Therapy (18 page)

*

Milo pressed her for more on Gavin’s sex life and the family, but once she’d gotten past the basic hatred, there was nothing. He steered the conversation to Gavin’s tabloid fantasies.

“That,” she said, “is another thing he was impressed with—my work in the industry. He kept asking me to hook him up with some celebrity parties, so he could observe.” She laughed. “As if I’d help him dig dirt on my friends.”

“What was his angle?”

“Unearthing filth and selling it to the tabs. He saw it as his journalistic debut, he was going to make his mark as a journalist. I told him the tabs were trash and full of lies, but he wouldn’t hear it. He claimed they were more honest than the establishment press because they were open about their goals.”

“Filth.”

She nodded. “After the accident, Gavin saw the world as one big ball of filth.”

I said, “Did he make any progress toward being a journalist?”

“Like take a course or get an internship?” said Paxton. “Not to my knowledge. I’d doubt it. He really wasn’t in any shape to go back to school or hold down a job. Too flighty—he was drifting. Dropping out, sleeping in till noon, turning his room into a pigsty. I can’t blame him, I’m sure his brain was messed up. But Sheila didn’t even try to set limits. And Jerry, of course, was always gone.”

“Gavin did go into therapy.”

“Because the courts forced him to.”

“Did he tell you who his therapist was?”

“Jerry did. Dr. Koppel. Like it was some big deal.” She frowned.

“You know her?”

“I’ve heard her on the radio, and I have to say I’m not impressed. All she does is preach morality to idiots who phone in. Why not just go to church?”

Using the present tense. Milo and I looked at each other.

She said, “What?”

“Dr. Koppel was murdered.”

Paxton’s face went white.
“What? When?”

“Couple of days ago.”

“My God—why don’t I know that—was it on the news?”

“There was an article in yesterday’s paper.”

“I never read the paper,” she said. “Except
Calendar
. Murdered, omigod. Are you saying it had something to do with Gavin?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But she—could it be coincidence?”

“Your sister didn’t seem impressed by that.”

“My sister’s crazy. Do you have any idea who killed her?”

Milo shook his head.

“Horrible, horrible,” she said. “You think there’s a chance it couldn’t be related to Gavin?”

“We don’t know, ma’am.”

“Oh, boy.” Paxton stayed serious for a while. Ate her biscotti and grinned. Back to coquettish. “Now you’re playing hard to get, Lieutenant.”

“Not really, ma’am.”

“Well . . . I hope this has been helpful. I’ve got to go.”

“One more question, ma’am. Do you remember that picture I showed you of the girl who died with Gavin?”

“Yes, of course. And I told you I’d never seen her before, and that was true.”

“Gavin talked to you about wanting to find a new girl. He told other people he’d succeeded.”

“What other people?”

“Let’s leave it at other people.”

“Mr. Inscrutable Detective,” said Paxton. She brushed her knee against Milo’s. “A new girl, huh? In Gavin’s mind that could’ve meant anything. Someone he decided to pursue, whether or not she wanted it. Someone he’d seen on TV.”

“The girl I showed you was real,” said Milo. “And she was in Gavin’s car, up on Mulholland, late at night.”

“Okay,” she said, annoyed. “So he found someone. Everyone finds someone eventually. Look what
happened
to her.”

*

She made sure Milo picked up the tab and flounced away on backless shoes.

“What a piece of work,” said Milo. “What a family. So what was her reason for talking to us? Dissing the Quicks?”

“She despises them,” I said, “but that doesn’t discount her information.”

“Gavin’s inappropriate sexual behavior? Yeah, he’s sounding nuttier by the day.”

“If she’s right about Jerome Quick, Gavin had a role model. Gavin may have started off with a certain view of women, and the accident weakened his inhibitions further. What intrigues me is the blonde. Gavin had problems approaching women, came on way too strong. Yet an attractive young woman was willing to get intimate with him. A young woman in five-hundred-dollar shoes whom no one’s reported missing.”

“A pro,” he said. “Got to be.”

“Severe frustration could lead a boy to buy sex. A Beverly Hills boy might have a decent budget. Especially with a father who sanctioned it. I know she hasn’t shown up in any Vice files, but a relative rookie lucky enough not to get busted wouldn’t. If she worked on her own, there’d be no one to miss her. If she worked for someone else, they might not want to go on record.”

“A father who sanctioned it,” he said. “Dad slips Gavin serious dough to get seriously laid?”

“And maybe,” I said, “Dad knew where to send him.”

*

Jerome Quick’s metals-trading firm was a few miles east of Beverly Hills, on Wilshire near La Brea, on the third floor of a shopworn four-story building wedged between taller structures.

A sign in the empty lobby listed several units for lease. Most of the tenants were businesses with names that told you little about what they did. Quick’s office was on the second floor, midway down a poorly lit linoleum-floored hall. A savory but discomforting odor—beef stew just past its prime—permeated the walls.

