Therapy (4 page)

“Sleepover,” I said. “Nowadays, parents are lenient. And affluent parents are more likely to be out of town.”

“Would’ve been nice to talk to Kayla . . . meanwhile, I got the coroner to shoot some preautopsy pictures. Just got back from picking them up, have the least scary one to show around. It almost looks as if she’s sleeping. I want the Quicks to have a look at it, figure the father’s back, maybe the sister, too. I put a call in to them, but no one answered, no machine.”

“Grieving,” I said.

“And now I’m going to interrupt the process. Care to join me? In case I need help in the sensitivity department?”

CHAPTER

4

I
n the afternoon daylight the Quick residence was even prettier, well kept, the lawn clipped, the front yard ringed by beds of impatiens. Daytime parking was restricted to permit holders. Milo had placed an LAPD banner atop his dash, and he handed me one for the Seville. In his free hand was a manila envelope.

I put the banner in the car. “Now I’m official.”

“Hoo-hah. Here we go again.” He bent one leg and flexed his neck. Opening the envelope, he pulled out the death shot of the blond girl.

The pretty face was now a pale mask. I studied the details: ski slope nose, dimpled chin, eyebrow pierce. Lank yellow strands that the camera turned greenish. Greenish tint to the skin that was real. The bullet hole was an oversized black mole, puffy around the edges, just off center in the unlined brow. Purplish bruises had settled around the eyes—blood leaking from the brain. Bloody residue under the nose, too. Her mouth hung slightly open. Her teeth were straight and dull.

To my eye, nothing close to “almost sleeping.”

I returned the picture, and we approached the Quick house.

A woman in a black pantsuit answered. Younger than Sheila Quick, she was slim and angular and brunette, with firm features and an assertive posture. Her dark hair was short, feathered in front, sprayed in place.

Her hands clamped her hips. “I’m sorry, they’re resting.”

Milo showed her the badge.

She said, “That doesn’t change the facts.”

“Ms.—”

“Eileen. I’m Sheila’s sister. Here’s
my
badge.” She slid a cream-colored business card out of a jacket pocket. The diamond on her finger was a three-carat pear.

Eileen PaxtonSenior Vice President andChief Financial OfficerDigimorph IndustriesSimi Valley, California

“Digimorph,” said Milo.

“Ultratech computer enhancement. We do film work. On the biggest pictures.”

Milo smiled at her. “Here’s a picture, Ms. Paxton.” He showed her the death shot.

Eileen Paxton’s gaze didn’t waver, but her lips worked. “She’s the one who was found with Gavin?”

“Do you recognize her, ma’am?”

“No, but I wouldn’t. I thought Gavin was found with his girlfriend. That little hook-nosed thing. That’s what Sheila told me.”

“Your sister assumed,” said Milo. “A reasonable assumption, but she was mistaken. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

He kept the photo in Eileen Paxton’s sight. She said, “You can put that away.”

“Is Mr. Quick back from Atlanta?”

“He’s sleeping. They both are.”

“When do you think they’ll be available?”

“How would I know that? This is a terrible time for the entire family.”

“Yes, it is, ma’am.”

“This city,” said Paxton. “This world.”

“Okay then,” said Milo. “We’ll check back later.”

We turned to leave, and Eileen Paxton began to close the door, when a male voice from inside the house said, “Who’s out there, Eileen?”

Paxton was halfway inside when she said something unintelligible. The male voice retorted. Louder. Milo and I faced the house. A man emerged, his back to us, talking to the doorway. “I don’t need to be protected, Eileen.”

Muffled response. The man closed the door, swiveled, and stared at us. “I’m Jerry Quick. Any news on my boy’s murder?”

Tall, thin, round-shouldered, he wore a navy blue crewneck sweater over khakis and white Nikes. Thinning gray hair was arranged in a careless comb-over. His face was long, deeply seamed, lantern-jawed. Bluish smudges stained the crinkled skin beneath wide-set blue eyes. His eyelids drooped, as if he were having trouble staying awake.

We returned to the front steps. Milo held out his hand. Quick shook it briefly, glanced at me, said, “Do you have anything yet?”

“Afraid not. If you’ve got time—”

“Of course I do.” Quick’s lips twisted as if he’d tasted something bad. “My executive
sister
-in-law. She met Spielberg once and thinks her shit doesn’t stink—come on in. My wife’s totally out of it, our doctor gave her Valium or something, but I’m fine. He wanted to dose me up, too. I want to be focused.”

*

Milo and I sat on the same blue sofa, and Jerome Quick took a Chippendale-repro armchair. I studied the family photos again. Wanting to imagine Gavin as something other than the thing in the Mustang.

In life, he’d been a tall, dark-haired, pleasant-looking kid with his father’s long face and wide-set eyes. Darker eyes than his father’s—gray-green. In some of the earlier pictures he wore glasses. His fashion sense never changed. Preppy clothes, designer logos. Short hair, always, in either a conservative crew cut or gelled and spiked cautiously. A regular kid with a tentative smile, not handsome, not ugly. Walk down any suburban street, check out a mall or a multiplex theater or a college campus, and you’d see scores just like him. His sister—the law student in Boston—was plain and serious-looking.

