thanks. You’re awesome.’ Then he grabbed my breast in one hand, the back of my head with the other, and tried to shove his tongue down my throat—Gio? A refill, please.”