Quick didn’t keep much of an office: A small, mostly empty reception area fronted an office marked PRIVATE. The carpeting was brown, stomped glossy, the walls cheap woodite paneling. The receptionist sat behind a cheap woodite desk. She was young and thin, pretty but hard-looking, with randomly chopped hair tinted electric blue at the tips. Her makeup was thick and grayish, her lipstick, anoxic gray-blue. Curving bright azure nails were an inch long. She wore a tight white sweater over leather-look black vinyl pants and chewed gum. In front of her was a copy of
Buzz Magazine
. The lack of other periodicals or chairs and her surprise at our presence said visitors were infrequent.

The sight of Milo’s badge raised a penciled eyebrow, but the pulse in her neck was slow and steady.

She said, “Mr. Quick’s out of town,” in a surprisingly sultry voice.

“Where?” said Milo.

She wiggled her shoulders. “San Diego.”

“He travel a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Nice and quiet for you.”

“Uh-huh.” The blue nails tapped the magazine. No computer or typewriter in sight.

Milo said, “You’re not surprised the police want to talk to him.”

She shrugged. “Sure I am.”

“Is it the first time the police have wanted to talk to him?”

“I’ve only been working here for a couple of months.”

“Cops been here before?” said Milo.

“Nope.”

Milo showed her the photo of the blonde. She blinked hard, turned away.

“You know her?”

“Is she dead?”

“Very.”

“Don’t know her.”

“She’s the girl who died with Gavin Quick.”

“Oh.”

“You do know about Gavin.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Sad,” said Milo.

“I didn’t really
know
him,” she said. “Very sad.” She turned the corners of her mouth down. Trying to mean it. Her brown eyes were flat. “Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Ms. . . .”

“Angie.”

“Gavin come in here?”

“Once in a while.”

“How often, Angie?”

“Not often.”

Milo unbuttoned his jacket and edged closer to her desk. “How long have you been working here?”

“Three and a half months.”

“In three and half months, how many times did you see Gavin Quick?”

“Hmm . . . maybe three times. Could be four, but probably three.”

“What did Gavin do when he was here?”

“Went in to see Jerry—Mr. Quick. Sometimes they’d go out.”

“For lunch?”

“I guess.”

“Was it lunchtime?”

“I think it was.”

“What’d you think of Gavin, Angie?”

“He seemed like an okay guy.”

“No problems?”

She licked her lips. “No.”

“No problems at all? He was always a gentleman.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“We’ve heard,” said Milo, “that Gavin could get pretty enthusiastic. Overly enthusiastic.”

No reply.

“Overly enthusiastic with women, Angie.”

She placed a hand on the copy of
Buzz
. As if preparing to take an oath.
I swear on all that is hip . . .

“I never saw that. He was polite.”

“Polite,” said Milo. “And by the way, what
is
your last name?”

“Paul.”

“Angie Paul.”

“Yup.”

“So Mr. Quick travels a lot.”

“All the time.”

“Must get boring, just sitting around.”

“It’s okay.” She flexed her shoulders again.

Milo sidled closer to the desk. The top bit into his thigh. “Angie, did Gavin ever hit on you?”

“Why would he do that?”

“You’re an attractive woman.”

“Thanks,” she said, without inflection. “He was always polite.”

“Where’s the boss off to?”

“Somewhere in San Diego. He didn’t say.”

“He doesn’t tell you where to find him?”

“He calls in.”

“Leaving you all by yourself,” said Milo.

“I like it,” she said. “Nice and quiet.”

*

Before we left, Milo took down her North Hollywood address and phone number and driver’s license registration. Driving back to the station, he ran her through the data banks. Three years ago, Angela May Paul had been arrested for marijuana possession.

“Paxton said Quick hired sluts for secretaries,” he said. “I don’t know if ol’ Angie would qualify for that, but he’s sure not tapping the executive roster. That office of his, pretty downscale, huh?”

“Keeping the overhead low,” I said. “Eileen said he’s no tycoon.”

“She said he was hustling . . . think Angie was telling the truth about not knowing the blonde? I thought she reacted a bit to the photo, though with that stone face it was hard to tell.”

“She blinked hard when you showed it to her,” I said, “but it is a death shot.”

“The blonde,” he said. “Jimmy Choo and Armani perfume. Maybe ol’ Jerry provided well for Junior.”

He checked his phone for messages, grunted, hung up.

“Drs. Larsen and Gull returned my call. They’d prefer to meet me away from the office, suggested Roxbury Park, tomorrow, 1 P.M. The picnic area on the west side, they go there for lunch from time to time. You up for some grass and trees and chewing the fat with a couple of colleagues? Should I bring a picnic basket?”

“Grass and trees sounds okay but forget the niceties.”

