Therapy

Milo said, “Now wasn’t that interesting?”

CHAPTER 23

“Sweaty fellow,” Milo murmured, as he called DMV.

It didn’t take long to get the data. Three vehicles were registered to Franco Arthur Gull on Club Drive. A two- year-old Mercedes, a ’63 Corvette, and a 1999 Ford Aerostar.

“Well, well, well.”

He pulled the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, found a map, and jabbed his index finger. “Gull’s house is only a few blocks from Koppel’s, so on the face of it, one of his cars in the neighborhood isn’t weird. But the witness said the van drove away from his street. Seemed to be looking for something.”

I said, “Cruising back and forth at 2 A.M. isn’t neighborly. It’s the kind of thing stalkers do.”

“A shrink with problems in that area. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

“A shrink the court refers stalkers to. Maybe Gavin found out somehow, and that’s why he dropped Gull and switched to Koppel.”

“Gull driving by Koppel’s house,” he said. “She wouldn’t have stood for that. Gavin tells her, he’s lighting a tinderbox.”

“On the other hand,” I said.

“What?”

“Three vehicles in the Gull family. The Mercedes for him and a vintage Vette for weekend fun. That leaves the Aerostar for the wife.”

“Suspicious wife,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Gull and Koppel were having a fling.”

“When you talked about evidence, Gull asked about fingerprints. It struck me as out of context. That could be because he knows his prints are in that batch you dusted at Koppel’s house.”

“More than partners. More than neighbors. She finds him a house close by, all the easier for drop-in fun. Mrs. G suspects and drives by at 2 A.M. Checking up. No wonder the guy’s perspiring like a marathon runner.”

I said, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s got a state license, so his prints are in the system.

He flipped the little blue phone open. “I’ll call the techs right now. Meanwhile, let’s visit the wife.”

“What about excavating Gavin’s room?”

“That, too,” he said. “but later.” Big grin. “All of a sudden, I’m busy.”

*

The Gull residence was a Tudor, not unlike Mary Lou Koppel’s, a bit less imposing on a flat lot with no view. Ballpark-quality lawn, the usual luxuriant beds of impatiens, a liquidambar sapling just beginning to turn color, staked in the crater vacated by a larger tree.

The Aerostar van was parked in the driveway. Deep blue. Two bumper stickers: MY CHILD’S AN HONOR STUDENT AT WILD ROSE SCHOOL. And GO LAKERS!

An Hispanic maid answered Milo’s knock. He asked for “La senora, por favor,” and she said “Un momento,” and closed the door. When it opened again, a petite, very slim blond-ponytailed woman in her thirties stood there, looking distracted. Milo’s badge changed nothing. She continued to look through us.

White-blond, ice-blue eyes, small bones, beautiful features. Even standing still, she seemed graceful. But dangerously slim; her skin bordered on translucence, and her black velvet sweats bagged. She’d done a fine job with her makeup, but the red rims around her eyes were impossible to conceal.

Milo said, “Mrs. Gull.”

“I’m Patty.”

“May we come in?”

“Why?”

“This is about a recent crime in the neighborhood.”

One slender hand drummed the other. “What,” she said, “another mugging in Rancho Park?”

“Something more serious, ma’am. And I’m afraid the victim’s someone you know.”

“Her,” said Patty Gull. Her voice had gone deeper, and any trace of distraction had vanished. Her hands separated, dropped, clamped on her hips. Her lower jaw slung forward. As fine-featured and aquiline as she was, her face took on a mastiff scowl.

“Sure, come in,” she said.

*

The living room was wood-shuttered and paneled in oak stained so dark it was nearly black. The decor looked as if it had been assembled in one day by someone with respect for convention, a tight deadline, and a nervous budget: middling antique copies, equine prints under glass, the kind of still-life paintings you can pick up at sidewalk sales. Further stabs at re-creating manor living were accomplished by a riot of floral chintz, too-shiny brass gewgaws, and artificially distressed surfaces. Just beyond the room was a hallway filled with toys and other child clutter.

Patty Gull perched on the edge of an overstuffed sofa, and we faced her from matching wing chairs. She took hold of a tasseled cushion, held it over her abdomen, like a hot-water bottle.

Milo said, “I noticed your bumper sticker. Someone a Lakers fan?”

“Me,” she said. “I used to be a Lakers Girl. Back when I was young and cute.”

“Not that long ago-”

“Don’t stroke me,” said Patty Gull. “I like to think I’ve held up pretty well, but I’m going to be forty in two years, and I screwed up my body giving my husband two gorgeous children. He pays me back by fucking other women whenever he can.”

We said nothing.

She said, “He’s a pussy hound, Detective. For that, I could’ve hooked up with a basketball player. Even one on the bench.” Her laughter was brittle. “I was a good Lakers Girl, went home after the games, didn’t party, held on to my morals. Nice Catholic girl, told to marry well. I married a psychologist, figured I’d be getting some stability.” She punched the tasseled pillow. Flung it to one side and hugged herself.

“Mrs. Gull-”

“Patty. I’ve had it, he’s history.”

“You’re getting divorced?”

“Maybe,” she said. “You take stock of your life, and say ‘This is what I have to do,’ and it seems so obvious. Then you step back and all the complications rain down on you. Kids, money- it’s always the woman who gets screwed moneywise. I’ve stayed out of Franco’s business affairs. He could hide everything, and I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you talked to a lawyer?”

“Not officially. I have a friend who’s a lawyer. She was a Lakers Girl, too, but unlike me, she was smart enough to go all the way with her education. I always wanted to get an MBA, do something in the corporate world. Maybe in sports, I love sports. Instead…” She threw up her hands. “Why am I telling you this? You’re here about her.”

“Dr. Koppel.”

“Dr. Mary Lou fuck-another-woman’s-husband Koppel. You think Franco killed her?”

Patty Gull examined her fingernails.

“Should I think that, Mrs. Gull?”

“Probably not. The papers said she was shot, and Franco doesn’t own a gun, wouldn’t have a clue how to use one. Also, he wasn’t with her that night. I know because I got up in the middle of the night and drove by her house looking for his car, and it wasn’t there.”