Therapy

“Gavin?”

“I told Kaylie he was weird, stay away. Especially since the accident- you know about his fucking accident, right? Must’ve had some kind of brain damage the little fu-”

“His mother-”

“Her. Crazy bitch.”

“You’ve had problems with them.”

“She’s nuts,” said Bartell.

“In what way?”

“Just weird. Never leaves the house. The problem was their son going after my angel.” Bartell’s fists were huge. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and rocked. “Oh, Jesus, this is bad, this is so fucking bad!” His eyes sparked with panic. “My wife- she’s in Aspen. She doesn’t ski, but she goes there in the summer. For shopping, the air. Oh shit, she’ll die, she’ll just crumple up and fucking die.”

Bartell bent and grasped his knees and rocked some more. “How could this happen?”

Milo said, “Why do you think Gavin Quick would’ve hurt Kayla?”

“Because he was- the kid was weird. Kaylie knew him from high school. She broke up with him a bunch of times, but he kept coming back, and she kept letting him down too easy. Little bastard would show up, sniff around even when Kaylie wasn’t in. Bugging me- like kissing up to the old man would help. I work at home, I’m trying to get some work done, and the little fucker is bullshitting me about music, trying to have a conversation like he knows something. I do a lot of jingles, have deadlines, you think I want to discuss alternative punk with some stupid kid? He’d sit himself down, never want to leave. Finally, I told the maid to stop letting him in.”

“Obsessive,” I said.

Bartell hung his head.

“Was he more obsessive since the accident?” said Milo.

Bartell looked up. “So he did it.”

“Unlikely, Mr. Bartell. No weapon was found at the scene, so my instinct is he was just a victim.”

“What are you saying? What the fuck are you-”

Footsteps- light footsteps- made all three of us turn.

A pretty young girl in low-riding, skintight jeans that looked oiled and a black midriff blouse exposing a flat, tan abdomen stood in the doorway. Two belly-button pierces, one studded with turquoise. Over her shoulder was a black silk bag embroidered with silk flowers. She wore too much makeup, had a beak nose and a strong chin. Her hair was long, straight, the color of new hay. The blouse revealed luminous cleavage. A big gold “K” on a chain rested in the cleft.

Stan Bartell’s tan faded to blotchy beige. “What the-” He slapped his hand over his heart, then reached out toward the girl with both hands. “Baby, baby!”

The girl frowned, and said, “What, Dad?”

CHAPTER 3

Stan Bartell said, “Where the hell have you been?”

Kayla Bartell stared at her father as if he’d gone mad. “Out.”

“With who?”

“Friends.”

“I called your cell.”

Kayla shrugged. “I switched it off. The club was loud, I couldn’t have heard it anyway.”

Bartell started to say something, then drew her near and hugged her. She glanced at us, as if seeking rescue.

“Da-ad.”

“Thank God,” said Bartell. “Thank almighty God.”

“Who are these people, Daddy?”

Bartell let go of his daughter and glowered at us. “Leave.”

Milo said, “Ms. Bartell-”

“No!” shouted Bartel. “Out. Now.”

“Who are they, Daddy?”

“They’re no one.”

Milo said, “At some point, I’d like to talk to Kayla.”

“When pigs take the Concorde.”

*

When we reached the door, Bartell stood on his front steps and jabbed a remote control. The gates began sliding, and Milo and I barely made it through before they clanged shut.

Bartell slammed his door.

Milo said, “Your friendly neighborhood policeman, making friends and spreading good cheer wherever he goes.”

*

As we drove away, he said, “Interesting how Bartell assumed Gavin had done something to Kayla. You used the word ‘obsessive.’ ”

“Bartell’s hostility could just be resentment at someone sniffing around his angel. But obsessiveness can be a side effect of head injury.”

“What about that pigsty room? Kid’s mother claims he used to be neat. That fits with brain damage?”

“Catch a strong blow to the frontal lobes, and there can be all sorts of changes.”

“Permanent?”

“Depends on the severity of the injury. In most cases, it’s temporary.”

“Gavin got hurt ten months ago.”

“Not a good sign,” I said. “I’d like to know how he was functioning, in general. The student ID in his pocket was two years old. Assuming he dropped out, what’s he been doing since then?”

“Maybe getting on the bad side of the wrong people,” he said. “Getting obsessive. I’ll have another go-round with Sheila. Bartell said she was weird. You spot anything?”

“The context we saw her in, anything less than breakdown would be weird.”

“Yeah… I’ll check the father out when he gets back from Atlanta… I love my job- enough for one night. Drop me back at the Glen and nighty-night.”

I got onto Sunset and crossed the border into Holmby Hills. Milo said, “The big question right now is, who was the girl? And why impale her and not Gavin?”

“That and the way she was left says a sexual thing,” I said. “Eliminate the male, have your way with the female.”

“Think the coroner will find evidence of sexual assault?”

“If we’re dealing with a sexual psychopath, the impalement might suffice.”

“Surrogate penetration?”

I nodded.

“So maybe it’s a twisted thing,” he said. “Nothing to do with the victims, they were just a couple of kids happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It could go that way,” I said.

He laughed softly. “And I volunteered for this one.”

“Who better than you?” I said.

“Meaning?”