CHAPTER

21

“A
lex, I’m glad I caught you.”

It’d been months since I’d heard Robin’s voice, and it threw me. No rapid heartbeat; I was pleased about that.

I said. “Hi, how’ve you been?”

“Well. You?”

“Great.”

So civil.

“Alex, I’m calling for a favor, but if you can’t do it, please just say so.”

“What is it?”

“Tim was just asked to fly to Aspen to work with Udo Pisano—the tenor. There’s a concert tomorrow, and the guy’s voice is freezing up. They want Tim there yesterday, are flying him on a chartered jet. I’ve never been to Aspen and would like to go along. We’re talking one, maybe two nights. Would you be able to babysit Spike? You know how he is with kenneling.”

“Sure,” I said, “if Spike can handle being here.”

A few years back, on a sweltering summer day, a little French bulldog had made his way across the murderous traffic of Sunset Boulevard and up into the Glen. He wandered onto my property, gasping, stumbling, dangerously dehydrated. I watered and fed him, searched for his owner. She turned out to be an old woman dying in a Holmby Hills manor. Her sole heir, a daughter, was allergic to dogs.

He’d been saddled with an unwieldy pedigree moniker; I renamed him Spike and learned about kibble. He reacted to his new surroundings with élan, promptly fell in love with Robin, and began viewing me as competition.

When Robin and I broke up, custody wasn’t an issue. She got him, his leash, his food bowls, the short hairs he shed all over the furniture, his snoring, snuffling, arrogant table manners. I was awarded an echoing house.

I considered finding a dog of my own, had never gotten around to it. I didn’t see Spike much because I didn’t see Robin much. He’d taken ownership of the small house in Venice that she shared with Tim Plachette, and his regard for Tim seemed no higher than for me.

Robin said, “Thanks so much, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Down deep he loves you.”

“Must be extremely deep. When do you want to bring him over?”

“The plane leaves from Santa Monica as soon as we’re ready, so I was thinking soon.”

“Come on over.”

*

This is not your typical dog.

His flat face implies as much frog DNA as canine heritage, his ears are oversized, upright, batlike, and they flex and pivot and fold in response to a wide range of emotions. He doesn’t take up much more space than a Pomeranian but manages to pack twenty-six pounds into that cubic area, most of it lead-bone and rippling muscle, clothed in a black brindle coat. His neck is twenty-one and three-quarter inches around, and his knobby head is three handbreadths wide. His huge brown eyes shine with confidence and he allows himself the barest, patronizing interest in the lives of others. His worldview is simple: Life is a cabaret, and it’s all about him.

When I used to take him out alone, women flocked. “Oh, that’s the most beautiful ugly dog I’ve ever seen!” was the operative phrase.

This afternoon, he had as much interest in leaving Robin’s side as in snarfing a bowl of lint.

I held out a chew stick. He shot Robin a mournful gaze. She sighed and stooped. “It’ll be fine, handsome.”

The Saran-wrapped nugget of hamburger I’d concealed in my shirt pocket perked his radar and brought him over, but once he gobbled it, he raced back and hid behind Robin’s legs. Great legs.

She said, “Look at this, he’s guilt-tripping me.”

“The joys of parenthood.”

Spike nuzzled her jeans. Tight jeans above suede boots. She wore a black silk T-shirt under a tapestry vest. Her auburn curls were loose, her face was scrubbed and fresh. Those big, liquid brown eyes. The clean sweep of jaw and thin, straight nose.

Those lips; the oversized incisors.

I said, “Let me take him, and you go. He’ll fuss, then he’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” she said. She took Spike’s face in both her hands. “Listen, you rascal. Daddy will take good care of you, you know that.”

What did she call Tim? Stepdaddy?

Spike’s trapdoor mouth dropped open, teeth flashed, a purplish tongue flapped.

Beseeching the heavens, he bayed.

I swooped him into my arms, held his taut little body tight against my chest as he sniveled and writhed and hyperventilated. It was like restraining a bowling ball with legs.

“Oh dear,” said Robin.

I said, “
Bon voyage,
Rob.”

She hesitated, headed for her truck, changed her mind, and came back. Throwing her arm around my shoulder, she kissed Spike full on the snout.

She was kissing me on the cheek just as Allison drove up in her black Jaguar XJS.

*

The convertible top was down and her black hair blew like something out of a crème rinse commercial. She wore blue-tinted sunglasses and cream-colored knits with an aqua scarf. Glints punctuated her ears, neck, fingers, wrists; Allison is unafraid of adornment.

She switched off the engine and Robin’s arm dropped. Spike tried to leap out of my arms and reacted to his failure with a heart-wrenching howl.

“Hey, everyone,” said Allison.

“Hi,” said Robin, smiling.

Spike tried his
I’m-strangling-do-the-Heimlich
bit.

