I picked Allison up outside her office. Her hair was loose, and she laced her fingers through mine and kissed me hard. Neither of us was hungry, and we opted for movie first, food later. An old Coen Brothers film, Blood Simple, was playing at the Aero, a few blocks up on Montana. Allison had never seen it. I had, but the picture merited a second look.
We left the theater shortly after nine and drove over to Hakata on Wilshire where we sat in a booth, away from the rock-star posters and the good cheer of the sushi bar, and ordered sake and salmon skin salad and steak teriyaki and mixed sashimi.
I asked Allison how she’d have treated Gavin Quick.
“When I get head injuries they’ve usually been through a complete neuropsych eval,” she said. “If they haven’t, I send them for one. If the testing pinpoints deficits, I recommend some targeted special ed. With that out of the way, I concentrate on marshaling the patient’s strengths.”
“Supportive therapy.”
“Sometimes they need more than that. The challenge is learning to deal with a whole new world. But sure, support’s a big part of it. It can be tough, Alex. Two steps backwards for every step forward, lots of mood changes, and you never know what the end result will be. Basically you’ve got a person who knows he’s not what he used to be and feels helpless to change.”
“Gavin told his therapist he missed being himself.”
“Pretty eloquent.”
I poured sake for both of us. “Nice lighthearted date, huh?”
She smiled and touched my wrist. “Are we still dating?” Before I could answer, she said, “Why all these questions about the technique, honey? Is his mental status related to his murder?”
“His mental status became an issue because Milo wondered if Gavin could’ve bothered the wrong person. But my guess is that the girl was the target, and Gavin was just unlucky.”
“Unlucky again,” she said.
We ate.
A moment later: “Who’s the therapist?”
“A woman named Mary Lou Koppel. Her stated goal was to open him up emotionally. Doesn’t sound as if it went too well.”
She put her cup down. “Mary Lou.”
“You know her?”
She nodded. “How strange.”
“What is?”
“She’s had a patient murdered before.”
CHAPTER 8
I pushed my food aside.
Allison said, “I’d met Mary Lou a few times before. Conferences, symposia. Once we sat on a panel together. Back when I was foolish enough to sit on panels. What I remember about her most vividly are her red clothes and her smile- she always smiled, even when it didn’t seem appropriate. As if she’d been prepped by a media coach. On the panel, she had lots to say but no data to back it up. Clearly, she hadn’t prepared, was relying on charisma.”
“You’re not a fan.”
“She put me off, Alex. But I wondered if I was just jealous. Because everyone knew how well she was doing professionally. Word had it she was charging fifty percent more than the rest of us and was turning away patients. The murder was over a year ago. I was at the Western Psych Association convention in Vegas and Mary Lou was scheduled to give a talk on psychology and the media that was canceled at the last minute. I hadn’t planned to attend, but one of my friends was registered to hear her- Hal Gottlieb. That night I was having dinner with Hal and some other folks and he joked that he’d lost money at the blackjack tables and that he was going to sue Mary Lou Koppel for it. Because Mary Lou’s canceling her talk had given him free time and he’d ambled over to the casino. Then he told us she’d canceled because one of her patients had been murdered. There was a long silence; finally, someone made a crack about bad publicity, then someone else said for Mary Lou there was no such thing as bad publicity, she’d turn it to her advantage.”
“Popular gal,” I said.
“We mind-healers can be as catty as anyone. If only our patients knew.”
“Do you recall any details about the murder?”
“For some reason I remember it as a woman victim. But I could be making that up, I really can’t be sure, Alex.”
“Over a year ago.”
“Two Aprils ago- after Easter. That would make it fourteen months.”
“Nothing about a murder came up when I ran Mary Lou through the search engines,” I said. “But she started giving interviews about prison reform around that time, so maybe the crime sparked her interest.”
“Could be.”
“On some of the interviews, she was joined by one of her partners, a guy named Albin Larsen. Know him?”
She shook her head, probed her salad with a chopstick. “Two murders in one practice. I guess if the practice is large enough, it’s not that outlandish.”
“And Mary Lou’s was large.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well,” I said, “at the very least, it’s provocative. I’ll pass it along to Milo. Thanks.”
“Always happy to help.” She pushed a wave of black hair off her face and nibbled her lower lip.
I leaned across the table and kissed her. She took hold of my face with both her hands, pressed my mouth to hers, released me.
I poured more sake.
“This is good,” she said.
“Premium brand,” I said.
“I was referring to being here with you.”
“Oh.” I knuckled my brow.
She laughed and touched a diamond earring. “Despite my penchant for shiny things, I really don’t need much. We’re alive and our brains are working just fine- that’s a good start, wouldn’t you say?”
The following morning, I finished a custody report and, wanting to get out of the house, drove to the West L.A. courthouse and dropped off the papers at the judge’s chambers. The police station was nearby, and I walked over. The civilian clerk knew me and waved me up without clearance.
I climbed the stairs and walked past the big Robbery-Homicide room where Milo had once worked with all the other detectives, continued up the hall.
He’d spent a decade and a half in that room, never an insider because of his sexuality and his own loner tendencies. Early on there’d been plenty of hostility, mostly from uniforms and brass, but none recently and never from detectives.
Detectives are too bright and too busy for that kind of nonsense. For the last few years, Milo’s high solve-rate had earned him silent respect.
A little over a year ago, his life had changed. Chasing down a vicious, twenty-year-old cold-case sex murder had led him to unearth some of the police chief’s personal secrets. The chief, now deposed, had offered a solution: Milo, in return for not ruining both of them, would get promoted to lieutenant but would be spared the pencil-pushing that went with a lieutenant’s position. Exiled to his own space, away from other D’s, he’d be a special case: allowed to pick his cases, expected to keep a low profile. If he needed assistance, he was free to enlist junior D’s. Otherwise, he’d be on his own.
Shunting and coopting. It’s the kind of thing government does all the time. Milo knew he was being manipulated, and he hated the idea. He considered quitting- for a few moments. Veered away from self-destruction and convinced himself isolation could be freedom. Banking the extra salary wasn’t bad either, and while the chief was in power, his job security was assured.
Now the chief was gone, and a new replacement had yet to be picked. Ten candidates had announced their intentions, including an assistant chief from Community Services who tossed his name in the ring after granting an interview to a San Francisco paper in which he came out of a thirty-year closet and named his longtime companion.
I asked Milo if that would change things in the department.
He laughed. “When Berger’s name hit the list, eyes rolled so loud you could hear it in Pacoima. His chance of winning is about the same as my growing a second pancreas.”
“Even so. The fact that he went public.”
“Public as far as the public’s concerned. Everyone in the department’s known about him for years.”