Milo said, “Human rights doesn’t pay the bills.”
Larsen turned to him. “I’m sorry to say, you’re correct, Detective.”
“So,” said Milo, “no psychopaths on Dr. Koppel’s patient roster.”
A statement, not a question, and neither psychologist responded. Albin Larsen ate a shred of lettuce. Franco Gull examined his gold watch.
Milo whipped out the picture of the blond girl. “Either of you gentlemen recognize her?”
Larsen and Gull examined the death shot. Both shook their heads.
Gull licked his lips. Sweat beaded atop his nose, and he wiped it away with irritation. “Who is she?”
“Was,” said Larsen. “She’s clearly deceased.” To Milo: “Is this related in some way to Mary’s murder?”
“Don’t know, yet, Doctor.”
“Did Mary know this girl?” said Gull.
“Don’t know that either, Doctor. So neither of you have seen her around the office.”
Gull said, “Never.”
Larsen shook his head. Tugged at a button of his sweater-vest. “Detective, is there something we need to know about? In terms of our own safety?”
“Are you worried about your safety?”
“You’ve just showed us a picture of a dead girl. I assume you feel her death is related to Mary’s. What’s really going on here?”
Milo put the photo back in his pocket. “All I can advise you is to exercise normal caution. Should either of you come up with a threatening patient- or anyone else from Dr. Koppel’s life who seems suspicious- you’d do best to let me know.”
He crossed his legs, looked over at the frolicking children. An ice-cream truck cruised through the alley and rang its bell. Some of the kids began pointing and jumping.
Franco Gull said, “Is there anything else? I’ve got a totally booked afternoon.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Milo. “About the structure of your partnership with Dr. Koppel.”
“Albin told you, it’s not a formal partnership,” said Gull. “We share office space.”
“A purely financial arrangement?”
“Well,” said Gull, “I wouldn’t reduce it to just that. Mary was our dear friend.”
“What happens, now that Dr. Koppel’s dead, in terms of the lease?”
Gull stared at him.
Milo said, “I need to ask.”
“Albin and I haven’t talked about that, Detective. It’s all we can do to take care of Mary’s patients.” He looked at Larsen.
Larsen said, “I’d be in favor of you and I picking up Mary’s share of the rent, Franco.”
“Sure,” said Gull. To us: “It’s no big deal. The rent’s reasonable, and Mary’s share was smaller than ours.”
“Why’s that?” said Milo.
“Because,” said Gull, “she found the building for us, arranged an excellent lease, oversaw the entire renovation.”
“Good negotiator,” said Milo.
“She was,” said Larsen. “Her skills were facilitated by the fact that her ex-husband owns the building.”
“Ed Koppel?”
Franco Gull said, “Everyone calls him Sonny.”
Milo said, “Renting from the ex.”
“Mary and Sonny got along well,” said Gull. “The divorce was years ago. Amicable.”
“No problems at all?”
“He gave us a
“Guess so,” said Milo.
Gull said, “You won’t find anyone who knew Mary well who’s going to bad-mouth her. She was a fabulous woman. This is really hard for us.”
His chin trembled. He put his sunshades back on.
“Gotta be rough,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”
He made no move to leave.
Larsen said, “Is there anything else?”
“This is just a formality, Doctors, but where was each of you the night Dr. Koppel was killed?”
“I was home,” said Gull. “With my wife and kids.”
“How many kids?”
“Two.”
Out came the notepad. “And where do you live, Doctor?”
“Club Drive.”
“Cheviot Hills?”
“Yes.”
“So you and Dr. Koppel were neighbors?”
“Mary helped us find the house.”
“Through Mr. Koppel?”
“No,” said Gull. “As far as I know Sonny’s only into commercial. Mary knew we were looking to upgrade. She was taking a walk and noticed the FOR SALE sign and thought it might meet our needs.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A year- fourteen months.”
“Before that you lived…”
“In Studio City,” said Gull. “Why is this relevant?”
Milo turned to Larsen. “And you, sir. Where were you that night?”
“Also at home,” said Larsen. “I live in an apartment on Harvard Street in Santa Monica, north of Wilshire.” He recited the address in a soft, weary voice.
“Live by yourself?”
“I do.” Larsen smiled. “I read and went to bed. I’m afraid there’s no one to verify that.”
Milo smiled back. “What’d you read?”
“Sartre.
“Light stuff.”
“Sometimes a challenge is good.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Milo. “I’ll tell you, this
Larsen didn’t answer.
Franco Gull checked his watch again. “I really need to head back to the office.”
“One more question,” said Milo. “I know you can’t tell me about any deep dark patient secrets because of ethical restraints. But I do have a question that I think you are allowed to answer. Do any of your patients drive a dark Ford Aerostar minivan? Black, dark blue, maybe gray?”
Above us, the elm canopy rustled and the high, gleeful sounds of childhood play drifted over. The ice-cream truck rang its bell and drove off.
Albin Larsen said, “A patient? No, I’ve never seen that.” His eyes drifted toward Gull.
Franco Gull said, “I agree. No patients I’m aware of drive a car like that. Not that I’d notice. I’m in the office when they park their cars, don’t know what any of them drive- unless it comes up in therapy.”
His brow was slick with sweat.
Milo scribbled in his pad and closed it. “Thanks, gentlemen. That’s all for now.”
“There’ll be more?” said Gull.
“Depends upon what we find in the way of evidence.”
“Fingerprints?” said Gull. “That kind of thing?”
“That kind of thing.”
Gull stood so quickly he nearly lost his balance. “Makes sense.” Larsen got to his feet, too. Gull was a head taller and a foot and a half broader at the shoulders. High school football, maybe college.
We watched the two of them walk to their Mercedeses.