Quick saw me looking. “That was Gav.” His voice caught. He cursed under his breath, said, “Let’s get to work.”

*

Milo prepared him for the picture, then showed it to him.

Quick waved it away. “Never seen her.” Quick’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “Did my wife tell you about the accident?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That and now this.” Quick sprang up, strode to a mock-Chippendale coffee table, studied a crystal box for a while, then opened it and pulled out a cigarette and lit up with a matching lighter.

Blue smoke rose toward the ceiling. Quick inhaled deeply, sat down, and laughed harshly.

“I quit five years ago. Sheila thinks it’s gracious to leave these out for guests, even though no one smokes anymore. Like the good old days in Hollywood, all that crap. Her sister tells her about Hollywood crap . . .” He stared at the cigarette, flicked ash on the carpet, and ground it into the pile with his heel. The resulting black scorch mark seemed to give him satisfaction.

I said, “Did Gavin talk about a new girlfriend?”

“New?”

“After Kayla.”

“Her,” said Quick. “There’s an airhead for you. No, he didn’t say anything.”

“Would he have told you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he open about his personal life?”

“Open?” said Quick. “Less so than before the accident. He tended to get confused. In the beginning, I mean. How could he not be confused, he caught a tremendous blow right here.” Quick touched his forehead.

Same spot where the bullet had entered his son’s skull. He didn’t know yet. No reason for him to know yet.

“Confusion,” I said.

“Just temporary. But he found he couldn’t concentrate on his studies, so he dropped out of school.”

Quick smoked and grimaced, as if inhaling hurt.

“He got hit on the prefrontal lobes,” he said. “They told us it controls personality. So obviously . . .”

“Gavin changed,” I said.

“Nothing huge, but sure, there’d have to be changes. But then he got better, almost everything got better. Anyway, I’m sure Gav’s accident has nothing to do with this.”

Quick puffed rapidly, flicked more ash. “We need to find out whoever did this. Bastard leave any clues?”

Milo said, “We have no suspects and very little information. We haven’t even been able to identify the girl.”

“Well I don’t know her, and I doubt Sheila does. We know the same people.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about Gavin that might help?”

“Gavin was a great guy,” said Quick, as if daring us to argue. “Had his head on his shoulders. Hell of a golfer. We both loved golf. I taught him, and he learned fast, leaped right over me—a seven handicap, and he was getting better. That was before the accident. Afterward, he wasn’t as coordinated, but he was still good. His attention would wander . . . sometimes he’d want to take the same shot over and over—wanted to do it perfectly.”

“Perfectionistic,” I said.

“Yeah, but at some point you’re causing a traffic jam on the green, and you have to stop. In terms of his interests, he liked business, same as me.” Jerry Quick slumped. “That changed, too. He lost interest in business. Got other ideas. But I figured it was temporary.”

“Other career ideas?” I said.

“More like career fantasies. All of a sudden econ was down the drain, and he was going to be a writer.”

“What kind of writer?”

“He joked about working for the tabloids, getting the dirt on celebrities.”

“Just a joke,” I said.

Quick glared. “He laughed, and I laughed back. I told you, he couldn’t concentrate. How the hell could he write for a newspaper? One time Eileen was over, and he asked her if she knew any celebrities he could get dirt on. Then he winked at me, but Eileen just about dirtied her pants. Gave some big speech about celebrities deserving their privacy. The thought of offending some big shot scared the hell out of her . . . anyway, where was I . . .” Quick’s eyes glazed. He smoked.

“Gavin becoming an investigative reporter.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t serious.”

“How did Gavin fill his time after he dropped out?”

Quick said, “By hanging around. I was ready for him to go back to school, but apparently he wasn’t, so I—it was a hard time for him, I didn’t want to push. I figured maybe he’d reenroll in the spring.”

“Any other changes?” I said.

“He stopped picking up his room. Really let it go to seed. He’d never been the neatest kid, but he’d always been good about personal grooming. Now he sometimes had to be reminded to shower and brush his teeth and comb his hair. I hated reminding him because he got embarrassed. Never argued, never gave me attitude, just said, ‘Sorry, Dad.’ Like he knew something was different and felt bad about it. But that was all getting better, he was coming out of it, getting in shape—he started running again. He was light on his feet, used to do five, six miles like it was nothing. His doctor told me he was going to be fine.”

“Which doctor is that?”

“All of them. There was a neurologist, what was his name—” Quick smoked and removed the cigarette and tapped his cheek with his free hand. “Some Indian guy, Barry Silver, our family doctor, referred us to him. Indian guy, over at Saint John’s . . . Singh. He wears a turban, must be one of those . . . you know. Barry is a friend as well as our doctor, I golf with him, so I trusted his referral. Singh did some tests and told us he really didn’t see anything off in Gav’s brain. He said Gav would take time to heal, but he couldn’t say how much time. Then he sent us over to a therapist—a psychologist. To help Gav recover from the trauma.”

“A neuropsychologist?” I said.

Quick said, “She’s a therapist, that’s all I know. Woman shrink, Koppel, she’s been on TV, radio.”