“Well, look who’s here.” Allison patted Spike’s head, then she kissed my lips. Robin backed away a few steps.

Spike froze; his head shifted from woman to woman.

It can get like that, buddy.

He moaned.

*

After Robin drove away, I trailed Allison up the stairs to the terrace, carrying a still-shuddering dog. When we reached the landing, she looked at me—no, at him. Touched his whiskered flews tentatively. “Look at this little guy. I forget how cute he is.”

Spike licked her hand.

“You are very, very
cute
!”

Spike began panting heavily, and she petted him some more. He wriggled, twisted his head back and managed to make eye contact with me.

A knowing look, rich with triumph.

Moments later, he was lying at Allison’s feet, nibbling on his second chew stick in as many minutes, damning my approach with a jaundiced eye.

Some guys have all the luck.

*

Mary Lou Koppel’s murder had shaken Allison, and that seemed to be why she’d dropped by. As I made coffee for both of us, she pressed for details.

I told her the little I knew.

“So it could be a patient,” she said.

“At this point anything’s possible.”

Her hands were tight around her mug.

I said, “You’re upset.”

“Not on a personal level.” She took a sip. “I have had patients—mostly husbands of patients—who made me uneasy. But that was mostly years ago, when I was taking more referrals from agencies . . . I guess Mary Lou’s death hits close to home. Thinking we know what we’re doing and maybe we get overconfident. It’s not just me. I’ve gotten calls from three other psychologists who just wanted to talk about it.”

“People who knew Mary Lou?”

“People who know I’m seeing you and thought they could get some inside information. Don’t worry, I was discreet.”

“What was on their minds?”

“Our line of work, the unpredictablity of human beings. I guess they want to convince themselves that Mary Lou was different, and that’s why it happened to her.”

I said, “They’re hoping she ticked off some talk-show nut, and it had nothing to do with her practice.”

“Bingo. But from what you’re telling me, it
could
be a patient. Someone who met the Quick boy in the waiting room.”

“Given the Quick boy’s impulsiveness—his behavior with women—the suspect pool has grown beyond the waiting room.”

“But Mary Lou’s murder,” she said. “It has to be something related to her work.”

“Any idea about gaining access to her patient files?” I said. “I can’t figure out a way to get around confidentiality.”

She thought about that. “Not without some kind of clear and present danger—documentation of a threat.”

“There was nothing like that in Gavin’s chart. And if she was threatened by anyone, she didn’t let on to me or Milo. We’ve got a meeting with her partners tomorrow.”

“Gull and Larsen.”

“Know them?” I said.

“I’ve said hi to both of them but nothing more.”

“Any impressions?”

“Gull comes across very smooth—very much the Beverly Hills shrink. Larsen’s more the academic type.”

“Gull was Gavin’s initial therapist,” I said. “It didn’t work out, and Gavin was transferred to Koppel. Now that Gavin’s dead, maybe he can tell us why.”

“What a troubled kid,” she said. “The stalking, putting the make on his aunt.”

“If the aunt’s to be believed, the family’s beyond dysfunctional.”

She drank more coffee, took my hand and held it. “At least you and I will never be out of work.”

“Neither will Milo.”

Spike rolled on his back and began pumping his stumpy legs.

“He looks like an upended turtle,” she said. “What are you doing, cutie? Practicing for the upside-down bike race?”

“That’s the signal to scratch his belly,” I said.

She grinned and complied. “Thanks for decoding, I’m not fluent in dog.”

She stopped scratching and made a move for her coffee mug. Spike protested, and she bent down again.

I said, “One-trial learning. Consider yourself conditioned.”

She laughed, took the mug, managed to sip and rub. Spike burped, then purred like a cat. Allison cracked up. “He’s a sound effects machine.”

“He’s got all sorts of talents.”

“How long’s he staying?”

“Couple of days.” I told her about Robin’s call.

“That was very nice of you.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said. “It was supposed to be joint custody, but he voted against it.”

“Well, that was foolish on his part. I’m sure you were a great father.” She sat up and touched my face and ran a finger over my lips.

Spike sprang to his feet and barked.

“Here we go,” I said. To Spike: “Cool it, clown.”

“Ooh, stern,” said Allison. “You do stern pretty well, my love. I’ve never seen it before.”

“He brings it out in me.”

“I always wanted a dog,” she said. “You know my mother. Way too neat for hair on the carpet. And Dad was always away on business. I did have a salamander once. It crawled out of its tank and hid under my bed and dried up. When I found it, it looked like a piece of beef jerky.”

“Poor neglected child,” I said.

“Yes, it was a tragic childhood—though, to be honest, I wasn’t very attached to Sally. Wet and slimy discourages bonding, don’t you think? But something like this.” She rubbed Spike’s head. “This I could see.”

“It gets complicated,” I said.

“How so?”