Therapy

toured the country. Bumaya’s name wasn’t on the roster, but what the hell does that mean? Meanwhile, Mr. McKenzie, the erstwhile Rwandan consul in S.F., is charming but not very helpful.”

I covered my eyes, then my ears and mouth.

“The techs went over that backyard on Spalding. Owners had been out of town for a month, the gates were locked, but it was easy enough to hop over. Perfect view of the park bench and easy hiding behind a big thatch of banana plants. Wet soil, you’d think there’d be a footprint, but nada. Not a single indentation, no shell casings, no cigarette butts.”

“Jerry’s a pro,” I said. “Freelancing for foreign governments. Perfect civilian transition for a restless old Special Forces guy.”

“I got B.H. techs to go through his house. They found gunpowder residue and some iron filings in a locker in the garage but no weapons. Big locker, though, enough for a sizable stash. Rifles, scopes, all the good stuff.”

“Bumaya hired Quick to avenge the murdered boys,” I said, “and maybe some other people, too. Quick kept a close watch on Larsen, learned about the scam, bided his time. Maybe he was trying to figure out a way to get hold of Larsen’s scam money. Like an abduction, where he could force Larsen to give up PIN numbers or foreign account access. He connected Larsen to Mary Lou and Mary Lou to Koppel. Became Sonny’s tenant as a way to get closer. Then Gavin had his accident and provided him with another opportunity: He knew Mary Lou was involved in the scam, but he had no beef with her. He chatted up Sonny, got Sonny to refer him to Mary Lou. Sending his kid for therapy would make his presence at the building easy to explain. Mary Lou punted to Gull, but that was no big deal for Jerry. Remember how Gull told us that it was Jerry, not Sheila who brought Gavin in for his first appointment.”

“Concerned father,” he said. “Special Forces-trained pro, and he doesn’t pay his rent on time.”

“Everyone’s got their vulnerabilities,” I said. “Money was his. Supporting a Beverly Hills lifestyle with intermittent freelance hits could’ve been a strain. So was feigning respectability and keeping a mistress on the side. A big-bucks payoff would’ve allowed him some squeeze room. That’s why he kept his eye fixed on the scam. Then Gavin messed things up by playing his own little spy game. Copying down license numbers and including his father’s. That night, maybe Jerry followed Gavin. Or he was doing his own surveillance and had no idea Gavin had spotted him. Maybe Gavin even told him about it, and Jerry explained it away, warned Gavin off. But Gavin was obsessive. He persisted and got killed and Jerry knew why, and now he had another reason to get rid of Larsen. And a second target: Degussa. He cleaned out Gavin’s room, to see exactly what Gavin knew, as well as to destroy any link to him. Then he went into hiding.”

“Larsen and Degussa. And I led him right to them.”

“That bother you?”

“Not one damn bit. You really think Gavin confronted the old man?”

“It’s hard to say how much they communicated outside of Jerry trying to get Gavin laid. The first time we met Jerry, he told us he and Gavin were close, but I remember thinking that didn’t feel right. He seemed out of touch. The fact that Kelly didn’t fly out immediately was also odd. This family’s finally come apart, but it was long in the making. Gavin’s accident couldn’t have been easy for any of them, Jerry included.”

“You have sympathy for the guy,” he said. “We start looking into his travel schedule, you know we’re going to find a whole lot of dead people.”

“If they’re people like Albin Larsen, I won’t be weeping.”

He smiled. “Both of us making value judgments.”

“It’s a human quality.”

“You’re saying I should not look into his travel records.”

“I’m saying Kelly Quick’s a nice kid. And what sin did she commit other than to be loyal to her parents?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe she’ll even go back to school and become a lawyer. Whatever the hell that means in the greater scope of things.”

And that’s the last time we spoke about the Quick family.

CHAPTER 47

Friday, 10 A.M. Allison and I were flying to Vegas in eight hours. (“How about nothing wholesome, Alex? How about noise and lights and losing some hard-earned money at the tables?”)

I figured to finish some long-neglected paperwork and leave with a clear head.

At 11:14 Milo called, and said, “I need a favor, but if you’re jammed, just say so.”

“What?”

“Your tone of voice. I’m bugging you.”

“What do you need?”

“It took a while to free up Christi Marsh’s body for burial. Cody Marsh went back to Minnesota, found a plot, now he’s back and is headed over to the morgue. He’s got more questions about why she died, wants to meet there. I’d do it, but between all the work on Gavin-Christi-Mary Lou-Flora and a new one- two drug dealers shot in Mar Vista- I’m superjammed.”

“When did you pick that one up?”

“Three hours ago,” he said. “A nonweird one, don’t worry, nothing to bug you about. Bottom line, I really don’t have time to deal with ol’ Cody and give him the sensitivity he deserves.”

“What should he be told?” I said.

“Not the whole truth, that’s for sure. Emphasize Christi’s good points. I’ll leave it up to your wise discretion.”

“When will he be at the morgue?”

“In two hours.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “As always.”

*

I drove to Boyle Heights and found a space in the lot that fronted the coroner’s office. As I got out of the Seville, an old gray Chevy bumped and smoked into the lot and pulled ponderously into a nearby slot.

Sonny Koppel got out, shielded his eyes from the glare, stared at the sign above the door, and winced. He wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt over rumpled, gray cotton pants and white tennis shoes. His hair was slicked down, and his face bore an unhealthy flush.

He headed for the door. Stopped, saw me, and caught his breath.

“Hi,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Meeting someone.”

“Something to do with Mary?”

“No,” I said.

“Lots of people dying,” he said. “I’m here to claim Mary’s body. I’ve been trying for weeks, have no legal authority because we weren’t married anymore. Finally, I cut through the red tape.”

“It can be rough.”

“Main thing is, I got permission.” He sighed. “Mary never said what she’d want in this situation. I figure she’d be happy with cremation.”

He looked at me, wanting counsel.

I said, “You’d know.”

“Would I?” he said. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I know much.”

“You did your best for her.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“I think it’s true.”

He made puffing noises with his lips. “I hope you’re right.”

We reached the morgue’s glass doors. I held one open for him.